Jupiter Is Far More Than An Unknown Dot, Just Like Anything

Image by author

Jupiter, Night #1:

The first night I saw Jupiter from my yard, it dominated the night sky, a reminder that we aren’t the only things around, and that we’re tiny. Jupiter cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, see us, even in the collective. If Jupiter had a decent telescope—not the birding binoculars I was using that night—it could see our moon nearby, some mountains, but not much else.

And I’m only guessing. I have no (earthly) idea.

I stood next to my car in my driveway, leaning the back of my head on its window because craning my neck to see the sky was killing my neck. I swiveled and looked at Pleiades, the "Seven Sisters.” She’s a cluster of stars you can barely make out with the naked eye in this metropolitan area I call home, but because they’re such a crowded cluster, you’ll notice the patch of dots if you stay earnest in your sky search on a clear night like I had that first night.

Why was the cosmos so visible? I live not far from Washington DC, and just south of many office buildings that glow so brilliantly through the night, and that crush most eager star viewing into a light-polluted sadness.

I didn’t take that night for granted.

For a while, I said I was going to buy a telescope, but I kept putting it off because of the light pollution. Then on a clear night, I’d see the benefit in acting on it—though I wouldn’t act. I figured I didn’t need anything fancy or expensive. I’m a frugal sort anyway. As much as I adored my mother-in-law’s hand-me-down binoculars, I’d be, well, over the moon with a better view of Orion. He’s my astronomical best friend, the premier winter constellation, in my estimation. He has this three-star belt around his waist, and once you’ve seen it, you’ll always seek it out come Winter.

My birthday is in February, and since I live in the Northern Hemisphere, where he’s stationed through the Winter, he’s my birthday present for my whole life, which is generous of him.

I lifted my head from the car and walked around back to the tired patio furniture in hibernation and sat on a metal chair. I slid my butt all the way to the edge of the seat, leaned my head back on the top of the chair, and scanned the sky for something new. I moved my phone’s night sky app back and forth, letting the GPS match the sky to where I was pointing the phone. Binoculars went square onto the eyes, and I bounced from star to star, randomly floating around the galaxy.

If I’d had more time to indulge in this sky gawking, I’d have spread a blanket on the ground in the yard and gazed for a good long time. Then I wondered:

Why am I not doing that? Why am I not indulging? It’s a Friday night. Do I have to go-go-go all the time? I’m settling into my sixth decade. How many do I think I’ll get?

I sat quietly with this for a moment until the answer became clear.

No. I don’t need to go-go-go.

But, like I often do, I put it off, went back inside, and tended to some task or other. Tomorrow was another day, because I always assume there’s another tomorrow.

Jupiter, Night #2:

I did it. I bought a telescope. It wasn’t the one my husband insisted I get—a proper telescope at a bare minimum expenditure. I got the one my frugality allowed for, which was far below the bare minimum. I studied the customer ratings on my phone in the store as I dithered, “To buy? Or not to buy?”

That was the question, and the answer was revealed as I walked out of Walmart with a National Geographic beginner telescope cradled in my loving arms. I was teary-eyed, too. I’ve loved the night sky since I was a girl, and at long last: my first telescope.

I hurried home because Jupiter was closest to Earth, huge in the sky, and ripe for viewing through a proper telescope, which I don’t own, but I’m all about improper telescope viewing.

I set everything up and wait, wait, waited until the gigantic planet made its way above the tree line. You could see it through the telescope, but not without a dance of blurry branches mucking up the experience.

Finally, the planet was unencumbered by the local flora, and I did everything I was supposed to do according to the telescope’s terribly brief instructions. Mostly, I referred to YouTube.

Soon, it happened; I saw Jupiter up close. While it wasn’t anything near what I figured a telescoped image of Jupiter should look like, it was exciting nonetheless to feel like an actual astronomer juggling with telescope lenses.

(Please note: I’m nowhere near any version of astronomer.)

Squinting through the lens, something occurred to me as I gazed at my vague version of Jupiter. No matter the version, a magnified Jupiter is thrilling compared to the faraway tiny white dot accessed with the naked eye. I felt like I was part of a club now, a group of people who’ve seen this large planet in greater detail in real time. It was like it is with anything. The closer the view, the more something comes alive. The more detailed the sighting, the more connected you feel to it.

I started thinking about how this was in general.

The closer you can get to a faraway place, the less remote it feels and the more approachable. Traveling to different places gives you this. Once you’ve been someplace, a piece of it now lives in you. Getting to know strangers works the same way. Exposure to someone unknown builds upon what you know about them and carves away at what you don’t. Ideas and concepts fall into this as well. You can say that the more you know, the more questions you have. But the more questions you have only opens your understanding to how interconnected ideas and concepts can be.

Then, there’s us. The closer we get to seeing who we are, the less of a distant galaxy we seem to be, and the less confusing, too. If I start to know distant places, other people, disparate concepts, and myself—it all starts to meld. We’re different, but we all occupy this space and this time.

Then one day, Jupiter is sitting at the end of your cheapo telescope and asks, “What else would you like to know?” All you had to do was look. It’s so simple.

All I had to do was view things through a lens, above the tree line, on a clear night. Legitimate telescope or not, I just really love to see. I’d be wise to spend more time on that.

---

Here is a photo my phone took through the telescope lens. It looks nothing like what I saw through my lens. I like it still.

Image by the author, who knows nothing about how to do this, but she’ll get there

Have a lovely rest of your week, friends!