Rediscovering Awe: An Inconvenient Truth

Having wanted to see the film, An Inconvenient Truth, desparately since it came out this past summer, I was ecstatic when it was shown on my bus ride home for Christmas break. Even after all the hype, I still think it was one of the best, and arguably most important, documentaries I have ever seen. However, I'm not, as you may have expected, going to proceed with a review of the film, in which I would inevitably just gush about how much I’ve loved Al Gore since before I was old enough to vote, or how well the documentary functions as a call to action. Others have already done that, and much better than I have. Plus, most of you have probably already seen it and know these things anyway. Instead, I’m going to talk about something which you may not know. About me.

Outer space makes me cry.


Allow me to elaborate.

I’m not much of a crier. Yeller, yes; crier, no. It’s not that I don’t find a good cry carthetic, or that I am an unemotional person -- quite the contrary. However, when I’m in distress, my reaction is often to attack the problem, either by blowing up in anger or by spending several hours pacing and talking to myself until I have constructed a plan of action by which the distressing situation may be sorted out. Only when confronted with an extreme feeling of helplessness do I feel moved to shed tears, and that just doesn’t happen very often. Therefore, for me crying is more frequently the result of being moved then being sad -- perhaps by love or music or stories or dance, those kinds of things. Even then, this extreme type of reaction is a rare occurrence; I’m so involved with the arts on a daily basis that I’m a pretty tough critic, and being moved to tears by a performance is a response many are not worthy of.

However, there is one thing that can almost always trigger my tear ducts, and that is the sight of our universe.

Since childhood, I have always been overwhelmed with awe in the presence of the stars; my evolving relationship with the night sky has been a more mind-warping and intangible one than that with my constant, close-knit companion, the ocean. With the ocean, I feel kinship borne from a lifetime of shared memories, combined with a deep respect for its beauty and a healthy dose of humility at its power. We can feel each other in a primitive, earthy way - whenever I wander too far from its presence I sense its distance, and upon my return its salt is reabsorbed voraciously into my skin as if its very scent is a critical component to my being.

The stars, however, are completely different. Rather than a solid presence, they are elusive, and heartbreakingly mysterious. Where I can allow the sea salt to absorb me, the stars I can only reach out with desperate hands and pretend to grasp. When I stand on the beach, like a tamer before a roaring lion, I embrace my insignificance. But when in the presence of the cold, static world of the stars, like a pauper begging for acknowledgment from his king, I am overcome by it. Much like a child who wants to impossibly play among the fluffy clouds, the beauty and awesomeness of space is coupled with the frustration of wanting something so badly and knowing, beyond a doubt, that it is not yours to have (yes, I wanted to be an astronaut for most of my early life). That potent mix of charged emotions is overwhelming, and my reaction to them is very visceral.

I cry.

So, when Al Gore opened his slide show of An Inconvenient Truth by showing my favorite space photo of all time -- Earthrise -- coupled with a small, crude video shot of our perfectly colored little orb spinning relentlessly in the incomprehensible vacuum of the universe, I found myself crying. And not just a little bit -- almost uncontrollably in the middle of the bus. And this time, it was not just for myself and what I saw, but for the other millions of eyes which looked and saw nothing. You see, to me, when faced with such an image, how could anyone not be moved to work, as hard as they can, to preserve that impossible perfection?

Some people talk of religion being about harps and wings and power and politics, but for me, this is God: a single, spinning globe, which, for all the intents and purposes, should not exist. The possibility that Jesus actually rose from the dead has nothing on this proven miracle.

So what does my capacity for becoming emotionally unhinged when confronted with constellations have to do with the very real threat of climate change?

Arguably, everything.

You see, I’m in touch with something many of us have lost sight of: the human ability to be awed. It may sound simplistic. You may think, “I’m in awe of things all the time.” Hell, “awesome” is one of the most overused words in the English language, and writers use “awe-inspiring” to describe everything from Hollywood performances to charitable acts. In fact, pop culture uses “awe” so often it has nearly lost all meaning. “Awesome” was word which originally referred to those things which where fear-inducing in their impressiveness. To be awed was to have an emotional and spiritual experience of Biblical proportions - one which changed your view of yourself and the world around you.

Therefore, a pizza cannot be “awesome.” Peter Jackson's cinematography in Lord of the Rings cannot be “awe-inspiring.” Unfortunately, in our flashy, fast-paced society, our senses have become dulled to the extent that we either have difficulty separating the truly awesome from the mundane, or we are so caught up in the whirlwind of daily existence that we haven’t taken enough time to notice all the truly awe-inspiring things which exist in life . . . at least not on such a fundamentally emotional level. And the result has been that we are no longer humbled by these feelings.

As Al Gore said in An Inconvenient Truth, the problem of climate change goes beyond politics, beyond nations, to a deeper sense of morality. Any threat to our planet is a threat to us all, and to do nothing to protect ourselves is, at the very least, suicide. However, I believe this inaction is a symptom of a problem which goes far beyond global warming. As a species, we have forgotten awe. We have forgotten humility in the presence of what we, in our outstandingly infinate luck, have been given. Instead, we take it upon ourselves to dictate how the world should, will, and does function, without much thought for the consequences our actions have upon that body. Even when faced with the very real threat of extinction, we muddle ourselves in nationalism, in economics, in politics, in religion, and in power, when what we need to do is get off our soapboxes and be. . .well, AWED.

If we could do that. . . if we look, really look at our world - at our oceans, our forests, or plains, our animals, our PEOPLE, we would see its beauty. If we take the time to understand the science of that beauty -- how we came to be, how we are made -- all the cosmic balances which had to come out just so in order to create it -- we would understand the true meaning of the word, “miraculous.” And, if we then looked out, to the unforgiving universe beyond, we could begin to embrace our insignificance, and learn to respect the powers that could destroy us. Only then could we, as a species, truly commit to maintaining that precious balance which, beyond all reason, allows us to survive.

Now that would be awesome.