When I was young, I moved a lot. Perhaps from sheer momentum, I still do. Two different second grades, two different apartments in third grade, 6th grade in two different cities, high school in two different states. My mom once showed me the section of her address book she kept for me in college; I took up two or three pages, a long sequence of 6-month or one-year leases scattered about my university town. Last year, I got my passport stamped in six different countries.

As a child, I spent most summers with my grandparents in various cities always several hours from home; my grandparents moved frequently too, generally staying well outside city limits. I loved their houses in the country, so different from my apartments in the city. I loved the trees, and the way the air smelled, and the stars I could never see when I was back home. Still, I was young, and I got homesick.

My grandfather and I used to sit at night on the patio furniture in the backyard, and look up at the stars and have long talks. One summer, Halley's Comet was coming, and we both became very interested in stars, scouring the libraries for star maps, and peering through his binoculars at the moon. On one of these nights, under an enormous clear sky, I felt particularly sad and small.

"What's wrong?" my grandfather asked me, after I had stared out silently for a little too long.
"I miss mommy. She is so far away," I told him.
He was silent for a moment, staring up at the sky sympathetically, thinking.

Finally he pointed up at the brightest group of stars, "See that constellation? That's called the 'Big Dipper.' It's the same one your mom can see from her apartment too. So see, you are not so far from home after all."

I stared up at the strange big cup and wondered if my mom could be seeing it at just that same moment, and somehow I felt better, the world didn't feel so big. I looked for it the next night too, sure that whatever was up there, it could see my mom at that moment even if I couldn't. If it could see her, and it could also see me, then we must be very close. I didn't get homesick again.

A few years later, we went to Hawaii, my first trip across an ocean. It was beautiful, dazzlingly so, but I felt restless. The first night there was cloudy and starless, I couldn't find my Big Dipper, and I couldn't find my place under it either. The next night was clear, and I could finally settle in. When you live in too many houses, a constellation makes a fine compass pointing home.

The Big Dipper is still the first thing I look for in a new place. Once I find it, everything else eventually sort of orients itself. Being wholly ignorant of what the relationships might be between constellations and hemispheres, I was relieved to find the Big Dipper also hanging over Japan. No matter how a dayful of strange language might swirl between my ears, and the enigmatic kanji might melt and morph before my eyes, on a clear night, I can always find in that space between the buildings, high above the trees, something that tells me I am not so far from home.

Comments

[Bob]

Mikka,
As a “Moron”, I found your caustic response very revealing. It is obvious to me you view the world with your head planted firmly between your cheeks. It’s hard to see the stars in that position. Also you seem uncomfortable once you venture beyond the intellectual bounds of a mouth breather.
Do yourself a favor. Pull your head out and find your way out of here. Your "contributions" are clearly not welcome.

Mikka, if you can't stomach emotional remembrances, you should probably be reading something OTHER than online personal journals.

[Jef]

Seriously, Mikka, what is wrong with you? It's comments like yours that make me hate people.

[Karla]

Mikka, yes I suppose I was a dreadfully immature six-year old at the time of this story. However, this is my JOURNAL, and I can write whatever sort of emotional claptrap I want. Please tell that to whoever it is forcing you at gunpoint to read this. If you are going to insult my friends too, however, you are not welcome here, gunpoint or no.

For your future use, there are two "m"s in "immature."

[Mikka]

Ugh - you suck!!! The story isn't 'wonderful' or 'charming' or 'beautiful' as these morons said, it's just stupid!! Just because you have existential insecurities doesn't mean you have any right to post such dreadful imature emotional claptrap...please, please, stop

[J.]

Wonderful story! Thanks.

[Victoria]

What a charming anecdote! I moved every two years or more often throughout my childhood and spent most summers in a small town with my mother's family. Unfortunately, I did not have
a thoughtful and wise grandfather to give me such good advice. Thanks for sharing. Victoria

[Bob]

Thank you for sharing a beautiful story. We all need a touchstone to keep grounded. You seem to have found yours amoung the stars.