life on mars

oh man, look at those cavemen go

aether

In the planetarium on a fifth-grade field trip, we are taken through the five areas of safety preparation that must be perfectly, hermetically sealed for a successful two-year journey to Mars. This is a work in progress. Scientists, innovators, and engineers from all over the world are working as I type to iterate and create an environment where astronauts can survive the various unique circumstances that traveling 400 million kilometers into space will cause. They work at this like a 400 million-piece puzzle to make leaving the exosphere behind to ascend into a timeless night seamless. We are told that there are still young minds in school learning and ideating right now who will one day contribute to the success of this mission. In other words, we are years away from this feat—we are years away from blastoff. 

This unearthing — de-earthing — is to perfect the environment for space travelers, which is to rule out the element of surprise. I can't help but think of surprise or the unknown as the fifth element, much like I work at developing my sixth sense – my intuition – and its fluency; I see the fifth element in everything. Where seasons come and go set to a natural clock, I feel them changing, overlapping, however subtle, in my bones. I am told this is also the path of grief: a spiral. Someone says grief is like a flat circle. My mind struggles to draw this into a metaphor. But what I know is that places like the forest and the ocean echo back these circuitous patterns without end. 

A few weeks ago, I felt synthesis like a clear bell ring through my body. Parts of my life that I was certain had been cast into the mesosphere returned to restore order and promise a recognizable path forward. And then, like a pendulum, the following week felt the opposite. I think of the ocean pushing and pulling itself in and away from the shore for eternity. I sit with that rhythm, forgiving myself for not doing what I have been conditioned to do, not using denial as a metric for my strength, and using honesty in the face of judgment instead. I feel petulant about this, but I am not done with my grief, and it would appear that my grief is not done with me.

Underneath the planetarium's domed ceiling, I can feel gravity leaving my body. I've learned how to identify this phenomenon. It makes the absence of light feel more at home. It makes losing my way less fearful and more full of possibility. What I am trying to say is that I can feel the unknown in the dark and touch into the sacred, most alive place of the unplanned and think two years ago this past Saturday, on January 18th, Fonz went into surgery for his knee and without knowing much more than that, we lifted off. 

If I was ever a planner before — which try as I might, I am — I know better now. 

Like a ghost, I make room for the unseen in everything. Maybe I'm the Martian, but every plan I make forevermore leaves the door more than ajar for the unexpected. I don't use the word perfect to describe anything I am trying to achieve, but instead, I can only appreciate it in the sandprints I leave in my wake. 

It's been two years since we set out to sea, believing we would reach land. Instead, we get lost. Uncharted waters, sirens, and sea monsters eclipse our route until we are charting stars beneath an endless night. When the sun reappears, we must find our way again, even while the rising light blinds us. 

But our eyes will adjust. We will adapt. Evolve. Break the rules. Feel our way. Plan for what we can and leave room for what we cannot. And we will resist, with all our might, over and over again if we have to, that which does not serve.