I want to think that I can find home by looking at the sky. Not by learning the stars – by the color of the sky and sun and the pattern of the clouds held in it. That something in the formation of all three together could tell me – this is home. Here. Now. You have arrived at that safe refuge. What would it be like if that were true?
The sky where I live is, by forested New England standards, wide open big sky where the sun sets in line with the house in the summer and falls off to the edge of the fields in winter. It's not Big Sky Montana, Out of Africa Serengeti sky, nor any horizon rimmed slip into the sea. These I know. This it is not.
When I'm home I take time to watch it. In the summer, an easy evening ritual encourages watching the sunset. There is an urgency late in the day telling me to go home for day's end. If the sunset is missed, there is a loss, like I did not come to terms with the day at sundown – forgiving or rejoicing, reconciling its turn of events. Hours accrue watching the sky.
When the time is just right, we flop ourselves down in the green grass and look straight skyward, knowing this is our sky, rimmed by its land forms all around.
In the mornings the sky brightens, receiving light from the east, though we look west. If there are clouds, they sometimes turn pink on the under side in a rapid welcoming of the day. In the evening, no matter if the sky is clear or storming, there is something to be seen, something ever changing over one little spot of earth.
What if it were true that we could know home by the sky?