I recently read a book entitled, Trauma and the Soul, written by Jungian analyst Donald Kalsched and learned that the word disaster, at its root, means to be separated from one’s star. Such a “dis-aster” might not be worth writing home about, unless it is our star within we’ve lost sight of.
I remember long ago as a teenager how I’d camp out in the backyard at night, all cozy on the lounge chair as I studied the array of stars overhead. I imagined the stars had voices and that they could sing, if only I would listen deeply enough.
By midnight, my mother, in her terry cloth robe would venture out, nudging me, gently, to head inside for bed. I hated leaving the night world—it was the natural place to ponder life’s big mysteries. Once when visiting nearby Seal Beach with friends, I stood in bare feet and stared at the canopy of twinkling stars and wondered if our mind was just as scintillating as the night sky—if we possessed a sea of internal stars.
Such are the musings of youth. Still, I try to remember this sense of wonder even if it’s not easy in this season of darkness, or if it sounds Pollyanna to talk about one’s internal star. But it may be just as “dis-aster-ous” to forget about our connection to that light source within, to forego our natural spontaneity.
As I ponder the dark night, I feel the reassurance of the fiery glow inside, as I stand in wonder, watching the sky, happy to be in the company of fellow bright, who knows, maybe even singing stars.