Constellations Don’t Exist

I

For billions of years, stars

roamed the universe,

occasionally bursting into supernovae

or cascading into dust

from which new ones could sprout

like apple tree saplings.

Then: for millions of years, humans looked up,

wondering.

We gave those stars

stories

of Orion the giant and huntsman,

forever stretching his bow over our horizon;

Aquarius the handsome Trojan

abducted by the gods

to pour their wine with a pretty face;

the Big Dipper and her little companion,

mother and son woefully turned into bears

happily together again in the stars;

Gemini the twins, so loyal that when one died

the other convinced the gods to bring him back to life;

Queen Cassiopeia trapped in the night sky

as punishment for her vanity

after boasting of beauty

greater than Poseidon’s sea nymphs.

Yes, we gave stars

stories

and called them constellations.

To Mother Nature,

constellations don’t exist.

She only sees her stars,

while we make patterns,

tell stories about them.

Generations and generations

of stories and stories

created to

explain the world,

explain ourselves,

explain the unexplainable.

Our ancestors bestowed upon us

this habit, this ancient rite.

Creative, desperate, hungry:

the human tendency

to walk on our little planet,

gaze into the cosmos searching for more,

and, often, when failing to find it,

create it…

We’ve made more from Mother Nature

and given her

characters, plots, personalities,

tragedies, and comedies.

We speak of Mother Nature as though

she is human.

CPR—we exhale our own breath into

stars, auroras, and wildflowers,

hoping to give them life.

Searching for more…

To the Vikings,

auroras meant that mythic spirits

were guiding fallen soldiers to the afterlife.

In ancient China,

many believed there’s one sun

because the great Hou Yi

shot the other nine,

saving us from being scorched.

In Native American myths,

thunder clapped from the flapping wings

of the thunderbird

and lightning flashed from its beak

as it soared above us in the idyllic upper world.

Of course,

stories had to be invented

long ago

to make sense of a complex world,

to fill in the gaps,

to explain the unexplainable.

Did humanity stop?

Now, we humanize

energy, patterns of stars,

summer wind in our hair, and

fields of wildflowers that are simply flowers

whose presence are not controlled

by us; therefore they must be “wild” flowers.

Must all things free necessarily be wild?

If so, let me be wild.

We refuse to let Mother Nature be nature.

She must be a story,

and so must we.

Generations and generations

of stories and stories

created to

explain the world,

explain ourselves…

But, we have not stopped.

Creative, desperate, hungry:

Still searching for patterns

in ourselves and others.

Still searching for more.

When failing to find it,

more creative stories!

More desperate. And hungry

for it all to fit.

For our stories to

explain the world,

explain ourselves,

explain it the way

we want it to be.

Wish it to be.

II

People make constellations out of me—

my opinions, my body, my rights, my sexuality,

my career, my personality, my whole being—

explain every detail away.

Constellations like: I must want to be pregnant, now or one day,

must watch that “body clock,”

because giving birth is something all women must do?

Hysterical and too political.

Must be “healed” of my chronic pain

after one good day, despite what my neurologist

says about a lifelong condition.

Gone off the deep end

for attending a Women’s March.

Simply best cute and whimsical.

They expect me to live in one genre of humanity,

obey the rules of their stories,

be more but their more:

delicate, compliant,

ladylike, silent.

Their more means being less myself.

Cautionary tale.

Lost cause.

A story to tell their children as a warning

of wayward women.

I no longer care what constellations

people make out of me.

Tell your stories. For I am

stars, auroras, and wildflowers.

Like Mother Nature,

I exist

without explaining myself.