JUNE 3
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
—WALT WHITMANHow readily we can identify with Whitman’s restlessness.
Sometimes it seems as though nothing can hold our atten-
tion, nothing is worth doing for long. Life seems flat, without
sparkle, almost without meaning.
Then how reassuring it can be to go out into the quiet
night and look up at the stars. Surely in a world of such vast
beauty and order, such unfathomable reaches of time and
space, there must be meanings beyond our understanding.
There is a sense of intimacy to the night, too. That nearest
star, bright in the heavens—is it a sign?
The mystery remains. But somehow we are comforted.
Even in my loneliness and sorrow, the world holds me in its em-
brace.