So, I’m lying here in bed, gazing at me ceiling, wondering how I should spend my lazy Sunday afternoon. I have stacks of work for the Stony Plain Liberal Association that I should be doing. I got that new book for Christmas that I could be starting the second chapter on. I should be washing my work clothes for tomorrow. The cat is meowing. He probably wants to be fed. But all of that doesn’t seem as important as lying right here and staring at the ceiling.
It’s a wonderfully dull ceiling. My bedroom has been in a state of half-completion ever since my family moved into this house. Hell, I lived in this room for three years before I knew the luxury of a door. For three years, I had a curtain. Having no ceiling panels, when I look up I see the assorted beams that form the foundation of the house, and sitting on top of those are bare sheets of plywood that form the other side of the living room floor. Through the plywood, I can hear Mom vacuuming the living room floor.
The living room was, up until recently, our home’s little own Christmas wonderland. Lights adorned the windows, twinkling and sparkling at all those who walked down the street. Standing right in front of the window was our tree. Tinsel and glass ornaments would catch the light from the tree’s lights, and scatter it through the branches like some sort of festive prism. In the corner sits the little wood stove, in which I’ve recently taken delight. Both my parents have mumbled in annoyance at how hot I can get the fire. When I’d get the fire crackling hotter than Hell, I’d lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
The roof of our house is only about half a foot thick, and we have no attic to speak of. Just six inches of cedar shakes keeping the elements off of our heads. You stare up at the bare wood and you can see the knots and cracks of the wood that shelters us. This once mighty cedar, which withstood the ravages of time, fell victim to a lumberjack’s chainsaw. From there, it was floated down a river to a sawmill, and its aged corpse was unceremoniously hacked into planks of equal length. And those planks now form my roof. It’s a wonderfully thin roof. True, while the thinness is murder on the heating bills, it’s perfect for a summer’s rain. You are able to hear every raindrop hitting the roof, and it produces this very relaxing, soft rumble. You can just turn of the TV and get lost in that sound.
Above that roof are the clouds. We are familiar with the water cycle, and I’m sure we’ve all been taught that clouds are made of water. Why, then, if the clouds are made of water, do they not fall from the sky? I once read that clouds, in fact, do fall, but since their terminal velocity is only 0.3 mm/s, the fall is not noticeable. When I was a child I dreamt of touching the clouds; of playing in them; of soaring in and among them. They were warm puffs of cotton candy, just waiting for someone to come along and play in them. But now, sad reality sits in. Clouds are frigid water, constantly falling out of the sky, in a very cold place. Any attempt to frolic in them would result in my frozen body falling back to Earth. And so I push higher.
Above the clouds lies the ozone layer. If you’ve been living in a cave on Mars for the past few years, the ozone layer is, well, a layer of ozone in the upper atmosphere. It has the unique property of reflecting otherwise harmful ultraviolet rays back out into the depths of space. But now, this protector is degrading. Years of abuse of our planet have caused this hero to weaken, and the enemy will soon come flooding in and destroy us all. Or will it? There has been debate that it’s not our pollution that has caused it to deteriorate, but that it is all part of a natural cycle that repeats itself over decades. We can’t confirm this because we’ve only had the technology to monitor the layer for the past 40 years. Have we destroyed our planet to the point of no return, or is Mother Nature just punching a reset button? We know not.
Above the ozone layer lies the Moon. Earth’s only natural satellite, and the only other interplanetary body that the human race has visited in person. Long throughout our history, we have gazed up at it and wondered of its origins. If memory serves, the ancient Greeks believed it to be the chariot of a god, and it was pulled by four silver stags. Science says that it could be an asteroid, that drifted too close to the Earth and got trapped, or it’s just leftover material that clumped together from the birth of our solar system. And then, we set foot on it. It always amazed me that we, as a race, can look up at the Moon and say, “Been there, done that.” There were ambitious plans for the Moon. When we first set foot, NASA stared concocting long-term plans that involved building the first lunar colony in the mid-1980’s. But, the U.S. government deemed that going back to the Moon wasn’t necessary, because we beat the Russians there. And still, the Moon sits lifeless. But on every night, the Man In The Moon gazes down at us with a welcoming face, inviting us to return.
Above the Moon lies the Sun. The Sun is the giver of all. Every millijoule of energy on our planet has come from it. Without its light, we would exist in perennial darkness. Without its heat, we would exist in perennial darkness. Without it, we would die. And yet, the sun itself is dying. Like all energy sources, it is slowly depleting itself, and science says that it will eventually turn into a star called “a red giant.” Its mass will expand, engulfing the Earth, or, at the least, making it inhospitable. Of course, this won’t happen for another 5 billion years, so feel free continuing to bask in its warmth, knowing it won’t turn on you until you are dead and buried.
Above the Sun lies the stars. Billions and billions of stars, each one existing in different colors and energy levels. Each one continues its cosmic churning of atomic fusion, giving off levels of energy that we are only beginning to be able to calculate. Each one just continues about its business, giving no care of what else might be out there. Each one then lives, then dies, with no concept of what else might be going on out there.
Above the stars lie galaxies. Other galaxies; other gatherings of stars just like our own little stellar community. Each one is incredibly far away, and as vast as our own. The exploration of other galaxies remains a dream even in Star Trek.
And above the galaxies lies the edge of the universe. Oh yes, the universe does have an edge. When Einstein incorporated time into his equations as a fourth dimension, he showed that the universe is spherical; as though it exists in a big bubble. And what lies above the edge? Nothing? Everything? Perhaps, even God.
My mind can’t comprehend this, and so I crash down to Earth. Again, I find myself lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I stare up, and see bare plywood. I should be doing something. I will do something. Soon.