The Delaware Gazette

Simple, profound joys: The Whirlpool Galaxy

I’ve been a science-fiction buff (some would say, nerd) since I learned to read. I still sub­scribe to three sci-fi mag­a­zines. I see every movie even­tu­ally, even the really deli­ciously bad ones from the 1950s. But I am increas­ingly prone to stay home.

At the urg­ing of my fam­ily, I tried to watch “The Avengers,” which got great reviews from prac­ti­cally every­body for its non­stop action.

I had to walk out of the the­ater. As my Ital­ian grand­mother used to say, “Too much. Too much.”

I have come to appre­ci­ate sim­pler, more pro­found joys like the struc­ture of a leaf or the Whirlpool Galaxy in a big tele­scope at Perkins Obser­va­tory. Hun­dreds of bil­lions of stars in the shape of a child’s pin­wheel have an appeal that pix­i­lated explod­ing plan­ets and quick-cut super­hero bat­tles can never match.

I spent a good chunk of my life want­ing to see the spi­ral arms of the Whirlpool. A small tele­scope or binoc­u­lars just won’t cut it. The galaxy is 25 mil­lion light years away. Mul­ti­ply that num­ber by 6 tril­lion, and you’ll get the num­ber of miles. At that dis­tance, even a galaxy 100,000 light years across fades to a smudge.

I first saw the smudge in binoc­u­lars as soon as I was old enough to hold them steady. Some­day, I vowed, I would have a tele­scope big enough to see the spi­ral struc­ture. To that end, I built a series of larger and larger tele­scopes. I was pretty broke at the time, so I sold each tele­scope to finance the next larger one, ordered a new set of tele­scope mir­rors, and ham­mered together the new tele­scope out of scrap ply­wood in my garage.

Then, I waited again for the first clear, moon­less night and drove my new cre­ation out to some rural site far from city lights and indoor plumb­ing. I waited again for the galaxy to rise high enough in the sky to be seen prop­erly. I looked. “Still a SMUDGE,” I whis­pered to myself each time, as my mind cal­cu­lated what it would cost me in time, effort and missed lunches to con­struct an even big­ger telescope.

At long last, my 17-inch-diameter mir­ror came in the mail. I had saved my lunch money for more than a year to get it, and then I had waited another year for the opti­cal com­pany to fab­ri­cate it. I fin­ished the tele­scope in a sin­gle week­end of fren­zied building.

It still smelled of newly cut wood as I loaded it in the car.

I will never for­get the warm spring night when I stood on the lawn at Perkins Obser­va­tory. (In those days, they wouldn’t let me in the build­ing.) At first, I saw the bright, cen­tral hub, but I had seen that many times before. As my eyes slowly adapted to the dark, out of the hub curled the glo­ri­ous spi­ral arms.

You might think that the expe­ri­ence was a bit anti­cli­mac­tic after all that wait­ing, but it wasn’t. I was see­ing the basic unit, the defin­ing qual­ity, of the uni­verse with a tele­scope I had built with my own hands and heart. I was col­lect­ing the real pho­tons of light that had trav­eled 25 mil­lion years to reach my eyes and then die. But I didn’t mourn for that light. It was reborn in an instant as an undimmed mem­ory I will carry with me all the rest of my days.

So turn off your TVs. Throw away your com­puter games. While you’re at it, tell your chil­dren for me that we have to stop imply­ing to them in word and deed that the only expe­ri­ences worth hav­ing involve explod­ing plan­ets and sev­ered heads. You’ll find more in the light danc­ing in a for­est or the touch of a hand on your own or the sub­tle struc­ture of a galaxy than you will find in a thou­sand Sith lords or Jedi knights.

I can­not promise you that learn­ing about your world will be easy. All I can promise you is a uni­verse of inde­scrib­able beauty and expe­ri­ences that will fill a life­time with unend­ing won­der. All I can promise is a life of intel­lec­tual and emo­tional ful­fill­ment, a slow but steady jour­ney ever upward toward the light.

Tom Burns is the direc­tor of Ohio Wes­leyan University’s Perkins Obser­va­tory, and he would be very happy to answer your ques­tions or sell you a ticket to one of its upcom­ing Friday-night pro­grams. He can be reached at tlburns@owu.edu or 740–363-1257.

Tom Burns Posted by on May 20 2012. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS Feed. Comments can be made below.

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