Our Cosmic Belonging

We were here, and we were kind.

For my creative writing class this week, our assignment was to go to a tube station we’d never been to before and observe. Outside of the one I chose, there was a cafe that resided in an active Gothic church building. It was beautiful, and on a sunny day the light came in through the mosaics and the high windows, and people sat in this beautiful place and drank their coffees and enjoyed their little cakes. I wrote a poem about it, and as I was refining it something called on me to change all the I pronouns to we’s. We are all graceful from the light of the afternoon. I didn’t think twice about it, just leaned into what sounded right to me. I read my poem in class, tripping over my own words a few times, and was met with such lovely feedback. People said that it made them feel like they were there with me. And I think that’s the point, isn’t it?

Adrienne Rich, “In Those Years”:

In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to
 
But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through the rags of fog
where we stood, saying I

Our in-class writing exercise for that session was, coincidentally, to go in and change the point of view of our poem — I changed mine from first-person plural to second-person singular. It wasn’t until I did this that I understood what I meant when I wrote my poem (funny, isn’t it). Though I wrote about a beautiful experience, isolating the reader inside a collective space (like a cafè or a church or, well, both) made me realize how comforting it is not to be alone in our moments of devotion. I changed all we’ve ever wanted was to belong into all you’ve ever wanted was to belong, and it turned into a pointed finger, something calling me out for a feeling that wasn’t justified. Technically, the pronoun we create an assumption, but there are reasons it remains in poetry and literature. The more bodies are in a room, the less your voice will echo. Even if they don’t listen to you, even if they leave the room without a second glance, something is comforting about the fact that your voice bounced off of them. It touched them, for a moment. It will serve as a reminder that we are here as a part of something, whether or not the other parts call back to us.

Rich’s poem is considered a political call to action — which is still largely relevant — but it lies in something bigger. Community is a powerful thing when it comes to justice, but it’s also so powerful in its beauty, in providing spaces for people to feel validated in their existence. I was sitting in that church cafè with a friend, and there was a small child hobbling around. Her laughter echoed, and it touched all of us. It popped our little bubbles, gave us a reason to smile, initiated a silent conversation: yes, i’m here, and you are too, this child is laughing and we both felt it.

by Hannah Lane

In 1977, two golden phonograph records were sent to space on board the Voyager probes. The records contained animal nature sounds, sounds of human laughter, musical selections, and 55 "greetings to the universe". Here are some of my favorites:

• In Amoy: "Friends of space, how are you all? Have you eaten yet? Come visit us if you have time."

• In Swedish: "Greetings from a computer programmer in the little university town of Ithaca on the planet Earth."

• In Mandarin Chinese: "Hope everyone's well. We are thinking about you all. Please come here to visit when you have time."

• In English: “Hello from the children of planet Earth.”

There is something so tender about the assumption of these messages — that all beings, whether human or not, just want to belong. We want to be welcomed somewhere new, to feel like there is a place for us everywhere. The Voyagers will never come back to Earth. So when we all disappear, there will still be something out there that says we were here, and we were kind.

On these “interstellar messages”, Linda Salzman Sagan wrote:

“During the entire Voyager project, all decisions were based on the assumption that there were two audiences for whom the message was being prepared - those of us who inhabit Earth and those who exist on the planets of distant stars."

What does it do for our collective being, to speak out to something that may not exist? I think it has to do with belonging. Yes, of course, we belong on Earth, but rather that maybe, we belong here together. Even if it’s just us, on this blue orb floating around in this universe alone forever, at least we tried. At least we reached out. The never-ending possibility of life beyond our own illumines our (maybe desperate) innate desire to hope.

Walt Whitman wrote, “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” Which is technically true — we are all made of the same stardust. Maybe that fact is the antidote to the loneliness side effect of Western individualism. A piece of us exists everywhere, in every person we meet, and among the stars on a golden record.

Further Reading

Words by James Baldwin

Animated short film and reading of “Singularity” by Marie Howe

“We Are Not Alone In The Universe” by Nathan J. Robinson for Current Affairs

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What I Enjoyed This Week

Recent Reads

• There, There by Tommy Orange. This book tells the story of twelve characters from Native communities living in urban Oakland, California, and following them as they travel to the big Powwow. I learned so much from this book. It was written in a raw, angry tone — rightfully — but still full of so much love. It was heavy, but it shed light on a community I have rarely been this intimately exposed to, and I’m really thankful to have read it. It was dynamic and engaging with its accessible writing style, but sometimes felt a bit dizzying with all the different characters perspectives. I would love to read more books about the urban Native American experience, and I hope that this perspective will be further introduced in the U.S. school system.

• “The Candy Man: Roald Dahl’s Subversive Storytelling” by Margarent Talbot in The New Yorker. I had to write an essay this week focusing on otherness in Roald Dahl’s characters and I used this as a source, but I genuinely loved reading it, especially as someone who was re-visiting my childhood literature as an adult.

Other Wonderful Things

• Matilda Mann’s 2020 EP Because I Wanted You to Know. I think she’s such a fresh voice and a really amazing storyteller. She weaves together imaginary stories that feel so authentic and real — I loved her track-by-track from 1883 Magazine. My favorite track is “Paper Mache World.”

• I spent two hours on Friday night making Baked By Melissa’s Green Goddess salad. It was absolutely 100% worth all the hype (and the chopping). I eat it with tortilla chips but I think it’d be really good in a sandwich too!

• The Sex Lives of College Girls on HBO. We get a lot of high school dramas, so I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for a show about college students. This is so fresh and funny but still so empowering. Definitely explicit — but I actually really appreciate the reality of it. I think female frienship is such a special thing and I love how this explores it.

• This song, and this song, and this song.

Thank you for reading,

<3

Tara