I did not fully understand the word “boundless” until I moved to Illinois. On the Great Plains, miles and miles of farmland stretched across the horizon. Where the earth ended, the firmament would unfold.
In summer months, traveling a few miles from the center of University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign campus in any direction, one would be standing in the middle of corn fields. Crops packed tightly as if there wasn’t enough room for all of them. Their dark green stalks pointed straight to the sky with fat ears of fresh corn poking out from the sides. Surrounded by them, I always felt like a small child facing powerful green waves that would engulf me at any moment. Instead of providing shades and shelter, these tall plants generated immense energy.
Except for the devoted few, taking summer classes to get ahead, most students had fled the campus and the Midwest summer heat. During the day, high-school summer campers roamed the hallways. At night, I was often the only living soul in the window-less practice area. After a few hours, with the absence of the “Let’s-go-for-coffee” crowd, I would drive out to the fields, sitting there, allowing nature to show me its beauty.
Other than the perpetual tremolos from insects, the silence was palpable. Without artificial lights, the sky and the earth became one. High above were millions of stars calmly telling their ancient stories. Down around me were hundreds (thousands?) of fireflies searching for love. I was the tiny figurine in a globe surrounded by twinkling lights.
I am not good with constellations. Other than the Big Dipper, I hardly recognize anything on the astronomical chart. Yet, while mesmerized by the beauty of the natural planetarium and realizing how far the twinkling lights had been traveling, I began to understand the enormity of the universe. And, I, in comparison, trivial. All the things that happened from day to day became inconsequential.
I loved stormy nights even more. When it rains on the Great Plains, it pours. There is no place to hide and no place to go. I would be sitting in the car in total darkness. Water would be gushing down my windshield. Lightnings lit up the sky all around me, accompanied by the booming and crackling sounds of thunders. No stage designer could have planned better light shows. Could I have produced more exciting sounds with my hands?
After moving to the city, I traded starlight with city lights—brighter and more colorful. My first apartment was on the thirty-fifth floor of a high-riser, overlooking the Hudson River and Midtown West. At night, the water would be tinted by lights from boats, small and large. Millions of lights shone through offices and homes, each telling a different story. Neon signs forced their messages to me and others. Still, I missed starry nights from years past. I treasure the memories of those beautiful nights, never want to let them go but always want to share them.