Thoughts under a shooting star

If you don't already know, this past week our little world crossed the orbit of the asteroid 3200 Phaethon (say it FAY-a-thon).

As Phaethon orbits, getting closer to and further from the sun in perpetuity, debris breaks off from the main rock and gets strewn about its orbit. Well, as we passed through this debris trail, some of the objects entered our atmosphere, causing the annual phenomenon known as the Gemenid meteor shower.

Long-exposure of a Gemenid meteor. It's up left.

The Perseid and Leonid meteor showers (midsummer and November, respectively) have been persistent disappointments to me, due in part to light pollution and frequently cloudy skies above the West Midlands. However, this year, I saw my first Gemenid.

They're slow-moving, fairly bright compared to the background stars and can be mistaken for planes if one doesn't look too closely. This was only the second shooting star that I recall observing, and seeing this one reminded me of the first, a few years ago.

I was in Devon on a residential school trip for geography. The place we were staying at, from what I remember, had a garden up front, with a solitary bench, that looked out on to an open, flattish landscape with hills on either side. One night, myself and a friend were on the bench and happened to observe a fantastic meteor pass overhead and trace a nearly perfect vertical path to the ground.

Everything about the scene seemed to conspire to make all the details perfect. The angle of the bench, the exceptionally clear skies, the brightness and vector of the meteoroid, the way the hills framed the sky. All of the variables in play came together with an uncanny synchronisation, that as a whole seemed to suggest that something profound had just happened.

If I had the kind of mind that was prone to invoking an intelligent overseer, I might have concluded that the scene was designed purposefully for my benefit. But of course, it wasn't. Unlikely things happen all the time. In fact, it would be more interesting if odd synchronicities didn't occasionally emerge.

The scene had an air of perfection to it, and in that particular moment, I experienced a fleeting sense of oneness with my surroundings, and awe at the cosmos, that left me in hushed silence for several seconds. Just because I'm not religious doesn't mean that I deny myself spiritual experiences.