The Brightest Star
We were half-drunk, giggling our way down the old dirt road in your baby blue Mustang, when you pulled off into an abandoned cornfield. There were no lights, no people, no other cars. We opened both doors and put our heads out of them, upside down, with our feet hanging towards the middle of the consul and touching each other. The stars were so bright. Even growing up in Wyoming, I had never seen stars that bright. In that moment, I realized that the brightest star was not a successful career. It was not getting married by a certain age, or having that brand new Hermes bag. The brightest star was having a moment of silence, in the middle of your own cornfield, to look at the stars. The brightest star was time, love and nature.
I had been looking for the brightest star my entire life in NYC, in fast cars, in climbing the ineffable corporate ladder. I had been looking for the brightest star in all of the flashiest places, when it was in my backyard the entire time, in the least of all of glamorous, flashiest places in the world.
And here I am, three years later, realizing I have been searching the big city for the brightest star, when it has been with the sky that is always above me and God Who is always within me.