Stargirl
Sara slept.
In slumber, her pliable young mind rode waves that dove deep into restful sleep, occasionally cresting toward wakefulness. Sometimes her subconscious wove a tapestry of images taken from memory and imagination. Some she understood, some she did not. Still, part of her mind attempted to create a story to connect the images; the themes were more often akin to a Dali-drawn dream than a Spielbergian masterpiece of strong emotions and themes. Yet each image, each story, came from the fertile fields of her mind.
She rarely remembered these dreams.
Lately, though, something new had intruded. Late one night, not quite early morning, she found herself in darkness. She was aware just enough to notice, and she saw stars. Billions upon billions of stars surrounded her — no two the same — all of various colors, sizes, and brightness. And they moved, swirling around her in a gigantic, interconnected cosmic dance. She saw beauty in the chaos.
She seemed to float, her point of view the center of creation. At first, she was scared and started to feel dizzy. The whirlwind of stars and their constant movement overwhelmed her ability to take in all that she saw. Yet, with a little focus, she noticed not all moved with the same energy. The ones further away moved slowly, languidly, while the stars closest to her rushed by like cars chasing each other around a racetrack. She almost expected to feel the rush of wind in their passing. She was not so much scared as intrigued.
The stars did not appear to her every night. But the frequency of their arrival grew as she grew — as she approached adolescence. With each new occurrence, she noticed more details, and remembered more from their previous visits. She even began to hear sounds.
At first, not sure what they were, she tried ignoring the sounds. With each subsequent visit, however, the noises grew in intensity until she had no choice but to give them her attention. Comprised of myriad voices, of thoughts, of the teaming multitude of creation, the sounds clamored for her attention. They were trying to tell her something.
With a child’s ability to believe in magic and accept the impossible, she embraced the experience. She began to learn. She began to see that she was not alone.
Every person — every creature who had ever lived — had a place in the cosmos. A billion stories were floating out there, many never told, never heard. They were lost in the silence between the stars. For this loss, she cried. She learned — she knew — that each being of creation was unique. Each had a story to tell, and all of these infinite stories remained, at least in part, swirling between the stars of her dreams.
If only she could understand them!
On some level, she knew she was running out of time. Soon she would grow beyond their reach, and the stories of the stars would move on. They would leave her. She had to act before it was lost to her.
One morning at breakfast, she asked her mother, “Mom, when you were a kid, did you ever dream of stars?”
Her mother stopped what she was doing, her mind visiting a long-ago time. “The stars? I used to dream of going out into space. There was a time when I dreamed of becoming an astronaut.” With a wistful smile she continued, “But you know me and my fear of heights. I would never be able to climb up into a rocket, much less fly out into space. I feel queasy just looking at pictures taken from space.”
Sara chuckled. “I know.”
“And then I grew up and met your dad. We fell in love, got married, and bought this house.” She paused in reflection. “But you know, honey, having you has enriched my life so much. Today, this life, is my dream come true.” She broke away from this personal detour. “Okay now, finish your breakfast. We have the entire day ahead.”
Though Sara appreciated knowing a bit more about her mother’s life, this information did not answer her question. Later that morning, she looked for her father and found him tinkering in the garage.
“Dad?” she asked, getting his attention. “What do you know about the stars?”
He put down the tool he had been using, wiped his hands, and looked at her. “What do you mean, Sara? Our star, the sun? Or the stars in the Milky Way galaxy?”
She thought for a moment. “No, not just those; all of them. All of the stars in the entire universe, the cosmos.” She said the word ‘cosmos’ with reverence.
With a gentle bemused expression, her dad answered, “That’s an awfully big question.” He paused for a second in thought. “Some scientists say that the universe is almost infinite in size. That there is an unimaginable number of stars. What about them interests you?”
“Well,” she took a short breath, “do you think we are alone? Could there be other life, other ‘people’ somewhere out there?”
With a knowing smile, he answered, “No one knows for sure. But I remember hearing someone say that if we are the only self-aware beings in all the universe, it would be a massive waste of space.”
Sara thanked her father, then returned to her room to consider what she’d heard.
A couple of days later, for her twelfth birthday, she received a journal. Nothing fancy, though her name was imprinted on the cover, embossed in gold. And it contained over 200 pages, waiting for her pencil to fill them with her thoughts. With stories.
The following evening, when she found herself once again floating amid the stars, she spoke for the first time.
“My name is Sara. Please, tell me your stories.”
She was buffeted by a wave of indescribable need, of sounds and unfiltered emotions, an overwhelming cacophony of ideas, thoughts, and memories. To her, all became noise, no individual thought discernable amid the din. She tried again, louder.
“I can’t understand all of this; it’s too much. Please.” Then after a slight pause, she continued, “One at a time. I will try to understand, to hear your stories. But I am just a little girl and I can’t take in all of you at once. Please, slow down and give me a chance.”
They receded. When the pressure dropped away, and the sounds diminished, she tried again to listen, to understand. She didn’t hear voices, exactly. That is, she didn’t hear a single word in English. Instead, ideas, images, and feelings came to her. The starry void was not empty. She knew she shouldn’t have been amazed at the commonality of feelings, but she was. She recognized many familiar emotions: love, fear, excitement, gratitude, trepidation, and joy, all mingled together with a sense of impatience that at last they were being heard.
Over several nights, Sara worked to identify individual ideas, specific thoughts. At times, she was able to discern a portion of a story. Of those she understood, many sounded familiar:
“I was an orphan.”
“I fed my tribe by hunting the giant grass eaters.”
“I never had a friend.”
“I was loved.”
“I had feelings I never shared.”
“I was known and loved by everyone in my world.”
“I died too young.”
In hearing these thoughts, and knowing them to be true, she cried as these souls of creation, at last, were able to tell their stories.
She didn’t fully understand all of the many stories she heard. She lacked the experiences and concepts to understand or describe them. When she failed to understand a feeling or a portion of a story, she made up something that felt right to fill in the blanks. Often, the stars made her feel that she was close, and they were pleased. Yet she remained displeased with herself; she should be able to do more. Trying to find the words she needed, she studied hard in school, exploring diverse subjects.
When the last page of her journal was filled, she started a blog. Wishing to remain anonymous, she posted the stories from her journal — the stories from the stars — under the pseudonym ‘Stargirl’.
The stories were shared, they found an audience, they lived again. The common feelings and experiences were felt by the humans who read and shared these stories from the stars.
When next Sara visited the star-filled darkness, she felt a wave of gratitude, of something akin to contentment. While many more stories remained to be told, she had made a start; she had planted the cornerstone in the foundation of understanding. Though the rest of her world did not yet know the source of the stories, Sara knew. In time, her children would know. And one day, everyone would know.
We might be unique, but we are not alone. While each of us struggles to live out our allotted time, our struggles are not ours alone. Someone, somewhen, somewhere, has experienced exactly the same thing. And though their story might have ended differently than ours, they understand; they have been there.
From that point on, at every birthday came another journal, which she filled with different and unique stories. Sara – Stargirl – never stopped writing. There were too many stories to write, more than she could capture in a single lifetime.
Still, she tried.
The following years were written in discovery, learning, and empathy. Sara grew, learned, and fell in love. Later, she had a daughter she named Si, after the Hebrew word for ‘listener’. Si grew to be like her mother: empathetic, giving, and attentive.
One morning when Si was nearing her adolescence, she came to her mother and asked about stars. Sara knew the time had come. On Si’s next birthday, she received a journal. On the cover, embossed in gold, was written: ‘Stargirl’.
Charles Conover is a full-time retired professional and a part-time writer. Charles had the following to say when asked where his story ideas come from:
In the final act of Spielberg’s movie Hook, as the sun rises and Tinkerbell is saying goodbye to Peter, she asks, “You know that place between asleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming?”
In this magical place, Tink’s love for Peter lives on, and the fertile seeds of stories can be found. Sometimes, stories come to me in dreams.