Earlier this year, insights from William Shatner pushed me to an unexpected sorrow. In his book “Boldly Go”, the Star Trek legend wrote of his experience traveling to space in 2021. At age 90, he found himself among the stars in real life, but he discovered a surprising, overwhelming sadness. The universe appeared to him now as a lifeless, endless void with no appeal to explore. And by contrast, the blue globe below him now radiated with life—the one planet we know of that can sustain us. Shatner, an actor who inspired generations to dream of the final frontier, now only spoke of it with grief. But he also took a deep appreciation for our planet, and I want to as well. Earth not only sustains life, but it can fill us with awe if we allow it to.
I found myself on this emotional journey when I watched a video that brings home the awe-inspiring vastness of space. It simulates views of our sun from the surfaces of various planets. Starting on Mercury and moving outward, it becomes smaller and smaller as we travel beyond the solar system. By the end, it’s only one of many stars and other images that flood the universe. With solemn background music, it’s awe-inspiring—beautiful, humbling scenes that can shake any of us from the thoughts of our current troubles. A certain Bible verse can now carried new weight—“The Heavens declare the glory of God”. Immersion in space can force us to find new perspective, as it did for Shatner.
His words about the emptiness of space then came to mind toward the end. I stopped watching the scenes with wonder, feeling a bit of the sorrow that filled Shatner when he broke Earth’s atmosphere. Instead of seeing beauty, the universe now appeared as dead. Lifeless. Empty with no signs of anything worth visiting. The famous phrase from Star Trek’s creed – “To seek out new life and new civilizations” – now rang hollow. What life? What civilizations? So far as we can tell today, they aren’t there. And for William Shatner to be the messenger of this was jarring. It was equivalent to Santa Claus taking off his beard to tell kids he doesn’t exist. There was now only sadness for a universe that has so much, yet so little.
Now none of us know for sure if there is life beyond Earth, and I don’t mean to come down on the idea that there is. I can understand the motivations to believe it’s true. It might be unappealing to believe humanity is the sole source of consciousness in a random universe. And to believe it means there is no new frontier of interest. No prospects for the future exchange of ideas, culture, and new friendships. So I can’t say that Earth is the one and only planet in the universe with flora or fauna.* But if there are other planets like Earth, reaching them would take warp speeds we can still only dream of. So unless aliens are coming down to greet us soon, we are alone, for all practical purposes.
But even with the understandable sadness from Shatner, I don’t want to feel despair about it. And neither did he. The lifelessness of space brought him to see Earth with renewed appreciation. Instead of sorrow, Shatner found hope from the world he had left. Maybe it takes a good stare into the abyss to bring us to gratitude for what we already have. And for myself, I can better understand people who stare at nature for hours in wonder. A sunset. A spider web. An autumn that blankets the land in colorful leaves. An ocean that blinds us with endless blue waves. It turns out, we don’t need a distant galaxy for fulfillment. We can just look outside, and we can feel happiness for what’s at our doorstep.
The beauty of Earth makes me think of the journeys that previous generations took to find new civilizations. The deserts leading to the Nile River. The mountains standing as gates to the greener pastures of Oregon. Spaniards sailed west while Marco Polo walked east. Travelers were compelled to explore distant terrains, but the difference with space is that the travels on Earth always led to life. If the frontier is lifeless, it stops everything that makes a frontier worth exploring. While this isn’t to discourage the ambitions of scientists looking to the stars, but such thoughts have left this Star Trek fan with a new point of view.
We can choose, as Shatner did, to appreciate the earth under our feet. Next winter, I will step into the sub-zero atmosphere of Minnesota. An odd place to find appreciation, but I will still try to hold gratitude. To breathe the chill air of our atmosphere; to stare at the glistening snow on tree limbs; to gaze at the Orion constellation; and to feel happy for having a livable, breathable seat to look at the universe. And when winter thaws, maybe I’ll find a bug to stare at. Or a squirrel. Or even a wasp. It’s life, and it might not be anywhere else in the universe. Earth is a diamond in a land of sand, and while I’ll never tell anyone to stop exploring space, I’ll stare at what’s down here with fulfillment. And so can you.
*In high school, a science teacher took us through a series of calculations that put the odds of life on another planet as astronomical. I can’t remember the equations; I only thought, Wow, Star Trek really feels like fiction now.
