Sharing Saturn: Awe, Stories, and a Little Perspective
The best part about public astronomy sessions is witnessing awe, that quiet gasp when someone looks through the telescope for the first time, or for the first time since childhood.
The second-best part is hearing their stories about why it matters.
Last weekend, I was at Long View Ciderhouse, showing Saturn to the crowd. A great musician played acoustic guitar as the hilltop dimmed into dark. The firepits were lit, kids ran through the grass, and the cider flowed freely. Other than the clouds that toyed with me all night, it was nearly perfect: a warm, communal kind of magic.
I loved when people approached, sometimes shyly, to admit they are fascinated with space, or that they want a telescope but don’t know where to start, or that they’re “a geek” for this stuff. They tell their stories about seeing the stars for the first time—the real first time—under desert skies, in Maine, on a camping trip. I can relate to all of it.
My favorite moments, though, are with those who share a passion for perspective, the ones who marvel at how tiny we are, or how impossibly beautiful Saturn is, or who pause when I tell them the sunlight they’re seeing bounce off the gas giant planet left the Sun more than two hours ago.
Every session, there’s someone with a story that lingers. A group of Ukrainian refugees one night. A veteran the next, remembering the dark skies over his remote firebase in Afghanistan. A young dad kneeling so his daughter could proudly tell me everything she knew about the Moon.
Last weekend, I met someone with her own eye to the sky, a photographer from New Britain named Eva Gryk. She showed me her shots of star trails, long exposures, the aurora, and an incredible capture of Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS from 2024, many with local landmarks in the foreground…a captivating contrast of local familiarity and vastly far away.
She graciously let me share some of her work below.
Photo Credit: Eva Gryk
What I love most about her images is their sense of time. How, over the span of an hour, we can see our little spinning rock turning beneath an eternal sky.
Each night I spend doing this, I’m reminded that the point for me isn’t really about stars or telescopes or science. It’s about perspective, the kind that humbles you, connects you, and makes you grateful to be standing on this little spinning rock, sharing the view with others who are just as amazed.
Gallery Photo Credit: Eva Gryk
