David Bowie once felt that Nirvana's rendition of "The Man Who Sold the World" was unbearably sad; he would likely say the same of Matt Johnson's consoling, acoustic take on "Starman." I believe he understood that from sorrow have been born memorable works of art—even in music—but perhaps he simply did not care for that particular sentiment in his own creations.
It was past ten at night, and I was returning from that place where they don't play Bowie, Queen, or Nirvana; although, like those bands, their music also strives to mend the many hearts shattered by time's relentless passage—infusing them with a tone of faith to retune their lives. One by one, people had risen on stage, spontaneously, to give thanks for what 2024 had left them. And amid the many voices stoking the echo of hope in the auditorium, there was Gael—the 7‑year‑old boy who, first with resolute confidence and then, silenced by the tremor of contained emotion, stuttered through tears his thanks to God or fate, grateful that after his mother's motorcycle accident she remained alive and happily his for another year in her brief, tender life. The pastor, with delicate wisdom, helped him finish what in Gael had already become a blend of sorrow, faith, and joy rushing to burst from his lips, and amid applause his unstoppable sobbing was hushed.
Likewise, in my ear still echoed the phrase "One day I'll be running," spoken by a woman whose conviction shone in the radiance of her enormous, instructive smile. She shared that everything she'd regained over the past year—and all that remained to be recovered of her mobility—would be achieved, with Him, with the one who would help her overcome; that it didn't matter if today she couldn't walk perfectly, because she knew that soon enough she would run, and she smiled as she prepared to repeat it—whether with her mouth or with her heart, I could not tell. Faith can feel like a light that springs forth from the spirit, spilling over in a warmth that overflows like tears tracing silent pathways down the cheeks. Thus I witnessed that faith etched itself on the faces in the auditorium, united spiritually by the gleam in their eyes.
Later, with a small candle piece for each person and a flame as warm and golden as sunlight, everyone—through a personal and communal song—gave thanks in an orderly manner; and I heard, shared equally in my thoughts: "For my family, for this family, and for the serendipities that fate bestows." I would say that each one ignited the fire of their own star as we prayed warmly to God.
The lights within that darkened space and the tenderness emanating from every word were so overwhelming that they reminded me of gazing at the stars when I was a child—of the gratitude I felt because I could see them so clearly, never ceasing to marvel at their beauty.
Sometimes I gaze at the sky, and as it captures my attention, a nascent nostalgia mingles with my memories. I know that as a child—and I remember it vividly—the sky over Villa de Buenos Aires was a spectacle, and I would remain transfixed by that synchrony of twinkling lights. My vision was sharper then; I could even distinguish—indeed, I remember—the flicker of each light and the differences between them. I'd fix my gaze on one, or a group, or a cluster, as I later read, and I noticed that uniform pattern as I watched. Sometimes what we see is not a single star but a group, or an entire galaxy whose gathered stars shine brilliantly; other times it is but one, so potent that it outshines thousands. I felt those lights within me—both distant and near—through my eyes.
I only recall seeing shooting stars three times. The first was in my youth, right from the porch of my house, where my uncle used to repeatedly puff on that melancholy cigarette with his leg propped on the largest stone, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke, as he stood admiring the sky. I was with my brother, who did not see it, and a shooting star does not wait for your attention—it simply appears; I saw it, but he did not. The second time was in Cuenca, with someone whose absence now grieves my heart like the glow of another star I find beautiful yet unreachable; and I believe... she too never noticed it. We opened the large windows that covered the landing of the building's staircase—where I lived on the fourth floor—on a night that had just ended a heavy rain, right after the heat began to emerge—and, noting that the night was immensely starry, I asked her that we observe the sky intently, as I remembered doing as a child, and with our eyes tilted in unspoken agreement, perhaps I saw it—or we saw it—moving swiftly among the multitude of lights in the blue tapestry of the sky: a bright streak that vanished in an instant.
Sometimes I recall Carl Sagan's words: "We are made of the same stuff as the stars" and "the cosmos is within us." That we are as extraordinary as they are—made to shine. I feel a mixture of sorrow and strength from watching them, motionless in the firmament.
Moved by the evening and its prayer of gratitude, now concluded, I walked along the sidewalk, detached from the crowd bustling by, with my noise-cancelling headphones on, until I realized that God—or the wind—had swept away the clouds, allowing me to see clearly above as the spectacle of the sky continued to give thanks throughout the night. Someone signaled to me and asked how far I was going. They decided it was too far to walk and chided me for not taking a vehicle; I looked up at the sky, and I couldn't find the words to explain that I didn't want to stop marveling at how the stars above seem like lights offering thanks—like children holding candles—that I long to observe, that I want to contemplate. I looked back and told them I like walking, that it's simply what I do, and they seemed to accept it. I turned on "Starman" and, as the soulful sound of its guitar carved into my heart, I lifted my gaze while walking, feeling as if distant memories—like stars—were drawing near and merging within my heart. I realized that sadness and gratitude are lights of the same constellation, both beautifying life and filling it with meaning. If I have reached this place—where everyone gives thanks for the trials, for the sorrows that forge their faith and their hearts—then it is alright, and I must understand it, for it illuminates my path. I keep walking, and for the third time in my life the sky offers me a shooting star; I think of Cuenca, and I feel the melancholy of the song's melody come to me, and I return a tear, moved, in gratitude.
"When I'm out on the street and I hear that song, I usually look up at the sky, as if witnessing a battle: my sorrow fighting against my joy; and I smile as I think that a hero in vibrant colors will come down to help me."
XD/TT
