My favorite part of New Mexico is the sky.

At night when I walk between the house and studio, I always stop and look up at the brilliant star-filled sky. It never ever gets old. And like a quick chat with a neighbor on the street, I often casually offer up, “Hey, Dude,” to Orion. During these winter months he is always right there. I also tease him, he is so forward focused, perhaps to Taurus the bull, that he appears clueless a lion is rising in the east, and as far as I can read the wide-screen night display, in pursuit. On my return to the house, a short east-facing walk, I greet Boötes. I have never seen the herdsman the ancient Greeks did, or the Blue Dragon’s horn from Chinese mythology, but instead welcome the shape of a kite, a harbinger of warmer days.

Since I was a teenager I have been watching, and sometimes greeting, the entire year of constellations, making it difficult not to see them when I look up. It would be like seeing your friend walk towards you, with his particular shape and swagger, and pretend it was someone else. Orion will always be Orion, the hunter. He looks like one, with his big shoulders, fancy belt, and sword. Even Gemini, Taurus, The Pleiades, and Leo are what they are. I disagree with some of the early ideas. I do not see a giant bear, but instead easily see a big dipper. Cassiopeia is a stretch as a queen. I can see her chair, though to me it looks more like a lazy W. The point though, is this revolving year of constellations have been embedded in me for years. I see them for who they are.

I once camped for four nights on an island off the coast of Queensland. I was in Australia to work with a nature education program for six weeks, and being pretty footloose with minimal responsibilities and a maximum amount of time and wanderlust, I stayed three and a half months. New friends provisioned me for the adventure, lending a tent, sleeping bag, basic supplies, and dropped me off on the island with the suggestion to camp on one particular side, to avoid crocodiles on the other*

Decades later three memories of the island remain. First, I saw no other humans the entire time. Second, a slow-moving, meter-long goanna, one of the monitor lizards, walked past my little camp in both directions at the same time each day**, and lastly, I remember the astounding clarity of the night sky. It took my breath away.

On my first night I started a ritual of lying on the beach, looking up. Waves and stars are an intoxicating combo. I no doubt drifted into sleep at times, wakening to find new stars rising, and others setting. At first I searched for familiar constellations, but found none. I had never been this far south. Earlier in my stay I had been shown the distinctive Southern Cross, but that was all I now recognized in a vast canvas of stars. Thousands of light sparkles, and it was all new.

With time my eyes were drawn to certain groupings of stars. Different patterns, clusters, and arrangements got my attention. Different sizes and colors. Late into the night, I realized I could make my own constellations and myths, and with new enthusiasm, that is what I did. Each night, returning to the beach, I had to re-learn what I had created the day before, but over the course of four nights I solidified who was who and what they were up to.***

Now I wonder, having just arrived in Norway, can I let go of photographs deeply imprinted in me? Hundreds of them. Consider the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. Tourist books, social media, even the airport arrival lounge all entice me to make the same photograph everyone else has. There may be a different lake, beach, or mountain in the foreground, but they are essentially the same photograph, celebrating the brilliance of this night spectacle.

As I head into this new landscape, filled with what has been done, can I empty my slate, purge the past, and respond fresh, to interpret as I wish?

*My new friends, in typical upbeat Aussie spirit, took delight in testing the nerves of the Yank, me. At the nature center I was encouraged to explore a particular trail, “But beware of the tiger snakes. They can be a bit aggressive.”

**I followed him one way one day. He went up a tree and took a nap for many hours. I never did follow him the other direction.

***I returned to Australia last year. I had forgotten the constellations I once created, and to be honest, it was nice to gaze up and enjoy the grand scene.

Photograph ©Eddie Soloway