pale blue dot
Okay. First off, this post was delayed by a nasty, three-day vestibular migraine. I apologize for not getting this out sooner.
But, that obstacle plays into the very theme of this newsletter (or publication, or whatever you want to call it), because just like thick cloud cover or Starlink satellites streaking through the image of the Pinwheel Galaxy you’re trying to build, all this chronic crap and other disability fallout gets in the way.
Anyway.
About ten days ago, I was watching “The Farthest,” a 2017 documentary about the Voyager probe missions, when the famous “pale blue dot” image appeared on the screen. Taken by Voyager 1 after it had completed its flybys of Jupiter, Saturn, and Titan, this particular photograph shows Earth as a tiny speck — a “mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam,” as Carl Sagan described it:
“That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives.”
The image might not look like much at first, until you understand what it truly is.
“The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings,” Sagan continued, “thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.”
It’s a hell of a perspective. We are tiny and insignificant and precious and wonderful. The image is iconic for a reason.
But instead of triggering loneliness or fear, this feeling of insignificance is surprisingly liberating, especially in relation to struggles with chronic illness and pain — and really everything else. Because while my experience can often be rather difficult, it ultimately doesn’t really matter in the larger scheme of things. That doesn’t mean that my immediate discomfort is in vain, but it’s also not necessarily consequential.
In her book, The Milky Way, Moiya McTier (speaking as our home galaxy) puts a somewhat more cynical but still valid spin on it:
“That means that every human you know—and everyone you don’t—is insignificant, too. You are just as important as the celebrities and politicians and influencers who keep your world moving, which is to say ‘not very.’ No decision you ever make will have a significant impact on the universe. Isn’t that so freeing, to know that your actions don’t matter? Maybe they matter to you and your fellow humans, but I guarantee that even on your small scales, most of your choices aren’t as meaningful as you fear they are.”
In a vast universe — of potentially trillions of galaxies, each containing possibly hundreds of billions of stars — my challenges are small. And that’s such a freaking relief! I am a tiny speck of something so massive, my brain literally cannot properly comprehend it. My life and my existence contribute to the whole, in some way, so I am a part of that vastness and beauty. It is impossible for me not to be a component of the larger universe.
And so the open sky lifts some of the worry and anxiety from my shoulders, and replaces it with awe and appreciation. The pain and the other things remain, but a more expansive perspective offers ease and even joy. And I think we can all use more of that.
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Images:
1. Earth as ‘Pale Blue Dot,’ from NASA Goddard Space Flight Center
2. The Pinwheel Galaxy (Messier 101), imaged from Portland, Oregon, on 24 April 2026 by Jennifer Willis