Tonight, though, I'm reminded that being moved happens in spite of scientific reserve. Listening to people walking by on the path -- "Oh, look at it!" "It's so beautiful." -- and standing out in the cold watching the moon looking so familiar while also foreign, both fragile and immense, I imagine I can have a foot in both places.
I love that we've been so blindly arrogant as to fly people to that distant, shimmering rock, even while I am appalled at our wasting our brilliance on such a distant dream, when just think of what that our imagination could do here, where we are.
Still, standing on my back porch in the sharp cold, listening to the quiet of night, I can't be sorry to know what we know, or that people have been there. And, still, and all, it somehow manages to be both mysterious and magical.