Humanity has always looked to the stars in wonder, observing the cyclical changes between earth and sky in an attempt to not only understand the “what” of the universe, but also the “why.” The mystery of other worlds and the possibilities of what they possess represents the magnitude of the things we don’t even know we don’t know.

Astronomy was considered the culmination of four Ancient Greek disciplines, the Quadrivium, which were ways of understanding the relationship of numbers to the natural world, and a sort of ‘proof’ that there is an overarching rationality to the universe as a whole. The four disciplines of the quadrivium were:

• Mathematics, which is pure number

• Geometry, number in relationship to space

• Music, number in relationship to time (rhythm), and number in relationship to itself through ratios (harmony).

• Astronomy, which is a combination of all the above, the moving bodies of the planets, number in relation to both time, space, and one another. The music of the spheres.

Astronomy took on a mystical significance, the physics of the planets translating to our everyday lives as a way to understand the microcosm of our existence. We could look inward by looking up and understand how what we see played out on the big stage can be echoed within us.

What, then, is inner astronomy? I wouldn’t be the first person to make a parallel between the microscopic world and the organization of the cosmos, protons orbiting an atomic nucleus in striking similarity to planets around the sun. And while Randall Pease, the poet of tonight’s work, had a deep love for both the grandeur and minutiae of the natural world, I don’t think he was referring to cell biology or particle physics when he named this set of poems.

Rather, Inner Astronomy refers to tracking the orbit of internal change, the inner workings of the self, the disappointments and triumphs, what we lose, how we are reborn. Randall Pease wrote the poems used in this work during a drawn out and difficult period of his life when we wrestled with addiction, depression, recovery, hope: all the darkest and lightest parts of who we are. In these poems, Randall wrote a great deal about the ego and his personal struggles against his own, using this creative work to look past self-doubt and shame in search of the bright burning mystery at the center.

I don’t think this is unique to Randall. It’s an inherent part of being human to wrestle with the contrast between our internal misgivings and the profound love we can have for the external world, the vastness of nature, the creativity of the human spirit, and of course, the love for our friends and family.

I say this with the overconfident authority of a new father, but one of the most confusing aspects of parenthood is how our inner orbits suddenly expand, becoming a binary of stars circling around one another. The confusion comes from how brightly this new star seems to burn, obscuring one’s own. It’s a wonder to look at your children and see so clearly that perfect shining goodness at the center of a human being and try to reconcile it with our own shame and self-doubts. How can something so good come from something so flawed? How can we reconcile the difference between how we experience the inner and outer worlds?

For many of us, certainly for Randall, religion and creative practice are ways to move outside of ourselves, and look back at who we are with the same clarity and compassion through which we see others. By the end, he found peace through forgiveness, not the kind that comes from an external source but inner redemption, the kind where you stop punishing yourself by putting up walls and allow the light to back in.

Tonight’s concert is many things, a ritualistic concert experience, the premiere of a new work, and also a memorial of sorts to Randall Pease who passed away five years ago this week. The loss of a family member is devastating, and here’s what’s also true: no parent wants to outlive their children. I think the luckiest, however, live long enough to see their children take flight and know that one star in that binary will continue to burn bright after we are gone.

I can’t think of a greater way to honor a parent than by taking their creation and making it the foundation of your own, a statement that says “this is part of our ongoing work to build a more thoughtful, loving world”. Such art becomes a declaration of who we are by acknowledging where we come from and how that shapes the path ahead. It’s a way of forgiving ourselves and redeeming our past so we can more easily look beyond the orbiting detritus of our lives and catch a glimpse of the fiery center, a self which is true, beautiful, and abiding.