I’ve had a mental bucket list – just called a “to do” list prior to the 2008 Nicholson-Freeman hit – most of my adult life, and seeing the Marfa lights has always been on it. Right after the divorce, I actually wrote out my list in Notepad on my iPhone and loyally included these phenomena. My fascination with the lights stemmed from the folk stories that surround them; the English teacher in me can’t resist a good narrative or a good mystery – and they are both.  The idea of the “ghost lights” brings to mind the sentiment I share with Walt Whitman: 

            When I heard the learn’d astronomer, 

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, 

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, 

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Science spoils mystery. On occasion I prefer the illogical and inexplicable to the plausibly explained.  Point in case, the Marfa lights and the perfect silent stars I was about to witness.

After spending the afternoon and early evening in Marfa and driving back to Alpine for the baseball game, I did not expect that we would return to the area on this vacation, but to my pleasant surprise, Alex suggested it at the conclusion of the game. As we drove west on Hwy. 67, I struggled to reign in my expectations.  The lady at Freda’s, after all, said she had lived in Marfa for four years and had not been able to see the lights.  Alex had said that some people live here their entire lives and do not see them.  Earlier that day, I tried to hedge my bets by nailing down a specific time during the night that the lights might show up or a specific weather pattern for optimal viewing – anything.  For my efforts, I was assured it’s basically a crap shoot.  

Riding in the passenger seat, I made an attempt to quell my hopes; I considered the odds that the lights would appear on this random night, at this arbitrary time when we would show up to gaze at the sky in unrealistic expectation.  But I am reminded in my spirit that my heavenly father gave me Saturn on a cloudy night, and I pray, “Father, could I also see the Marfa lights?”  

It seemed a short drive to reach the viewing area – a rest stop-type structure sans the “well lit” one would expect.  Instead, as at the observatory, red lighting close to the ground marked the walking path to a stone wall that is the outer most edge of the viewing facility.  As we walked to view, a few others were leaving, and I eavesdropped on their conversations to try to ascertain if there had been any mysterious sightings.  To my chagrin, it seemed a dull evening so far.

For a moment we stood at the wall and just gazed at the heavens.  Unlike the night before, this sky was crystalline, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be in the midst of the Milky Way.  The galaxy belt in my view was no longer abstract and separate, but immense – almost reachable – and Earth’s position in the midst of it evident.  So many more stars were visible than what I’m used to partaking that the constellations were hidden by the very things that make them up.  Alex and I each quickly spotted separate shooting stars, and I had the familiar thought, “If I see nothing else, this is magnificent.”  I decided I must climb over the bar railing and sit on the stone wall for full effect.  Alex was a little concerned that I wasn’t aware of how far down the drop on the other side of the wall was, but I didn’t plan to fall, and – more importantly – I trusted him not to let me.  I reminded him that my kids expected him to bring me home safely.

In spite of my satisfaction with the brilliance of the stars, God – in amusement or delight – had a better show in mind.  After just a few minutes, a light appeared in the sky.  I quickly turned to Alex, “Did you see that?”  He grinned and said he did.  And a few minutes later, another one.  Then two together.  Then one zigzags in an inexplicable way. It was like watching giant fireflies – intermittent and flashing, erratic in space, appearing and disappearing.  I literally could not contain my excitement, and I reached and grabbed Alex’s finger that was resting on the railing and held on to it.  I simply could not experience this without connecting to another human and having the assurance we were synchronized – our senses and our responses in tandem.  And although I didn’t want to distract anyone around me, jubilation was bubbling from my core, and I was absolutely giddy.  I turned to gage Alex’s expression and had the distinct feeling that he was propitiating me with yet another first.  After all, he had seen the lights before.

As we watched the apparitions – for what would prove to be over an hour – a man came and sat on the wall just a little way down from me.  He began a tribal-type chant that, for me, set perfect mood.  His voice was transcendent, and the rhythm of the chant escorted me to a different time and place – an anthropological primal setting.  I whispered to Alex, “I know you’re probably weirded out by his chanting, but I think it’s beautiful.”  

And with heightened senses, I’m also counting shooting stars.  At the fifth one, I think, “Make a wish.” My immediate response to my own imperative is “I have nothing to wish for.”  And I don’t.  At this moment, I couldn’t be in a better place, with better company, or with a better view.  In all, I counted ten shooting stars that night in Marfa. In one moment, I saw five of the mysterious lights at once lined up across the horizon. So silently but with exuberance, I thanked my God for inexplicably gifting me the rings of Saturn and the Marfa lights back to back and for the guide beside me who first imagined these destinations and accompanied me on this journey.