Tag Archives: Adler Planetarium

The Far Side of the Sky

by Shane L. Larson

I grew up in the Rocky Mountains and the American West, from Colorado to Oregon to Montana. Since the earliest days of my youth, I’ve been an explorer of sorts. When I was growing up, my parents had carefully delineated boundaries for our adventures that kept us close to home. I don’t think they needed to worry much, because fronting the northern edge of our domain, there was a creekland paradise of bushes, fallen logs, and crumbling cliffsides that sloped down to shoals, rushing rapids, and gentle fords where we could wander back and forth across the water course. This was the frontier — full of adventure, mystery, and discovery.

A map from memory of the creek adventureland near the house where I grew up.

A map from memory of the creek adventureland near the house where I grew up.

Nowadays, my explorations are less filled with the wanderings of boyhood, and more focused on the world around me. I’ve walked through the deep pine forests of the Rockies, reveled in the roaring spray of mountain waterfalls, peered over the precipice of vast canyons carved from the stone of the Earth, and stood in darkened mountain meadows soaking up starlight billions of years old. All of these experiences sit well with me, but this last one truly moves me.

All my life, I have always carried one over-riding dream with me — I want to see the far side of the sky. I would love to climb into a ship, “accustomed to the breezes of heaven” (as Kepler once wrote), and set sail across the great dark between the planets and off into the vast deepness of the galaxy. To travel beyond the confines of the Earth is the ultimate dream.

I’ve often wondered where this dream came from. How did I become so enamoured with exploring the vastness of the Cosmos? I asked my Mom about this once, and she responded, “You’ve kind of always known about this stuff, ever since you were a little feller.” But I know it is all her fault, because if I ask a slightly different question, like “When did I start watching Star Trek?” she replies, “Oh, I started you on that when you were about three.” 🙂

But in all seriousness, I think my parents are largely responsible for me being an explorer. They were my first science teachers. My dad is a plant ecologist. He was born and raised in the ranch country of Colorado, he was a fist generation college student, and received his PhD from the Colorado State University. My mom is a forester. She was one of the first women in the country to enter forestry school at Stephen F. Austin University in Texas. One of the earliest stories I remember my parents telling is a story about science. After my mom and dad were married, they went on their honeymoon to Canada, driving my dad’s pickup truck (a brown Ford F150 that we had through my high school days; we called her “Bertha”) and camping along the way. The way my mom tells the story is they were driving down a lonely stretch of highway in northern Montana, and she was sitting there thinking to herself “Damn he drives slow; what’s he think he’s doing? It’s the long skinny one on the right, Larry!” She was getting ready to say something, when my dad turns to her and says, “See that duck over there? He’s flying at 45 miles per hour!”

A male Mallard Duck.

A male Mallard Duck.

That is an awesome story! It is very typical of what I expect from both of my parents growing up. They were always cognizant of the world around them, and masters of not just figuring things out, but of noting and measuring the world around them for the sheer joy of it. There was no grand reason why my dad had to know that mallard duck was flying at 45 miles per hour, other than his own pure, curiosity about the matter. They always encouraged this kind of curiosity among me and my brothers when we were growing up.

Somewhere around the 4th grade, I distinctly remember sitting outside at our picnic table, staring at the Moon with my mom’s Bushnell spotting scope she used for bird watching. It was, as far as I can remember, the first time I had ever looked through a telescope of any sort. I don’t know how or why I came to be out on that patio with that spotting scope; perhaps my mom suggested it, or maybe I got the idea from a picture of Galileo in my favorite book, National Geographic’s “Our Universe” by Roy Gallant.

[L] "Our Universe" by Roy Gallant (still one of my favorite books!)  [R] Galileo observing the Moon, from Gallant's book.

[L] “Our Universe” by Roy Gallant (still one of my favorite books!) [R] Galileo observing the Moon, from Gallant’s book.

Somehow, I ended up on the patio with my mom’s spotting scope, staring at the Moon. I was transfixed. I had seen pictures of the Moon, but I had never seen it up close, and personal. I wasn’t looking at some picture some astronaut had taken. I was seeing the Moon with my own eyes; light from every crater and mountaintop that night was funneled into my eye and burned into my brain.

My Mom's spotting scope.  This is the first telescope I ever looked at the sky with.

My Mom’s spotting scope. This is the first telescope I ever looked at the sky with.

What is so alluring about the sky? Galileo was not the first person to be fascinated with the sky, but he was the first person to see it up close. His first telescopes were poor ancestors of my mom’s spotting scope, but they let him see further than any human had ever seen. He too turned his telescope to the Moon, and on a summer’s night in 1609 beheld what I would see almost 400 years later. Not a smooth vista of alternating bright and dark shades, what you can see with your naked eye, but rather a wonderland of illuminated plains and soaring mountains dotted with a mind-boggling array of craters of various sizes, overlapping everything else. What he saw astonished him; the telescope challenged the conventional wisdom of the day, and presented Galileo with new mysteries and new ideas that had never occurred to him (or anyone else in the human race!). He found that Venus went through phases, just like the Moon. He discovered four brilliant points of light orbiting Jupiter — the Jovian Moons, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto; they were the first worlds to be discovered in the collective memory of our species. He discovered that Saturn had a ring, though his telescopic view was poor enough he did not understand it as such; “Saturn has ears,” he wrote. When he turned his telescope to the darkened sky, he found that it revealed stars that could not be seen with the naked eye, and that the Milky Way was not a diffuse band of light, but was comprised of an uncounted multitude of stars, each casting a little bit of light toward the Earth.  Galileo published his astonishing discoveries in the spring of 1610, in a book called Sidereus Nuncius (“The Starry Messenger”; you can view a digital copy of the book here).

Those views were the beginning of a journey, for Galileo and for millions of others who came after him, gazing skyward through telescopes and dreaming about what lay beyond the cerulean boundary of the sky. Astronomy with your eyeballs is awe-inspiring, astonishing, mind-boggling, and soul nourishing all at once. But for some of us, myself included, there is still a dimly lit corner of my heart that longs to go to the places I can see — to touch the sands of Mars, bound down mountainsides on the Moon, and gaze skyward to see our home the Earth suspended against the velvet of night. I would dearly love to touch the Cosmos, up close and personal. As it turns out, I can, at least in small part.

In the Sky Pavilion of the Adler Planetarium, they have a vast display about our homeworlds — giant planets hanging overhead, large displays with all the wondrous facts our telescopes and robotic emissaries have revealed, a full size model of the Curiosity rover (about the size of a Mini Cooper!). It’s an awesome place to lose yourself.

The Solar System Gallery, in the Sky Pavilion of the Adler Planetarium.

The Solar System Gallery, in the Sky Pavilion of the Adler Planetarium.

Off to one side, they have a large, metallic meteorite — a 1000 pound chunk of nickel and iron, a fragment of the 150 foot wide meteorite that impacted in Arizona 50,000 years ago and created the Barringer Meteor Crater. Now I’ve seen plenty of meteors in my museum wanderings, but I still like to touch them, to feel them under the palm of my hands and knowing that this thing came from outer space! But the other day, while I was caressing the fragment from the Barringer meteor, I noticed a trio of other displays that hadn’t captured my attention before.

A fragment of the nickel-iron meteorite that struck in Arizona, creating the Barringer Meteor Crater.

A fragment of the nickel-iron meteorite that struck in Arizona, creating the Barringer Meteor Crater.

The first held two fragments of asteroids. Fragments I could touch. One came from Vesta, the third largest asteroid in the asteroid belt. The other came from Ceres, the first minor body discovered in the solar system between the orbit of Mars and Jupiter. Once considered an “asteroid”, astronomers now call Ceres a “dwarf planet”, in the same league as our much maligned favorite child of the Sun, Pluto. There has been much talk recently of a human mission to an asteroid, and many have dreamed of mining the asteroids for the untapped riches they may hold (see John Lewis’ excellent book, “Mining the Sky”). It seems unlikely that I will be selected for one of those missions, if they ever occur. But there I stood, in downtown Chicago, touching an asteroid none the less.

Four pieces of rock from the far side of the sky, which you can touch at the Adler Planetarium. [Upper L] A piece of Vesta. [Upper R] A piece of Ceres.  [Lower L] A piece of the Moon. [Lower R] A piece of Mars.

Four pieces of rock from the far side of the sky, which you can touch at the Adler Planetarium. [Upper L] A piece of Vesta. [Upper R] A piece of Ceres. [Lower L] A piece of the Moon. [Lower R] A piece of Mars.

A bit farther on, there is a fragment from the Moon. A fragment I could touch. Humans have not been to the Moon for 41 years; only 382 kg of lunar material was brought back from the Moon. But there I stood, in downtown Chicago, touching a rock from the surface of the Moon.

A little farther on from that, there is a fragment from Mars. A fragment I could touch. Humans have never visited Mars, though as you are reading this, our emissaries Opportunity and Curiosity are roving the surface of Mars, sampling the air and testing the rocks, rolling ever onward toward their distant horizons. Our robots have carried sophisticated laboratories with them, and have taught us much about the rusty rocks and soil of Mars by doing experiments in situ, on Mars. But there I stood, in downtown Chicago, touching a rock from the surface of Mars.

Four fragments of rock from the far side of the sky, from the four closest worlds to Earth that I could imagine humans visiting in my lifetime. Four close worlds that I could reasonably (though perhaps improbably) be able to visit before I drink my last Slurpee at the ripe old age of 107. Touching rocks from the far side of the sky really speaks to the explorer buried deep inside me.

One of my friends from graduate school once used as his signature file the words of an ancient Hawaiian chant:

E `a`a `ia makou e ho`okele hou. `A`ohe halawai ma`o oa aku.
(We are challenged to sail once again. No horizon is too distant.)

The vast blue frontier of the Pacific Ocean.

The vast blue frontier of the Pacific Ocean.

Hearing the chant roll through the back corners of my mind, I imagine the unbridled joy of the ancient Polynesians, setting out into the trackless blue waters of the Pacific, not knowing where they may make landfall, but only knowing that if they pressed on far enough, they would.

Were there new lands to discover and settle? Perhaps. Would there be fertile landscapes to provide sustenance and security to a family or a village? Perhaps. Would there be other denizens of the Earth, willing to trade the products of their livelihood for the products of yours in a mutually beneficial economy? Perhaps. But I don’t like to think that’s why they sailed the seas.

The far side of the sky, like the wide blue ocean, promises something much more than distant, undiscovered lands — something valuable beyond measure. Grandeur. There is something to be said for the discovery and exploration of beautiful places. It’s good for the spirit.

Time to go exploring again. 🙂

NOTE: I confess to quoting the line about grandeur from the HBO miniseries, “From the Earth to the Moon”, Episode 10: “Galileo Was Right.” It is my most favorite episode of that entire series. Go watch it now.

The Secret of Life

by Shane L. Larson

I have wide ranging and eclectic musical tastes. My iPod spins up Chris LeDoux, AC/DC, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Dead Milkmen, Lisa Hannigan, The Clumsy Lovers, Usher, and Mojo Nixon in rapid succession and with reckless abandon.  Every now and then, there are some gravitational waveform sounds that spin through too (hear gravitational wave sounds at LIGO;  be sure to click “Listen” on each of the pages!).  Among my favorite tunes is a song by the indefatigable Faith Hill, called “The Secret of Life.”  The point in the song is that there is no secret to life, but my favorite part of the song is that “the secret to life is in Sam’s martinis.”  I’ve never had one of Sam’s martinis; for that matter, I don’t even know who Sam the Bartender is.  But I can imagine the diaphanous joy that Sam’s special flair with the gin and twist must bring to one’s palette. Mostly because I too have had special moments where the simple sensory interface of taste has produced a moment of pure joy (you should try my wife’s Kale Soup).

As a scientist, I am often prone to holding the viewpoint that there is no question that science cannot answer — it is an awesome tool for exploring our connection to the Cosmos.  And so, with the dulcet tones of Faith Hill ringing in my ears, I find myself pondering: what is the secret of life? Can science tell us what the secret of life is?  This is a brilliant question that a large fraction of the human race would like to know the answer to!  But it illustrates one of the most important points about science: you have to know what the question means!  What are you really interested in when you ask a question, and does that question reflect that innermost desire of your curiosity?

“What is the secret of life?” could mean many things.  Maybe the question is about the origin of life.  Imagine a collection of atoms, derived from the primordial hydrogen that formed in the Big Bang, reprocessed through the ravenous nuclear appetite of stars.  At what moment do those atoms come together and suddenly become aware?  This is a question that science does not have an answer for, but there are tantalizing suggestions from a famous investigation called the Miller-Urey Experiment, conducted at the University of Chicago in 1952.  The gases of the primordial Earth’s atmosphere were sparked with lightning, just as in the early days of of our planet.  The result is the easy production of amino acids, the building blocks of all the proteins that make up all the living organisms on Earth.  It is not life itself, but it is the stuff of life.

The Miller-Urey experiment (schematic, left) is simple enough to be built of common laboratory equipment. Stanley Miller, sparking the experiment with a Tesla coil (right).

The Miller-Urey experiment (schematic, left) is simple enough to be built of common laboratory equipment. Stanley Miller, sparking the experiment with a Tesla coil (right).

“What is the secret of life?” could be asking how is it that life sustains itself. This was once a great mystery, but it is a secret science has wrested from Nature.  In the fine details of different organisms, the exact process is different, but the mechanism and outcome is the same. Large complex molecules (like sugars and carbohydrates) are broken by chemical processes in your body.  The breaking of chemical bonds, breaking big molecules down into smaller molecules, releases energy.  This entire process is generically called cellular respiration, and it is what makes living organisms go.

Glycolysis, whereby sugar (glucose) is broken down into energy. The energy released in this process manufactures high energy compounds like adenosine triphosphate (ATP), which carries energy to all of your cells.

Glycolysis, whereby sugar (glucose) is broken down into energy. The energy released in this process manufactures high energy compounds like adenosine triphosphate (ATP), which carry energy to all of your cells.

More often than not when people ask “what is the secret of life?” they are asking “what can I do to be happy?”  Interestingly, this is almost a question that science can answer.  To put a finer point on the question, one could ask “under what conditions do people think they are happy?”  Dan Gilbert and his colleagues at Harvard have studied this extensively (watch his great TED lecture on this), and the answer seems to be that your brain is a fantastic machine for synthesizing happiness.  Take his advice seriously: do not ever become a drummer for the Beatles.

As a university professor, I often suggest to my students that the secret to life is to do what makes you happy.  They sit down in my office, earnest in their uncertainty, desperate to please their parents, desperate to do well in school, and desperate to make a good life for themselves.  I tell them, “Do what makes you happy.”  Whatever you decide to do, pick something that makes you want to jump out of bed and live your life every day. Don’t just have a job to go to work.  You don’t want to be Elton John’s Rocketman, where all that science you don’t understand is just your job five days a week.  Have a job that gives you joy, so when you close your eyes at night you don’t dwell on being downtrodden.  When you decide how to live your life, you have to decide what the secret of life for you will be. And it will be different for everyone!

What is the secret of life for me?  I wake up every morning wanting to be stupefied with awe.  That’s why I’m a scientist, because every day the Cosmos stupefies me with awe — awe at its simplicity, at its mystery, and its unending delight in being knowable and unknowable all wrapped up in one package.  My days are filled with playful riddling, noodling my brain around puzzlers that Nature has happily created and left for some random atoms called humans to figure out.  Our playful game of confusion, discovery, elation, and renewed mystery fires me every day.

Why do I look through telescopes? Why do I keep building bigger telescopes?  Because I am stupefied with awe every time I gaze deep into the sky at the faint glow of the Veil Nebula.  Stupefied with awe at the fact that I am staring at the echo of a star’s death, light that began its journey toward Earth more than 8,000 years ago, before the beginning of recorded human history.

Preparing for a night of stargazing (left). A view of the Veil Nebula (NGC 6992, right), typical of what is seen through a telescope like that shown on the left.

Preparing for a night of stargazing (left). A view of the Veil Nebula (NGC 6992, right), typical of what is seen through a telescope like that shown on the left.

The power of the Cosmos to move people in this way is nothing new.  There are likely thousands of stories about people moved in their cores by deep contemplations of the Universe and our place in it.  Let me tell you one story, about a retired Sears Roebuck executive-turned-philanthropist named Max Adler. When he retired, Adler had heard of a new device, built by the Carl Zeiss Company in Germany, that could project a realization of the night sky on the interior of a darkened dome.  In 1928, he made a trip to see the device in action.  The visions of the night sky beguiled Adler, and he made a dedicated effort to construct the first planetarium in the Western Hemisphere.  In May of 1930, the Adler Planetarium was opened in Chicago, on the shores of Lake Michigan.  For Adler, the planetarium was a symbol to remind us that we are all part of one Universe.  He said, “In our reflections, we dwell too little upon the concept that the world and all human endeavor within it are governed by established order and too infrequently upon the truth that under the heavens everything is interrelated, even as each of us to the other.”  A different, and profound secret of life — we are the Cosmos, and the Cosmos is us.

[left panel] Max Adler with Dr. Oskar von Miller (L) and Ernest A. Grunsfeld (R) at the Deutsches Museum in Munich, where Adler first saw the Zeiss projector in action.  [center panel] The Adler Planetarium on opening day, 12 May 1930.  [right panel] The Adler Planetarium today.

[left panel] Max Adler with Dr. Oskar von Miller (L) and Ernest A. Grunsfeld (R) at the Deutsches Museum in Munich, where Adler first saw the Zeiss projector in action. [center panel] The Adler Planetarium on opening day, 12 May 1930. [right panel] The Adler Planetarium today.

The Adler Planetarium is one of the oldest and most venerable institutions for connecting people to the Cosmos in the world.  Every day, you can walk its halls and be stupefied with awe.  This week, in Chicago, they named a new president for the Adler, the ninth in an unbroken chain of leaders dedicated to beguiling people with the wonders of the Cosmos.  I’ve had the chance to talk with the new President, Michelle Beauvais Larson (President’s Page at the Adler), and must say I am beguiled by her optimism and passion for the future.  For her, the secret of life, her passion, is to do great good, and the way to do great good is to encourage people to think big thoughts. “The future of society lies in the education and imagination of its people,” she says.  Astronomy is a vehicle to inspire deep thinking; it is difficult to look deep into the Cosmos and not be struck by a sense of looking into the grandest of secrets.

Michelle Beauvais Larson, the ninth leader of the Adler Planetarium.

Michelle Beauvais Larson, the ninth leader of the Adler Planetarium.

So rejoice in the simple pleasure of seeing the world around you — sunlight sparkling through the drip of rain off your eaves, a cat’s instinctive passion for slaughtering shoelaces, the disconcerting mystery of Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, a child’s innocent delight with coins spinning on the floor, the full Moon rising over the city as everyone bustles home to their lives and families.  The secret of life is that we are self-aware and curious.  As collections of sentient atoms, as the Cosmos made self-aware, we can take in the world around us and revel in the simple joy of awareness and discovery, but indulge our passions and strive to comprehend.  It happens to every one of us; if it didn’t there wouldn’t be libraries, or Wikipedia, or museums and planetaria, or magazines devoted to cross stitching, or kits for building your own guitar, or telescopes you can own and set up in your own backyard.  We are wired to see and think about and rejoice in life.

In the end, I think the secret of life is not “nothing at all,” as Faith Hill concludes.  The secret of life is everything around you.  Close your laptop, turn up the music, look around, and indulge yourself.