I think humans have always felt watched back by whatever is out

“I think humans have always felt watched back by whatever is out there flickering in the distance. What excites me is what the imagination creates, not simply in explanation of what is there but also to explain or justify the feeling of awe and attachment that the heavens inspire.” Thus spoke Tracy K. Smith, poet of the cosmos, whose words seek to bridge the space between science and soul, between the infinite stars and the fragile heart of humankind. In this luminous reflection, she touches upon one of the oldest and deepest truths of our species — that we are not merely observers of the universe, but participants in its mystery. When we look to the heavens, something within us looks back. The flickering stars do not only illuminate the night sky; they awaken the imagination, stirring in us a sacred wonder that has shaped both our myths and our understanding of existence.

To feel watched back by the stars — what a thought both humbling and divine! Since the dawn of consciousness, humanity has looked upward and sensed a presence. The ancients called it gods, spirits, destiny, or fate — unseen forces dwelling among the constellations. The modern mind may name it cosmic order, or the unknown, yet the feeling remains the same. It is that shiver of awe when we gaze into the night and realize how small we are, and yet how deeply connected we feel to everything that exists. This is what Smith calls the “feeling of awe and attachment that the heavens inspire.” It is the same awe that once compelled shepherds, sailors, and sages to raise their eyes and ask not only what is out there, but why they feel drawn to it.

Tracy K. Smith, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and former U.S. Poet Laureate, has long explored the bond between the cosmic and the human. In her collection Life on Mars, written partly in honor of her father — who worked on the Hubble Space Telescope — she contemplates the mysteries of creation and the vastness of the unknown. Yet she reminds us that the imagination, not science alone, gives these mysteries meaning. For even as we study the stars and map their motions, there remains a part of us that seeks not data but revelation. The imagination transforms cold light into divine flame, distant planets into mirrors of our longing, and the endless void into a home for the soul.

The ancients, too, lived within this sacred dialogue between wonder and imagination. Consider the people of Babylon, who gazed at the same heavens and discerned there the patterns of gods. They named the planets after their deities and read the stars for omens, believing the cosmos to be alive with will and wisdom. Or the philosophers of Greece, who saw in the motion of the heavens the music of harmony — the “music of the spheres,” as Pythagoras called it. Though our science has since stripped away these divine figures, the feeling of awe remains. The difference between then and now is not the stars themselves, but the stories we tell to make sense of them. As Smith says, it is not just about explaining “what is there,” but about justifying the feeling — the imagination’s way of responding to the eternal gaze of the cosmos.

This idea — that the universe is both real and reflected through our imagination — is one that unites all ages. When Galileo turned his telescope to the heavens, he shattered the old beliefs of his time, yet even he spoke of wonder. He saw mountains on the moon, moons around Jupiter, and realized that the heavens were not unchanging perfection, but alive with movement. Still, his imagination gave these discoveries purpose; he saw not just objects, but the grand architecture of creation. Likewise, when modern scientists probe the mysteries of dark matter or distant galaxies, their instruments may reveal facts, but it is the imagination that reveals meaning. It is the same impulse that drove the poets of every age to sing of stars as though they were listening gods.

Tracy K. Smith’s words remind us that this creative response — this act of imagination — is not mere fantasy. It is the soul’s way of making sense of awe. When we are moved by beauty, we seek to transform it, to speak it, to honor it. The poet, the painter, the dreamer — all are answering that ancient feeling of being “watched back.” And in their works, the stars are reborn as words, colors, and dreams. The imagination, then, becomes humanity’s sacred dialogue with the cosmos: a bridge between what we see and what we feel. Without it, the universe would be silent; with it, the universe sings.

The lesson, then, is this: never lose your sense of awe, and never silence your imagination in the face of mystery. The heavens do not demand explanation — they invite participation. When you look at the stars, allow yourself to feel that invisible gaze, that attachment which binds you to all that exists. Let your imagination answer back, not with fear or certainty, but with wonder — through art, through reflection, through reverence. For it is through imagination that we make the universe not just a place we inhabit, but a presence we belong to.

Thus, as Tracy K. Smith teaches, the true miracle is not only that we gaze upon the stars, but that we feel them gazing upon us. The imagination is our reply to that silent gaze — our way of saying, “We see you too.” And in that eternal exchange between the human soul and the infinite heavens lies the highest expression of what it means to be alive.