For the past few weeks I’ve been thinking about the phenomenon known as ‘planetary wobble.’ It’s something I read about years ago, but it recently resurfaced in my mind. Also known as stellar wobble, it is the way that scientists measure distant stars- by detecting the back-and-forth movement of the star caused by the gravitational pull of a nearby planet. The star is “dancing in response to its unseen companion.”
The article I read on orbitalxploartion said that sometimes this wobble can lead to strange anomalies; planets orbiting backwards, worlds spinning in circles around two stars, planets being scorched by their stars. I find this explanation fascinating, and relatable. Well, kind of.
In my universe things tend to feel the opposite.
Steve returned home a few weeks ago after four months away working. When he’s away for months at a time I feel a bit like like a spinning top that is just starting to lose it’s momentum. The top isn’t at risk of falling quite yet, but every so often it’s axis shifts and it does some weird erratic rotations before regaining it’s equilibrium. I am a star whose planet is too far away for it’s gravitational pull to be felt. I remain upright and spinning but definitely have moments of intense wobble. I do, at times, feel like I am spinning backwards.
But when we are together I feel steady.
When I went down to KK to meet Steve, someone commented that I must have been getting excited. I brushed it off by saying that I try not to get excited until he’s passed immigration, before that there are too many hurdles in the way. But that’s only partially true. I realized that don’t get a building sense of nervousness or excitement when he’s coming home. Don’t get me wrong, I am definitely looking forward to seeing him again. It’s just that when I see him all that wobbly energy subsides. Almost instantly. It’s not just because I know he’ll be there to help when equipment breaks down or when the weather pipes up or to catch me if when I stumble.
His nearness just calms me, it always has.
The motion of the stars experiencing planetary wobble are “recorded in light waves stretched and squeezed over years of observation. It’s quiet. It’s slow. But it’s unmistakable.” I find this observation particularly interesting because while taking a writing class many years ago, I wrote about the first time I met Steve in Thailand in 2002.
“I was running out of money while backpacking in SE Asia and had heard about a 50-meter luxury motor sailing yacht who were looking for a junior stewardess. With all my youthful confidence, and naivety, decided I was perfect for the job. I could tie a bowline, tell port from starboard, make a bed with hospital corners, and lay a table with more than one set of cutlery. The rest, I figured, I could learn along the way.
Steve, who had brought the vessel from Australia as ships Engineer, was sent ashore to pick me up for my interview. When we got back to the ship, I stood to get out of the dinghy, but my slim, knee-length skirt prevented me from taking a confident leap across to the boarding platform. Sensing my hesitation, Steve smiled reassuringly and offered his hand, extending it to me palm up, as if asking me to dance. I accepted. His skin was soft for a man who worked with his hands, and his touch firm but gentle. Despite the two boats moving against each other in the wind chop, I felt safe with him holding onto me. I stepped confidently onto the boarding platform and made my way up the stairs to my interview, and new job.
Our romance didn’t start until we reached Singapore, many weeks, and thousands of miles under the keel later, but that one touch quietened something inside me. A wobble in my orbit I never noticed before steadied.”
So, here we are, 24 years later. Immediate future plans are still a little up in the air, but for now we are back onboard and settling back into our regular rotations.
Love,
H&S
