Stars

After the ignition of the Big Bang nearly 14 billion years ago, the universe was nothing more than a white-hot cloud of protons and electrons drifting into space. It was an inferno that would remain that way for 380,000 years before eventually cooling down enough to allow those basic elements to stick to one another whenever they collided. The accidental impacts would create the first hydrogen atoms that later formed the hearts of stars, and much later still, the hearts of you and me.

Not every one of those electrons found a new home, though. The universe expanded so quickly that some never connected with an available proton. They ended up drifting aimlessly into what we think of as dark, empty space. But it isn’t empty at all. It is filled with those lonely leftover particles that never became stars.

When we look up at the night sky, it’s always the stars that spark our imagination. They represent less than 4% of the observable universe but get 100% of our attention. We are fascinated by stars, not only those we find in space but the ones that live among us here on Earth.

I saw a thread on Twitter the other day from someone who was questioning the casting decisions of Hollywood and television. They wondered when being famous, formerly famous, or infamous became a requirement for any actor who wanted a job these days. I didn’t check the tweeter's bio to see if they were a disgruntled performer airing their frustration, but I understood what they meant. The deference given to stars is no longer limited to stage or screen. It has become almost mandatory for just about every profession and for many of life’s pursuits.

Most CEOs were barely known until Jack Welch and Lee Iacocca showed them that being a celebrity executive was far more lucrative than actually doing their job. This quickly spread to the legal, medical, technology, and science communities where stars are revered, even when their work and skills are not. Famous chefs, fitness trainers, and real housewives get six-figure books deals while talented, unknown writers toil away in obscurity. Some of the most brilliant people I know have given TedTalks that few have seen, while famous “thought leaders” spread bad, outdated, or unsupported science to millions of viewers on the very same platform.

None of it may seem fair, but that is the appeal of stars. They shine so brightly against dark, unassuming backgrounds that they become impossible to ignore.

There is an exception to that, however. Two, in fact.

In March or September of most years, if you travel as far north as say Alaska, Iceland, or the Laplands of Scandinavia, or south to Tasmania, New Zealand, or Antarctica, you will see a light show in the sky more magnificent than any star has ever performed. For those who have witnessed an aurora, it is an encounter they will never forget. Watching the ghostly green luminescence sway above your head, undulating like a sheet in the wind, as it changes colors to pink, then violet, then white, then back to green again will take your breath away. There is nothing in nature like it and nothing any star could ever match.

The irony, of course, is that auroras occur when those forgotten electrons—the ones that failed to become stars—combine with oxygen in the atmosphere at just the right time, in just the right place and find their voice. Those tiny, unremarkable particles working together to do things their larger celestial cousins cannot.

As our culture continues to become more enamored by stars, I hope organizations take notice of auroras. They are reminders that when you give the undistinguished and lesser-known among us just a little bit of space and oxygen and a climate that can regulate their moves, spectacular things can happen.