“For now we see
through a glass; darkly” (1 Corinthians 13:13)
I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking
about averted vision of late.
Although I can’t remember a time when I
haven’t been interested in astronomy, the universe, the planets, space travel,
etc., I’ve only been really active in the hobby since the summer of ’09. So I
can still easily remember how difficult it was for me to make out Deep Sky Objects (DSOs) that
others around me kept telling me were bright and obvious. Turns out there were
two factors at work here, preventing me from seeing things that everyone else
was claiming were practically leaping out of the eyepiece.
First, I needed to learn just how objects
actually looked through a telescope. Part of the problem (especially in this
post-Hubble era) is that we’re all accustomed to admiring wonderfully colorful
and detailed images of the far places of the universe, and our expectations are
skewed. We look at the Andromeda Galaxy and expect to see great spiral arms and
dust lanes, when all we can actually see is a soft, basically featureless glow
of oblong shape. We observe the Ring Nebula and think we’re going to see some
splashy object resembling the last rainbow we saw after a thunderstorm, instead
of the tiny, grayish smoke ring that greets us (somewhat grudgingly) in the
eyepiece.
And there’s the training process itself.
I’ve been having a lot of fun of late comparing the sketches I made during the
2010 Mars opposition with those of two, and then four years later. It’s amazing how much more
detailed my observations were the second and third times around. In 2010, I considered
myself lucky to make out the polar cap, and maybe a dark smudge or two on the
disk itself. But my later drawings were crammed full of identifiable surface
features that actually matched up with what the simulations told me I should
have been seeing. Mars wasn’t any larger in the eyepiece in 2012, or 2014, and the
seeing certainly wasn’t any better. But my brain was. I knew how to see, and so
I did.
The second factor was more subtle –
averted vision. I now realize how frustrating I must have been to the kind
people helping me out in that first year of serious observing, as they
patiently explained to me where I was supposed to be looking when observing,
say, the Crab Nebula - that is, if I actually wanted to see something. (By the
way, thank you, guys, for your infinite patience and the valuable time you took
with me. I will be forever grateful.) We stargazers have to overcome a lifetime
of habit formed in the daylight. We naturally assume that the best way to see
something is to look at it. Straight at it. So when we’re showing some visitor
to a public star party a relatively faint DSO, no matter what we say they have
to fight against the most powerful instincts, telling them that if they just
stared more intently at the center of the field of view, they’d finally see the
galaxy or whatever it is that we’ve got in the eyepiece.
The “gotcha” moment for me came when I
happened to ask Dwane, who was set up next to me at a Carrs Mill Park
impromptu, “What is this Blinking Planetary” (NGC 6826) I see in my star
atlas?” He obligingly swung his Light Bucket around and showed me, telling me
to look back and forth - first straight at the object, then off to one side,
repeatedly. Sure enough, the nebula “blinked” in and out of visibility as I did
so. Whenever I looked dead on, it disappeared! But as soon as I shifted my gaze
toward the edge of the field of view, there it was. It was the best one minute
tutorial possible.
Of course by now, using averted vision at
the eyepiece has become second nature to us “old hands”. We don’t even think
about it anymore, unless we’re explaining the concept to someone less
experienced. It’s become just another item in our observing toolkit. And that’s
fine, as far as it goes.
But as I said on the last page, I’ve been
thinking about this a bit - quite a bit. We are, after all, more than just amateur
astronomers (no matter how much time and money we spend on it). In our less
than ideal world, we unfortunately can’t spend all of our time at the eyepiece.
We do have to tear ourselves away from our scopes now and then and deal with
family, co-workers, neighbors, friends, even that less-than-helpful “customer
assistance rep” on the phone. I think it would behoove us all to examine our
occasional (or persistent) problems with people around us and figure out which
of them are “daylight” problems, and which are “dark sky” ones. For the
daylight issues, looking them straight in the eye is usually the best and most
appropriate course of action. But how many of our fights, misunderstandings,
personality conflicts, etc., are dark sky problems, best seen for what they
really are by using a sort of “averted vision”? Sometimes we need to stop
fixating on what’s pissing us off, and look off to the side - at the person
we’re dealing with. We may find that by putting them as a person at the edge of our field of view, we can’t see the root
issue of whatever is troubling us at all. But if we look aside for a moment,
and see the other person as a person, the solution to that elusive conflict may
just suddenly “blink” into view, and the way through it become as clear as the
Crab Nebula on a really good night, with our gaze firmly fixed away from the
object itself.
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