Ah! Springtime in Vermont! A friend recently asked me this question: What was the most beautiful thing you experienced in the last two weeks? I was stumped for a while. But then I thought of one night when I just happened to notice that the sky looked like it was simply exploding with stars, and it was so overwhelming that they seemed to speak right out loud, just to me. “Look up, look up, you ole fool. It’s us, millions and millions of us diamonds in the sky.” I knew I had found my answer.

Some of you may know that my home is on its own point at the edge of an open meadow, far away from the noise of a busy world. The house, which was originally a “cottage getaway” for vacationing New Yorkers, was built in 1905; it is 111 years old this year. And the best part is most of it is unchanged. It is, of course, winterized, but it retains all the original flooring, ceilings, and beams, a rubble fireplace, and a wraparound screen porch.

There are spirits within these walls, too. I suspect they belong to those who lived here before me, and there were several. You will have to trust me on this: I know they are here because I can sense them from time to time, and they were particularly vocal when the house was undergoing physical change. I know that sounds batty; and as a big skeptic myself, I agree. Still there are times...

Anyway, the reason I mention these spirits is because in pausing to reflect on beauty, that same meadow next to my house, which is bordered by several acres of woods and swamp, cathedrals of pine and cedar, and an old apple orchard, is flush with wildflowers, milkweed, and tall grasses and is home to a multitude of animals. And it is also filled with spirits. How do I know? Because I found some fairy houses in the woods (but that’s another story).

Well, out there in the meadow is an old Adirondack chair, which I often sit in by myself when I come home from a night out, especially on a starry night. And I look up and listen.

On a clear night, the stars light up the sky, and they seem to form a blanket, which I like to think is right over me. I am always mesmerized by their beauty and contemplate the concept of infinity. But on some nights, there seems to be just one or two or even several stars twinkling brighter than the others, and it’s then that I start talking out loud. Words come gushing out as I speak to those stars. I know you’re thinking, perhaps she’s had a few too many glasses of wine. But no, this also happened when I was a young child.

You see, sometimes my father would find me outside on the steps gibbering to the stars. When he and my mother saw that I knew how to let myself out and I wasn’t going to run away, then they listened to me through an open window. After a while my father would yell, “Hey, Missy [his nickname for me], you git in here. Got school tomorrow, ya know. What the heck. Who you talking to out there anyway?” He later told me he could hear me saying, “Hello, stars. You are so beautiful. I think I could touch you.” He would scoop me up and bring me inside. Mom wasn’t too happy about my nocturnal conversations with the stars, but they never stopped.

Now many years have passed, and Dad and Mom are long gone, but I still talk to the stars. When I began to lose close friends, most recently my brother Brad and last week my oldest pal, Andy (both whom I was close to), I would go out into the meadow and look up. And when I am sure that one or more stars are blinking back toward me, I imagine that each is one of their spirits, and it’s then I tell them how missed and loved they are; that when my time comes, I hope my star will be up there, too, and will find them, and that my star will bind with theirs. I know this sounds wacky.

But somehow I find comfort and extraordinary beauty in the entire process. Perhaps, it has something to do with this being a very human, intimate, and personal experience with otherworldliness, briefly embracing the possibility, that it just might be true.

Sue Gillis is