In 1977 we named a probe Voyager 1
and launched it into space,
outward,
toward Jupiter.
That was the year I was born.
On board were magnetometers,
spectrometers,
a record of humanity's achievements,
the music of Mozart and Beethoven,
a note from Jimmy Carter.
A child then,
I saw the launch as unshakably hopeful
and watched as
Voyager 1 transmitted from the gas giants
and was slingshotted outward,
toward the stars.
Today, as voyager finally reaches
outside the influence
of our sun,
it will meet a darkness
that might as well be eternal:
in forty thousand years,
long after its reactor has stopped,
it can finally outdistance
the closest star in the firmament.
An adult now,
I find myself more and more looking
inward,
toward a self that opens with
the seeming infinitude of space.
Perhaps it only seems that way.
One day,
soon enough in the scheme of things,
Voyager 1 will be reencountered
by some progeny of ours --
not as an instrument of exploration,
but as a cultural artifact --
and the contents of that golden record
will be the subject of seminars
on our selves.