We humans have always been starstruck.
Even as city light drowns the constellations, or our devices glow with synthetic dawn, place a person beneath an unpolluted sky and the same ancient gesture returns: the head tilts upward, the breath stills. From the beginning, we have searched the heavens for patterns that might explain ourselves—seeing in them not only distance, but connection.
Above Us, Celestine Crystals is an ode to that seeking.
A meditation on clarity, resonance, and chance—captured in matter drawn from the Earth but speaking to the sky. Each crystal a condensation of time, pressure, and intention; a reminder that what glimmers in your palm once shimmered in the dark bones of the planet.
Pondering resonance
With their lattice of atoms echoing the geometry of constellations, Celestine Crystals invite contemplation of the invisible: vibration, frequency, and the subtle dialogue between matter and light.
They are fragments of a cosmos still unfolding, each one a small lens through which infinity refracts.
To mark their arrival, we turn our gaze from the sky to the page—for it too has carried our wonder. From poets, physicists, and dreamers: a constellation of cosmic literature.
Cosmos — Carl Sagan
A hymn to existence itself. Sagan’s prose wanders between galaxies and garden soil, reminding us that “we are a way for the universe to know itself.” In the orbit of his words, curiosity becomes devotion.
To the Lighthouse — Virginia Woolf
A novel of consciousness written like moonlight on water—reflecting, fragmenting, returning. Beneath its domestic surface, Woolf composes a meditation on time, memory, and the gravitational pull of absence.
The Order of Time — Carlo Rovelli
What is a moment? Where does it go? Rovelli dissolves the clock into a mist of relativity and perception, showing that time—like crystal—is not fixed, but layered, fluid, refractive.
Astronomy for Dreamers — Mary Somerville
One of the first women to map the heavens with mathematics, Somerville wrote with both precision and awe. Her 19th-century notebooks feel timeless: scientific diagrams drifting into poetry.
When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer — Walt Whitman
Eight lines of rebellion against measurement. Whitman stands apart from the lecture hall, turns to the night, and lets silence become comprehension. The poem reminds us: the most accurate instrument is wonder.
Black Hole Blues — Janna Levin
A chronicle of the decades-long quest to hear the ripples of spacetime. Levin writes as both scientist and storyteller, following the building of LIGO—the world’s largest ear—listening for the sound of the universe remembering itself.
The Universe in a Hand — Tracy K. Smith
A poem that speaks of ancestry, dark matter, and tenderness—where the smallest gesture becomes cosmological. It closes with a truth fit for both science and spirit: “We are made of dust, but dust that dreamed.”
“The stars are not above us, but within us.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson