House of Stars

I am surrounded by stars.

Small ones, large ones. A glittering rainbow kaleidoscope of stars. Silver, gold, black, white, grey. Glow in the dark, pastel pale, neon bright, shimmering rushes of stars. Violet, aqua, copper, pearl white and midnight black. A hundred shades of pink, a thousand shades of blue, and everything in between. Some are monochromatic. Some are woven from wild color combinations, or cobbled from charming patterns. Cherry blossoms, plaids, hearts, raindrops, roses. Stars made of stars themselves. I dream in stars.

During the first months of the pandemic, when my childrens’ schools went to remote learning, my oldest daughter’s art teacher announced that the next unit would be origami. Scrolling through my phone to find origami paper, I was intrigued by a listing featuring tiny stars folded from long, printed strips of paper. When they arrived, I aggressively ignored them. Too complicated. Too frivolous. When would I have the time to learn a new craft? In between working from home, hand sewing masks from old clothes, lining up at food pantries, and managing my kids’ online classes?

But one sleepless night, there they were. Petal purple and mossy green, blush pink and fresh water blue, velvet leaves bending gently around newborn blossoms. The instructions on the back were not in a language I could read, but line drawings are as universal as curiosity.

My first attempt at folding the strip into what’s known as a “lucky star” was a lopsided, ungainly mess. It involves tying a knot at one end, and then pressing and folding your way along until you reach the other end, which is then cut or tucked into a previous fold. The second one was only marginally better, and I wondered if this was something more suited to youthful fingers.

But as another star took shape in my hands, I finally held something that looked like the example given. One of the hundreds of thousands pictured in rainbow arrays, or crystalline strata in wine bottles and mason jars. And here was mine, small but perfect.

Success is addictive, and before long, containers all over my kitchen were filling with little lucky stars. Whenever I had a moment, whenever I felt anxious about the future, whenever I listened to the Mayor’s daily briefing assuring us that yes, New York was going to get through this, I was cutting, folding, and pressing prayers for better days.

It wasn’t long before I discovered other types of paper stars, like Froebel stars. These three dimensional wonders were much more complicated, but so versatile. Snipping away the last step’s excess paper yielded strips for more stars in a virtuous cycle, producing colorful, accidental confetti that fluttered to the floor when I stood up. When stars began spilling over from their storage boxes, I strung them into mobiles, hoping they would swirl and sway little eyelids to sleep. The glow in the dark ones found their way into vintage milk bottles, a luminous beacon in a quiet kitchen.

And then more stars found their way from my hands. Origami stars, counterchanged like nautical stars, little pinwheels. Diamond stars, consuming a hearty eight sheets of paper, still delicate like snowflakes. Many pages were lost, crumpled in frustration or pushed away half-finished, holding their folds patiently while I went over and over directions that seemed impossibly complicated. But there are so many still out there waiting to be discovered. I’m still finding stars. Or perhaps, stars are still finding me.

But why? What about this particular craft made me so ardent about it? Prolific as I was in this endeavor, the stars that formed between my fingers weren’t particularly useful. They wouldn’t save a life, pay a bill, or fill a belly. And though I shared them with others, I began to realize that these stars were, and had always been, only for me. To light my own heart. To illuminate my own path. To shine on me through dark times until I could shine on my own. I made stars because I needed to make them, not because I needed to have them. Because in the making, is the magic.

With each angle pressed carefully into a crease, each strip twisted and pulled into a point, I was doing something. I was proving that life, however tenuous, however fragile, is indelible. For that one tiny moment, I was building the world, one star at a time. And I was learning that just the act of making something, anything, makes life better. It doesn’t matter what. There is always another star to follow the last, always another way to create, always another thing to learn.

Some of us write books, paint paintings, or compose music that’s remembered and celebrated for generations. Some people cook incredible meals that are gone in a flash, or create cherished baby clothes that will be outgrown in a month. If all I ever made were little paper stars, that was enough. Because it was something, in a world that sometimes felt like I couldn’t do anything. And in my little universe, there is always room for more stars.