Looking Up tells the story of Caroline Herschel, a ground-breaking astronomer and role model for girls to imagine what lies beyond the horizon. Feels like a mini musical.
After a childhood spent looking up at the stars, Caroline Herschel was the first woman to discover a comet and to earn a salary for scientific research. Told in vibrant, evocative poems, Jeannine Atkins’ stunning novel “Grasping Mysteries: Girls Who Loved Math,” celebrates remarkable women who used math as their key to explore the mysteries of the universe and grew up to do innovative work that changed the world. The novel is an exploration not only of accomplishments but the resilient inner lives of women who struggled to navigate male-dominated fields.
At turns flowing, playful, and poignant, “Looking Up” follows Caroline Herschel through the travails of waiting to take her own turn at the telescope, teaching herself calculus, and finally making discoveries that helped make her the first female member of the Royal Astronomical Society.
The rich sensory detail in Atkins’ story of Caroline Herschel lends itself to choral presentation: “Winter offers long nights with more time/to sweep the sky, moving the telescope like a broom/meant to gather every star." Written for SATB and Piano, this composition of moderate difficulty presents a role model for girls to imagine what lies beyond the horizon.
7 min.
Looking Up
The night sky is brighter than the fire in the hearth
Where Caroline stirs mutton broth and roasts apples.
William gives Caroline a turn at the telescope.
Stars spill into pale blue, rose, and yellow pools of light.
What was always in the sky looks bigger,
Making her want to see even more,
Though she mustn’t seem greedy,
As if she dared take a second spoonful of jam.
After breakfast, Caroline copies numbers,
Keeping them strict and straight as a broomstick.
She classifies the shine and scale of stars,
Plans the next night’s schedule,
Where to aim the telescope, at what angle, and for how long.
Winter offers long nights with more time to sweep the sky,
Moving the telescope like a broom
She teaches herself calculus, which divides
Movement into smaller and smaller steps,
One night she sees a nebula, a milky cloud that’s not on any charts.
Another night she spots brilliance that wasn’t there yesterday.
A comet splits the darkness, giving a glimpse
Of the faraway, brushing gold behind.
In the morning, Caroline addresses an envelope
To the secretary of the Royal Astronomical Society.
She sharpens the tip of her quill,
“I venture to trouble you with the hope that my
Observation has merit.”
She notes the location of the comet in relation
To three numbered stars.
A few days later, she breaks the sealing wax on an envelope.
Dear Miss Caroline: Congratulations on the sighting,
Though I implore should you spot another,
Please hasten with such news. As you
Know, comets are named after those who first spot them,
Which in fact means an astronomer whose claim first reaches an official.
I fear this comet was first reported in France.
Next time, do not use the penny post.
Most mornings Caroline makes coffee,
Stokes the fire, stirs pudding.
She discovers more comets, trailing sprays of light, fading like memories at the edges.
Night ends day, each with a new chance to behold what’s beyond.