“Discourse on Home”, an Essay (Original Short Story — January 2015)

Earth is lost.

It still feels surreal to admit it out loud. We were all forced to leave before the actual end, and so no living soul was left to witness the impact. Our minds know that she must be gone — destroyed, broken, what have you — but our poor mortal hearts haven’t accepted it yet. The birthplace of our entire species and all our history is forever stolen from us, and no human alive can fully comprehend it because we couldn’t see it happen.

Seeing is believing. Still true, even after all these centuries of trusting invisible subatomic particles to thrust us safely through space (and time). How can we blindly trust in the invisible, and yet deny what we know is inevitable? Did we really think that Earth would live forever, despite her gradually dying sun? Had we really placed all of our hopes on a finite sphere of water, air, and sediment?

…I must conclude that the answer is yes; we did. She gave us each a piece of her heritage, and we reciprocated. Earth belonged to us. We belonged to Earth. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? How can we ever replace that planet of our genesis?

Please pardon this emotional aside. I can only assume that this deeply-set sense of loss will belong to this generation alone, and that our future descendants will be born on some other place which they call “home”. Or what if they learn to have no planetary attachment at all? Perhaps, in fact, it would be better if the latter became true. Our children may become not stubbornly devoted inhabitants, but temporary tenants with the nomadic spirit, ready to move on when the time comes. Truly, we would be a more resilient species then.

But who could live without falling in love with their new Earth? Even a world half as good to us as Earth was would be too beautiful to let go. How could anyone leave without looking back? Could we force ourselves, as we are trying to do now? Is it better to have loved and lost? Or is it better to have never loved at all?

A better question: can we even stay ourselves from loving our new home?

It was in that spirit — the spirit of loving this new planet that we have carefully identified and chosen to claim — that I designated the mountain to the north of our first landing zone as Everest. I had only hoped to soothe the shock we all seem to be feeling by alluding to this alien world’s similarities to our beloved Earth, and I had only expected it to be the one exception to an otherwise fresh, new start on this young planet.

But they are running with it. Four 29-hour days have gone by, and the mapmakers already refer to the area south of Everest as Nepal, and the area northward as Tibet. The large island, due south of our first base-camp, has been officially marked Sri Lanka, and this continent, though much smaller than the original, bears the weighty name of Asia.

The cartographic relevance of these names will, no doubt, be disputed — but no colonist here seems to mind the familiar phrases. Coincidentally, our preliminary orbital scans even confirm our new Mount Everest as the highest land point above sea level. The serendipity feels strangely reassuring.

Consequent to this news, more than a dozen of our number have volunteered to hike the virgin mountain immediately, heedless of the fact that there is simply no support system yet in place. It has taken all of my administrative power to restrain them, actually — the last thing any of us want is to have to scramble a rescue mission and risk fatalities to hypothermia or accident on our first community landmark. But their enthusiasm shows that they are willing to accept it as a new icon, or homage to the Earth for which we have mourned. Voluntary proposals have already been submitted for the christening of two nearby rivers as the Tigris and the Euphrates, as well as names for countless other oceans, valleys, glaciers, geysers, canyons, and even plant and animal life. They all point back to Earth. They will ensure positive reinforcement of the idea that We Will Never Forget — a better promise than perpetual grief can give.

But there is one name we cannot reuse. No, not anyone here feels that the revered title of Earth should be given to this new planet. But then we have no name for her. Either out of respect, or maybe hope for a better name, the people of Earth are hesitating to decide for themselves. The star-pilots and the administrators have been avoiding the press and their persistent question: “What should we call this world?” 

It seems that nearly everyone is turning to me, as if I am full of poetically appropriate names. But the name of this planet, in all of its alien grandeur and strange new ways, escapes me. In the past, when naming a colony world, they took a vote. I am not opposed to the idea, but curiously enough, the people reject it. I don’t think they trust their neighbors to choose the correct name by majority vote, as if there could be a “correct” name for a world never before discovered. Who knows what would satisfy their expectations? But still, they want me to name their planet. 

The obvious choice is “New Earth”, but something tells me that my wife would not be happy with such a transparent evasion. She is one of the expectant crowds, even as she leans over my shoulder while I write. My wife just told me to erase that last sentence, by the way. Now she is upset that I am breaking character; but in all honesty, I’m not the king of this planet, and I shouldn’t ever be a king of anything. I don’t know what to call it. Joss suggested the name Bob. I like it. I think I’ll call it that, outside of public scrutiny.

Despite all of my flippancy and sarcasm, I do know that I have to provide something more, something honest, for our posterity before I dare to close my essay. The colonists of this and every future world may one day read it, thinking (a bit mistakenly) that my writing presents the keys of wisdom and the hopes of our entire humanity. All I mean to do is offer my personal and uncensored thoughts, but I intend to make it clear that I am accountable for no one’s vote but my own. Speaking frankly, you can take it or leave it.

This name is indeed an important thing, however. It is to be the name of a starting point, and the name of our place of healing as a breed of refugees. We cannot name it Earth. This world has already been consecrated to be so much more than another Earth. It is a place of rebirth, and not the true origin. Yet it will be the beginning for many countless human lives who will be raised here. 

I feel I must emphasize that this world will not be the final resting place or planet for all of humanity, so long as we can help it. We may someday leave this new world as well, when it is old. But I believe that this will be a healthy cycle. It will not feel natural to us, but it will be a part of nature. As the seasonal tree grows and every day struggles to survive, a sense of loss will naturally come when all of that cumulative effort is undone in death. It will be hard to leave that tree, with all of its gifts to us: the comfort that we felt in its shade, the fruit that it imparted without price, and the love that so many birds sang on its branches. Remember that death is a part of life, but life itself still goes on. Our new world carries the birthright of this truth. 

From another perspective, I cannot help but reflect on the name “Earth” itself. How and why were we ever so enamored by a name that meant “dirt”? I believe, in this case, that the title of Earth was used in the fundamental sense: earth, soil, rock; the elements that it was made of. 

And so whatever name we choose for this planet, if it be in the same legacy of our former home-world Earth, it should be elemental — or rather, elementary, essential, and basic. Something central to the idea of this, our new Home.