I gaze at the vast, dark, velvety skies punctuated by glittering constellations

travels freely. It is inspiring to think that, by tomorrow, it will have spanned the earth, crossing hemispheres. And even though I feel winter drawing in, with this daily practice, the earth beyond feels closer, our shared humanity and the greater community interconnected. The earth feels within touching distance.

Walking is part of my daily rhythm and routine, whatever the season. When I am out in the fields with my collie Maude, leaning into the wind, my eyes naturally turn to the skies. I navigate by the weather, the sunlight and the clouds. When it hails, the mountains gleam. At dusk, shapes pixelate, sheep trails blur and shadows deepen.

The season awakens a desire to gather. In the gloaming, I enjoy hosting gatherings with friends around an ancient limestone circle of rocks on the hill of the croft. We each bring a dish – soup, stew or homemade bread, something we can warm over a fire – or we cook together, sharing freshly caught fish or jacket potatoes in foil, with butter and crowdie, a soft local cheese. We wrap up in blankets, singing and softly beating drums as the moon rises. Often, in the stillness after, it feels as if the universe is listening. In the silence, I sense a presence that is inspiring, comforting and reassuring.

On winter nights, I often sit out with Maude, gazing at the vast, dark, velvety skies punctuated by glittering constellations. When I am stargazing, I take a homemade oil lamp – a soft-burning taper – to irradiate the darkness. It lessens night vision fatigue and reflects my outline in Maude’s amber eyes. Its low light draws that immense space of universe closer. I might take a simple red bicycle light in my pocket, too – its glow catches the ocean rippling away to the edge of the sky. It makes me feel small, childlike.