edgar-mitchell

16
The Way of the Explorer
epiphany accompanied by exhilaration, an event I would later refer to in
terms that could not be more foreign to my upbringing in west Texas, and
later, New Mexico. From that moment on my life would take a radically
different course.
What I experienced during that three-day trip home was nothing short
of an overwhelming sense of universal connectedness. I actually felt what
has been described as an ecstasy of unity. It occurred to me that the molecules
of my body and the molecules of the spacecraft itself were manufactured
long ago in the furnace of one of the ancient stars that burned in
the heavens about me. And there was the sense that our presence as space
travelers, and the existence of the universe itself, was not accidental, but
that there was an intelligent process at work. I perceived the universe as in
some way conscious. The thought was so large it seemed at the time inexpressible,
and to a large degree it still is. Perhaps all I have gained is a
greater sense of understanding, and perhaps a more articulate means of
expressing it. But even in the midst of epiphany I did not attach mystical or
otherworldly origin to the phenomenon. Rather, I thought it curious and
exciting that the brain could spontaneously reorganize information to produce
such a fantastically strange experience.
By the time the red-and-white parachutes blossomed in the life-giving
atmosphere of Earth three days later and our capsule splashed into the
ocean, my life’s direction was about to change. I didn’t know it then, but it
was. What lay in store was an entirely different kind of journey, one that
would occupy more than 40 years of my life. I have often likened that
experience to a game of pick-up sticks: Within a few days my beliefs about
life were thrown into the air and scattered about. It took me 20 years to
pick up those sticks and make some kind of sense of it all, and I now believe
I can describe it with an adequate degree of comprehensibility and scientific
validity. I like to think that this book is the result of both journeys.
Shortly after returning from the moon I was often invited to speak at
various occasions. In lecture halls and auditoriums across the country two
questions were inevitably asked. The first was, how do you go to the bathroom
in space The second was, what did it feel like to walk on the moon
The first was usually asked by children because they really wanted to know,
and are less inhibited than adults. The second quickly became irritating
simply because I didn’t know the answer. It was certainly a sensible question—
I was an astronaut, after all, one of 12 men to have walked upon the surface
of the moon. People would naturally want to know. But when I finally
asked myself why the question was so bothersome, it occurred to me that
there were emotional realms lodged deep in my own psyche that I hadn’t