What If You Stumble Upon Powerful Waves From Another World?

Sometimes the most profound discoveries come not from distant stars, but from the frequencies that reach us here on Earth—waves that carry more than just sound, but the possibility of healing, understanding, and connection across impossible distances.

When I listen to music, I'm convinced I'm picking up transmissions from another world. Not the kind that UFO enthusiasts claim from Zeta Reticuli—that binary star system 39.3 light-years away that sparked countless alien contact stories during the 2012 Maya phenomenon. No, these waves are more intimate, more immediate, yet somehow just as otherworldly in their power to transform.

The Frequency of Loss

The waves first reached me in 1994, though I didn't recognize them then. That was the year I lost someone who might have been more than a friend—she was fourteen, and with her went something essential about my ability to dream. For twenty-five years afterward, I could count my dreams on one hand. Sleep became a void, not a journey.

But recently, something shifted in the cosmic radio. Four dreams arrived in two weeks, each one a nightmare filled with agony, as if the universe was finally tuning me back into frequencies I'd been blocking. Like a butterfly caught in a hurricane, I'd been tumbling through space and time, disconnected from the signals that might guide me home.

This is what grief does—it scrambles our receivers. We become like those early radio astronomers, hearing only static where others detect pulsars, missing the patterns that could reveal entire galaxies of meaning.

Signals from the Void

When you look up at billions of stars and galaxies, you're forced to confront the mathematics of loneliness. What are the odds that in all that vastness, we're the only ones broadcasting? What are the odds that after seven million years of evolution, we're still trapped on this single rock, unable to venture safely beyond our own atmosphere?

The space program taught us something profound about perspective. Astronauts return from the International Space Station fundamentally changed, having seen Earth as a pale blue dot where all our conflicts seem suddenly, absurdly small. They've tuned into a frequency that reveals our shared fragility under the same sun.

But here's what they don't tell you about that cosmic perspective: it can be devastating when you're already broken. When you're born in 1980 during the AIDS epidemic, when you've watched love become synonymous with loss, when you've spent twenty-seven years in a city like Paris feeling like an alien yourself—the vastness doesn't comfort. It amplifies the silence.

Tuning Into Another World

Yet music cuts through all of this static. When the right song plays, it's as if someone from another dimension is reaching across the void, saying: "You are not alone. Your frequency is being received."

These aren't the fabricated signals that tabloids claim from Zeta Reticuli. These are the real transmissions—the ones that arrive through speakers and headphones, carrying the emotional DNA of artists who've learned to broadcast their deepest truths across the electromagnetic spectrum of human experience.

The ancient Nabateans understood something about this kind of communication. They built Petra not just as a city, but as a resonance chamber carved into living rock, where sound and space created something greater than the sum of their parts. They knew that the most important messages travel not through space, but through time—from one heart to another, across centuries of shared human longing.

The Signal Clears

I don't want to live in Paris anymore—not because the city has failed me, but because I've finally learned to distinguish between the noise and the signal. The waves from another world aren't calling me to escape Earth; they're teaching me how to inhabit it more fully.

When Peter Kingsbery sings about "only the very best," he's transmitting from that other world where loss doesn't diminish love but amplifies it, where the death of dreams becomes the birth of deeper frequencies. The song reaches across the void between his experience and mine, proving that the most profound space exploration happens not in rockets, but in the resonance between one consciousness and another.

Perhaps this is what we're really searching for when we scan the skies for alien signals—not proof that we're not alone in the universe, but confirmation that the waves we're already receiving, the music that moves us, the art that heals us, are themselves evidence of intelligence beyond our individual selves.

The transmission is clear now: we are all broadcasting from another world, the one where love survives loss, where meaning emerges from chaos, where the butterfly learns to ride the hurricane instead of being destroyed by it.

All we have to do is tune in.