One winter I slept many nights on the Earlham college soccer field. I bought a second sleeping bag and put one inside the other, a balaclava on my head and fresh socks on my feet so I was toasty warm.
The main attraction for me was the night sky. I'd camped a lot with my family growing up but there were always so many mosquitoes we were glad to seal ourselves into our tents at night. With no bugs on the winter soccer field I enjoyed a front row seat at the greatest show on earth.
I believe that large truths ignored build like sores under the skin of a culture. Death is one, thought better kept out of sight, until someone is taken and the unprepared survivors feel like they've been hit by a truck. Play out a denial of death for enough generations and a culture becomes so neurotic it prefers making war to pondering impermanence.
The sky is another big one. Beyond the fact that it exists, which is strange enough, stranger still is the amount of effort required to fully experience it first hand: almost nothing, or exactly nothing if you're laying on your back as I was. And nothing is a lot less effort than it takes to experience death. In fact, considering what's involved in dying it seems best to try everything else first.
I wanted to start with the sky.