Saturday, August 26, 2017

Eclipse Thoughts


I can't remember if I had the glasses on or off when it started. I think I had them on, and I knew it had started because I could no longer see anything through them. A few cheers went up from the crowd in the grassy setback between Highway 50 and the strip mall parking lot. I'd been reclining on the blanket, but I got to my feet, as if that would give me a closer look. I think many others in the crowd instinctively stood to honor the celestial display. It was smaller than I expected from the photos and artistic renderings, but it was perfect, like a stamp or embossment on a dark sky. The corona was thin and white, with short etched flares, except for a red spot toward the bottom right, which I learned later was the chromosphere. The black disc of the moon was not a solid, matte black - some light from the corona bled in and made a subtle gradient of dark, smoky gray. The eerie blue light that had fallen in the minutes leading up to totality was softer now, with more purple. The sky around the corona was twilight blue, darker or lighter depending on my memory. The cicadas and tree frogs that had become increasingly loud as the light dimmed before totality were now deafening. I could hear Caleb behind me asking my mother if it was safe to look at the corona without glasses, and I harped at him - yes, it's safe, are you looking?!

A scattering of thin clouds surrounded the corona, and they were illuminated as if by moonlight. I was mesmerized by their perfect elegance, and by some God's amazing, flawless design in clearing the heavy clouds to the south and leaving just these few for adornment. Based on something Caleb was saying to someone else in our party, I was afraid he'd turned away again, and I nagged him again, "Caleb, are you looking?!" He assured me that yes, he was looking. I reached back for his hand. Then a blinding flash from the diamond ring emerged, and we knew it was over and put the glasses back on. Some folks in the crowd clapped.

It was shocking how quickly it was over. I was disappointed. Certainly not in the event, but in myself. I hadn't centered myself to take the full measure of its beauty and power. I'd profaned it by nagging Caleb when I thought he wasn't looking at it. I felt there was something wrong with me for not being able to tell people, breathlessly, that it was amazing. It certainly was, but the words didn't spill from my mouth like in that Bible passage. I felt I'd squandered this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that many Americans didn't have, and I hoped desperately that I'd have another shot at it in 2024.


The parking lot lights came on as the sunlight decreased
In the last couple minutes before totality, sunset colors popped out just above the western horizon. If atmospheric conditions had been different, we might've seen sunset in all directions. 


Driving back through Missouri, tall thunderheads were stacked across the horizon over cornfields and cattle pastures, but I thought that no other beauty of nature could come close to totality. It was remarkable how quickly everything had returned to normal, with bright yellow sun flooding the fields as if totality had never been. I thought perhaps the Sun is like a proud woman with a great obligation. A romantic encounter that she only has on occasion shakes her to her core each time, but the nature of her duties is such that she doesn't let on how it's affected her. The Moon, in his travels around the world, finds time for a liaison with her whenever the opportunity arises. I reflected on how I had lamented "God hates us!" in a Facebook post about the heavy clouds forecasted in the Midwest. But God or Gods had heard my prayers and cleared the clouds in just the right spot. I'd had time, money, and health to travel to the totality path when many others weren't so lucky. And I was grateful, even if my puny mind and heart had failed to comprehend the moment.

Pinhole projections of the receding eclipse through my hat

Crescents projected through tree canopies

We spent much of the drive back in heavy traffic, particularly at junctions and on-ramps. It wasn't bothersome, because we weren't in a huge hurry, and it was a happy reminder that we had all come to Missouri with a shared purpose, and we were all going away with a unifying experience. Like me, many passengers in other cars were looking at the receding eclipse through their sun roofs with their glasses. Google Maps said things I'd never heard before, like "Traffic is getting worse. You are still on the fastest route." Periodically we would see some eclipse viewers staked out on a gravel shoulder or in a farm field, with their lawn chairs, cameras, and telescopes. As we got further into northeastern Missouri, about three out of every four cars had Iowa plates. Crossing the Des Moines River into Iowa, and seeing sunset colors bleed into the clouds to the west, my heart ached for the weird blue light leading up to totality. But I was seduced enough by these lesser natural beauties to suggest to Caleb that we take a quick detour to cross the Mississippi. Which he vetoed, since he had to start work early the next morning. 

The next evening, I took a walk on the greenbelt near my apartment, as part of my resolution in recent weeks to be less sedentary. Sunset was illuminating the tree trunks and the creek's surface, and again I missed the blue light of the eclipsed sun straight overhead. But I thought, perhaps this yellow light is all the Sun has to pay homage to her departed lover with. 



I won't say the eclipse put things in perspective. On a daily basis there is no perspective - we need food, safety, dignity, and economic security. The fact that the sun will explode billions of years from now and we'll be long gone doesn't make us love our children any less. But it is something to look forward to - if anything, it might embolden me to take risks. Seven years from now, I don't know if I'll be married or single, a mother or childless, professionally employed and doing well or underemployed and scraping by, healthy or sick. But the possibility will be there. And if I don't get a chance to see it next time, maybe someone who missed it this time around will be so blessed.

Hard-to-see crescent projections from my hat

P.S. Much of the fun of a total eclipse is in the hours leading up to it. My mother and her boyfriend, my aunt, Caleb and I played it by ear in the morning, pushing eastward from Kansas into western Missouri through driving rain to try and get out from under the heavy cloud cover. First our target destination was Warrensburg, then Sedalia, then Columbia. Somewhere on the way, in the middle of nowhere, we stopped at a gas station with some local produce and baked goods. There was a small cardboard box labeled "Eclipse Snacks," and it had Star Crunch, moon pies, Starburst, Eclipse gum, Sun Chips, and Milky Ways. And Oreos, which look remarkably like an eclipsed crescent sun in the rendering on the package.

This song "Animals," from Vancouver techno outfit BT's album Emotional Technology, captures the feeling of the eclipse much better than that song "Total Eclipse of the Heart."