Did everyone survive the eclipse? I wasn’t near the path of totality, but my oldest child was. They sent a video from college of the moment, and as darkness falls, I can hear someone cry, “Oh, how beautiful!”
What’s so funny to me about eclipses is how they affect people. Eclipses aren’t really that rare. One occurs every eighteen days on average, but mostly over the ocean, so we aren’t aware of them. And that says something about humans, I think—that this phenomenon of natural wonder is actually regular and frequent on our little planet, but we are blind to it.
Eclipses seem to bring out humanity’s freak flags. The news showed a mass wedding performed and groups of people shrieking as the moon passed over the sun. Schools cancelled classes. Hotels were full of travelers who’d journeyed to stand in the shadow of the moon.
It amuses me that we can send ourselves into orbit, that we can split the atom, that we have created microwave ovens, and ice makers, and genetically modified everything, but when it comes to eclipses, we’re no better than medieval villagers standing open-mouthed and fearful under the holy mysteries of the firmament.
And I am grateful for that, too. Eclipses return us to the childlike depths of our souls. They remind us of our frailty on this little blue rock in space and that we are smaller than we think. They remind us that we are of the natural world, reinforce that we are connected to the stars, and the moon, and to each other through space and time.
In mythology, and astrology, and folklore, eclipses are kind of squirrelly times. They indicate change and upheavals. They are a time when hidden depths come to light and reversals occur—in fortunes, in perceptions, in opinions. A time when the stars come out in the middle of the day and we realize that they are always hanging above, we just don’t see them. How much more of our world are we missing? How much of ourselves?
And then, like everything else in existence, eclipses pass. They teach us this lesson, too. That nothing lasts. That moments of wonder come, but they don’t stick. We have to catch them, cancel things for the opportunity to see them. We have to look up.
And they are also happening all the time. Somewhere over the open ocean eighteen days from now, the moon will cross the path of the sun again and that spot of water will darken. Fish will come to the surface. The stars will twinkle overhead. The air will chill. And for one glorious moment, totality will exist in that spot. It’s there. Just look up.