Eclipsing

Six months ago, I was reading something about gravity and tidal systems. Along the way I learned that the moon is predicted to drift out of Earth’s orbit at some point in the far future. This led me to content on solar eclipses, and that’s how I ended up with a set of 25 eclipse glasses. Little ol’ Vermont was plotted in the path of totality. There was no way in hell I would miss this.

For both better and worse, I’m inclined to find and give meaning to everything around me. I’m sure it has something to do with my spirituality and meditation practice, as well as my struggle to keep language at bay when faced with boredom and uncertainty. Whatever the case, the eclipse is exciting partially because one doesn’t have to look too far for grander meanings, for the comfort of cosmic universals. One only has to look up toward the sky at the right time, equipped with nothing more than a cheap piece of specialized eyewear.

On the one hand the eclipse is another predictable event of the cosmos, just like the sunrise. We know with near-perfect precision when the moon will begin to cross the sun, when the sun will be completely covered, when and where the next total eclipse will take place. This makes it unsurprising and possibly meaningless to some. I was walking in my neighborhood when I overheard a man ask the nearby students what all the sudden activity in the city was about, as if it had bloomed unexpectedly out of the blue.

On the other hand, thousands of visitors will pay premium for overpriced Airbnbs all over Vermont to experience the brief spectacle. Millions more elsewhere will do the same, waiting for the exact moment when the Earth is completely shadowed. It means nothing; it means everything. It’s all a matter of perspective, which eclipses are notorious for granting.

I had wanted to watch the eclipse at a nearby graveyard on the outskirts of my neighborhood, where the trees are tall and glorious and varied. I later learned that this was an ideal environment for catching some of the crescent-shaped shadows and projections of the sun. The caretakers must have known this: the gates were locked when I scoped them out on my morning walk. Where I ended up was on the rooftop of my friend’s apartment complex, which was nice too.

We arrived toward the beginning of the eclipse, an hour before totality. Small talk bubbled through the warm Spring air; snacks and laughs were shared beneath a blue and mostly cloudless sky. Periodically we looked up to check the position of the moon. Its ascent was coming from the bottom-right, at 5 o’clock of the sun. The excitement was palpable, and I was happy to be with my friends. But a part of me also wanted to be alone. It’s the ancient impulse of the seeker. Liminal states give way to transcendence more easily when he is on his own. I’m still learning every day how to simply enjoy the company of others, to allow for a social kind of sacredness to emerge.

The cold got to us before we noticed the cast of the moon shadow over the land. For me it was the birds that signaled something was shifting significantly. Their songs turned into unpredictable calls. They then began flying in strange patterns. I saw one fly straight up into the sky for a few seconds before suddenly diving back down toward safer ground. Others flew from tree to tree like pinballs in perpetual play. Chatter and commentary surrounded me, but I was losing touch with it. I wanted nothing more than silence and the slow surrender of daylight.

Soon came the gasps of excitement, the incomprehensible whispers, the whispered hushing. We knew exactly what was happening, but it still seized us by the throat. The sun was engulfed. All that remained was a hole in the sky, a perfect corona flaring. Its rays surrounded us on all sides, forming a ring that lit both building and mountain range in equal brilliance. The sun was setting everywhere. We stood at its dark center, the luckiest of us less self and selfless, no longer the center of the universe. It was over in three minutes.

How quickly we were to fill the void. How quickly and easily we filled the air with our voices and meanings. Well-intentioned, maybe, but hurried, perhaps. In a rush to make sense of things with the finality of language. Wordless, we find words that bring us to talk. Talk of plans. Talk of the ensuing traffic. Talk of happiness without further lingering. Friends asked me how it was, as if it were already over, as if my feelings and thoughts were contained within the three minute totality. I had nothing to say, nothing important really. And I had no clue as to how I was feeling.

It wasn’t over yet for me, and that was my cue to go. I wanted to walk—not to process my feelings, but to give space for whatever else decided to emerge, to linger a little longer in the silence. I walked down to the water and found a vacant tree to sit under, away from the crowds. A family from Israel walked by and greeted me. “Happy eclipse day,” they said, and I smiled back. The birds were singing again, just like they do when they wake up at last.