Not to brag (LOLOL who am I kidding, I was BEYOND excited that we lived in the path of totality for this eclipse), but I was able to witness the total eclipse last week from my own yard with my family surrounding me. Okay, it’s not really bragging, because I actually feel incredibly lucky that we lived in such a fortunate location1. AND the weather cooperated magnificently that day (followed by a week of rain and heavy clouds!). I had been checking the weather religiously ever since April 8 appeared in my longterm forecast, feeling at the mercy of atmospheric whims.
That helplessness is, of course, the entire point: witnessing a total eclipse is a reminder of our smallness, of the gigantic universe we live in, and the miracles2 of seeing incredible, improbable things happen. The sun is 400 times bigger than the moon, but the moon is 400 times closer to us, so they appear the same size and therefore the moon can “cover” the sun. Like, what are the odds? And what are the odds that out of all the ways the moon can orbit the earth, it occasionally comes in between the sun and us in just a way to black out the sun and make everything in a little strip on earth dark for just a few minutes? And we have science and math advanced enough to be able to exactly predict how all of this will happen?
I mean, it is just mind-boggling.
April 8th broke sunny and warm and my children rode their trikes happily on the driveway. I watched them, willing the shadows to stay until 3pm. Out of town family piled onto my front porch throughout the day, sharing eclipse glasses and camera protectors and lunchmeat and stories.
Soon it was 2pm and the partial eclipse was supposed to have started. I went out to my yard to stare at the sun, and yipped in delight — there it is! Already, you could see the moon taking a bite out of the sun! We spread out the lawn chairs in the front yard where we could get a clear view and a good neck strain.
Much of the eclipse you wouldn’t notice a difference in anything unless you are equipped with special glasses. It’s only once it’s at least 75% covered that you start to notice a slight change in the light; the hues look a little different and it’s like the world went ever-so-slightly on dim.
Even when there’s just a tiny sliver of light, it’s enough to light our world as if it were still day (just a tad darker; the shadows more intense). The change between light and dark happens in an instant. There’s a sliver of sun left, there’s the “diamond ring effect” (the last bit of sunlight like the diamond on a ring), and then…
The most succinct description I saw online3 was this:
1-99% covered: Wow this is so cool
100%: HOLY FUCK
In one instant, the moon slams into place and the sun becomes a black hole in the sky. It is suddenly twilight. There is a 360* sunset; everywhere you turn there is purple sky at the horizon. It is the same amount of light that you get shortly after the sun has set and the sky is fading into night. Stars, or rather, planets, appear in the sky: Venus, Mars, all in a line with the sun/moon combo.
I shrieked with pure joy in that moment. I jumped out of my chair and yelled and hopped around. I was the only one reacting that way in my group but I could hear hollers in the distance; I knew I wasn’t the only one with a crazy, reasonable reaction to a black hole opening up in the sky.
When I saw the eclipse in 2017 in August, the cacophany of summertime bugs started up their evening chorus in the middle of the day and it was glorious. This time was only April, so we could just hear the birds become a little confused and start to sing their evening ritual songs. My children, 2 and 4, started to get scared about why the world suddenly went dark, and clung to us. “It’ll come back!” I told my daughter. “The moon is hiding the sun, and isn’t it amazing?!?”
In that moment, it’s hard to know where to focus your attention. The horizon? The sun? The people around you? And what do I trust to my memory, and what do I attempt to record for later? It’s only a few minutes and the moment isn’t coming back for a long, long time. The minutes at totality slip through your fingers so fast. The miracle is present, but you know it’s ending before you’re ready for it to go.
And indeed, as fast as it came on, it ended again. The moon slid off the sun and the dimmer switch on the world flew back up again. Fastest sunrise ever. The air grew warm again after the chill it had developed over the last 15 minutes with low sunlight. Watching a partial eclipse end is anti-climactic after watching a total eclipse, so people wandered off and let the sun and moon do their thing without constant witness. I felt the pull to keep looking. Just because we hit the peak doesn’t mean the rest isn’t still a miracle.
The few days following the eclipse, I couldn’t explain it, but I felt so out of sorts. It was like I wasn’t mentally present — my mind kept wandering and it took constant vigilance to pull it back, even in my therapy sessions when I’m usually at peak focus. I would sit with my children after work and the thoughts would keep crossing my mind: Am I really here? What is this? What is existence? What am I doing here?
I told my good friend how I felt, especially since he’s a very spiritual person. He wondered if maybe, “you have a strong connection to the universe and you felt the pull upwards to the heavens because the eclipse reminded you of that connection? It makes me wonder if you are a strong person of the spirit.”
And really…I know I am. It’s easy to lose in the midst of early childhood parenting and work and marriage and house upkeep: the traditional milestones of “success.” But I’m also someone to chase an eclipse and shriek at totality. To journey to monasteries on silent retreats by myself. To dabble in all kinds of spiritual traditions, curious about what else is out there. To take a solo 2-week road trip at the tender age of 25 and sleep under the stars, marveling at the galaxy.
That night, his words made me cry. Maybe this ineffable pull explained my dazed feelings. But I am needed here on this earth. When I’m sitting with my kids while they eat their dinner and when I read them stories, I want to really be here with them. The pull will have to wait. I have a job to do here.
So I took his advice and did some grounding breathing exercises. They did help me land me back in my body, along with the release of tears that told me: it’s okay to long, and it’s also okay to be exactly where you are.
Do you have your own eclipse stories to share? How was your April 8th (anyone else experience that same mental fog as me??)? Where do you find yourself in the longing but also the not-yet?
I chased the 2017 eclipse (to southern Illinois) and it was 1000% worth it, but how lucky to just stay where I am, in this unsuspecting town in a [political] location I otherwise often complain about!
I don’t care who we’re attributing the miracles to, I think it’s an excellent way to describe events that feel so amazing and improbable but we are fortunate enough to witness/experience. I’m not referring to the Christian God type of miracles!
This was in the comment section of Tim Urban’s (the Wait But Why guy, if you’re familiar) post on the eclipse. Highly recommend: https://waitbutwhy.com/2024/04/eclipse.html
Oh Christine, this was such a beautiful reflection. You described it all perfectly! I was with you in giddy anticipation and my kids were jumping and shrieking - momentarily feral in the mystery and magic of it all!! I am 100% going to travel to see another one. My spouse wasn’t home to see it so I told him I’m dragging him to the next one - “but you just saw it!” EXACTLY.
Christine, this was so beautiful. We were outside of totality in Utah; able to witness a partial eclipse with my husband’s welding goggles. But your piece drew me right into the experience of totality. I feel like I’ve gotten a taste of something that wasn’t gifted directly to me. I’m blessed by your spirituality and thankful you are here.