It’s been a rainy couple of weeks in New England. It is actively raining right this moment, as I look out the window at the mud puddles that just keep growing and growing.
Today’s gloom makes what I saw on Monday feel even more remarkable. That morning dawned crisp and clear and gorgeous in Vermont — more like my beloved southwestern skies than the usual northeastern ones. A perfect day to go watch the total eclipse.
A few deaf friends and I made the trek up from Boston to just outside of Burlington to see totality for ourselves. On Sunday, we basked in shimmering sunny views of Lake Champlain, its waters stretching to the New York mountains on the horizon, sailing lazily through all shades of blue.
The entire northeast buzzed with anticipation: eclipse beer, eclipse ice cream, eclipse chocolate. “Happy eclipse day!” several strangers said to us the next morning when we went on a group walk, all our smiles wide and giddy.
We camped outside at a friend of a friend’s house by the lake, then spent hours chatting and hanging around and checking weather forecasts. Around lunchtime, I started getting texts from some friends in Texas:
“IT’S STARTING HERE!”
“THAT WAS INCREDIBLE!”
“Ok, I stop judging all the eclipse-chasing tourists now.” (All right, me too.)
Even my dog got in on the eclipse-watching action, or she put up with my ridiculous shenanigans anyway.
The communal spirit was infectious, whether near or far, whether shared by humans or dogs, especially around 2:15pm once we felt the real suspense begin. After pulling our eclipse glasses on, watching the light grow dusky as the moon ate more and more pieces out of the sun, we experienced a few minutes that I hope I never forget.
The moon roared across the last remaining slice of the sun, and something transformed in the atmosphere. A switch flipped. The darkness swooped in, as if it had been there all along. The air became suddenly cold. The birds went still. Even I noticed the sudden audible silence, a void broken only by the hollers of everyone gathered outside on the grass. I think we all screamed. I surely did, my mouth open as I stared into the gaping hole in the sky, at the brilliant white ring where the sun was supposed to be.
Looking at the corona was as close to sudden inspiration as I’ve ever felt. The sun had been right there — but then it wasn’t. The earth had become ominous and dark, its edges lit with transcendent pale orange. Everyone’s faces were copper-grayish and flat, simultaneously recognizable and beyond normal recognition.
The universe opened up during those minutes, and we became tiny inhabitants of this rock spinning through space. It made me recall the Romantic sublime: wonder and joy and awe and terror.
And then it was over. The sun’s piercing light wrapped around the moon and sliced back down to us. Within seconds, just that tiny bit of sunlight had returned us to some semblance of who we had been before.
After that, fresh out of the quasi-spiritual experience we’d just had, we suffered through a reverse pilgrimage back home on I-89. The red wave on Google Maps was unending. I spent most of this week feeling exhausted. But worth it? Yes. Totality made me think about what we share with others, alongside what we perceive for ourselves. What is familiar and what is strange. What is rare, and how we describe that rarity with words. I’ve been holding onto that feeling this week as I try to write, to capture more bits of the human experience on the page. I’m glad I got to go and witness what I witnessed.
Thank you for sharing this. It was truly an experience of awe. I’ve also been thinking about rarity and how to write it down this week. Still thinking of those moments of darkness!
Your words are beautiful and Tally is so cute!!