Eclipses, Memories, Magic
I rise early on the morning of the annular eclipse, marveling at the intricate science that allows us to know exactly when the moon will pass in front of the sun, from our earthly perspective. I marvel even more at the celestial knowledge of ancient civilizations, whose exacting stone temples were perfectly aligned with the movement of the heavens. History and this moment are related miracles.
It’s cloudy, before dawn. Just because an eclipse is happening doesn’t mean I’ll be able to see it. Still, that provides metaphor for why I rise early every day. The possibility of magic is enough. The classic first rule of photography: Be there. You can’t capture beauty you’re not present to see.
At first light, I climb a quiet trail to a mountain meadow where no one but me and the birds will visit today. Sunrise slips in from the east, as I settle in to wait. What more riveting movie than an unscripted day?
Memories of previous eclipses play in my mind. When I was in college four decades ago, a total solar eclipse happened a thousand miles north of us. As students of science, we decided it was a worthy journey, so several of us piled into an overloaded old station wagon. Within an hour, it caught fire and burned up alongside the highway. We missed the eclipse. Only later could I admit that it was equally spectacular to watch our car turn into a fireball big enough to close the highway, as our propane camp stove canisters exploded like dying stars.
We vowed to reunite in a dozen years, for a total solar eclipse in Hawaii. But by then I was living at a hot springs in California, then suddenly living through cancer. Our plans were again eclipsed by reality.
A beautiful lunar eclipse arrived, though, which friends of mine and I watched in pristine darkness from coastal California hills. I was astonished as the moon turned an inconceivable shade of red. I still laugh as I think of one friend trying to explain to his lover how the positions of sun, moon, and earth could produce such magic. He assigned three of us planetary roles to move around in the dark to demonstrate. I was the moon, I think.
A previous annular eclipse followed, when I simply stumbled into magic. I didn’t know that eclipse was happening until the day before it did. I had no eclipse glasses. I wasn’t prepared. By coincidence, I was returning to Oregon from California that day. I measured miles and minutes, seeking a place to pull off and watch. A roadside rest area in Mt. Shasta’s shadow appeared at the perfect moment. Clouds of perfect thickness appeared too, and I was able to watch and photograph the ring of fire directly, as the light dimmed and glowed on Mt. Shasta’s majestic slopes. Stunning!
As 2017’s total solar eclipse then approached, I was caring for my aging mother, then 91. We weren’t quite in the path of totality, so I faced a choice: Take a journey north with her—perilous given her increasing needs—or stay close to home together and accept 97% eclipsed. In terms of eclipse darkness, I knew the final three percent meant everything, but being with her meant more. We took her walker, camp chair, and eclipse glasses out onto the nearby dam. This joyful photo of her that day is more priceless to me than totality.
My mother has now been gone for over three years, so I’ll have to watch this eclipse for her. As I wait, my musical mind runs Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” on repeat. This time I marvel at how silence can also be musical. The clouds thicken at the hour of eclipse, and I never see the latest ring of fire. Yet the mountain meadow is exquisite in eerie dim light, and I love seeing people gather on the dam far below. They too have prioritized the chance of magic. The lake shimmers with strange reflected light. There’s a dog barking wildly at whatever it thinks is happening. It sounds like an opinion columnist. I find it hilarious. The sky is gorgeous despite the gray. The memories within me are beautiful too.
Without an unseen eclipse to motivate me, I might not have spent these two meditative hours in the mountain meadow, just being present. Be there. The magic we find is rarely the magic we expect, yet it exists more often than not, given our openness to its presence. Be there. Reluctantly, I finally come down from the mountain meadow. If I never see another eclipse, I’ll still feel complete with eclipses, memories, and magic.