There is something so isolating and communal in totality. I’m not sure I could survive totality alone. I fear I would fall through the void and never return. I would not have the shrieks and shouts to overcome the hum of the moon. Songs of wonder tether me to the here and now. I save my solitary wandering for the drifting time after totality.
My first eclipse in 2017 we hiked back to the car as the sun reappeared bit by bit. We hiked along trails of wavering light. We walked in underwater forests. The light still held the memory of totality. The dusky light. The stage lighting. Crescent shadows like waves across our swimming arms. Nothing felt real until we walked into the field by the parking lot and met the reality of trash left by thousands of spectators.
This year, after the eclipse, the waves remain calm. The quiet ripples across time. The sun has returned but we are still trapped in the hushed awe. We wander the beach looking for crescent shadows. We stand beneath a thin leafed tree. Too much light pours through. We walk the roots and sink into moss. There is a sacredness in this tree none of us are able to capture. The tree clings to the shoreside. Roots crawl across the land and bridge the hill to the beach.
There is a hole at the base of the tree trunk. When we lean down to look through it, we see the lake and the tip of a lone peninsula. The sun winks off the water. It’s easy to imagine the magic time of year when the sun sets right through the hole. We yearn for that portal of light to counteract the void we just witnessed.
Eventually the sun is so bright again that Venus disappears into the blue once more. We try to stay till the last sliver of moon is gone. But already our group grows thin, tugs at the threads, and wanders across the hills to the shaded salve of our campsite.
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