The Eclipse

I didn’t witness this week’s eclipse; this story is about another totality.

On August 21^st, 2017, a total solar eclipse occurred in my hometown of Kirkwood, Mo., a suburb of St. Louis. Our son desperately wanted to see it. I was less enthused about making an 18-hour round-trip drive for something scheduled to last 90 seconds that might not even be visible due to cloud cover.

Ultimately, I gave in, and we drove down to St. Louis for the spectacle. At the appointed time, we positioned ourselves on the front lawn of the house I grew up in, currently owned by my sister Janet and her husband Rob. St. Louis summers are hot—I mean really hot. At 11:50 AM, it was 94 degrees with a similar humidity. There we stood, with our plastic solar safety glasses in the blazing sun. For a Minnesotan, 85 degrees is almost too hot to be outside. We were melting; totality was an hour and a half away. I feared we would never make it! Fortunately, my sister kindly ran an extension cord from the house to power a portable fan in order for us to survive.

As the eclipse progressed, the sky began to darken, but unlike dusk, there were still shadows on the ground. By half-eclipse, it was as cool in sunlight as it had previously been in the shade. As the eclipse progressed, everything became eerily still. No bug sounds, bird sounds, or anything. Light vacated the landscape. The sun’s corona cast a faint 360-degree sunset on the horizon. Then, just before the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the moon, cicadas and crickets started to sing. A bat flew by; brighter stars became visible. And then we plunged into darkness.

A total eclipse isn’t something one sees as much as experiences. I can’t adequately describe the feeling, but a strange presence enveloped everyone. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Strangely, I couldn’t explain exactly why.

I’ve had nearly seven years to reflect on that experience, and I think I’m beginning to understand why it was so powerful.

Everyone has an indigenous context in life. That context is “Self.” That doesn’t imply we are selfish; it’s just that the ego, like the sun, powers our lives. This creates an illusion of separation.

We aren’t the center of the universe, nor are we separated. We know that, but knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. A total solar eclipse utterly changes one’s perspective. That’s why the world suddenly looks and feels differently. When the moon blocked out the sun and daytime turned to night, insects and animals responded. Suddenly, it was clear. Everything is connected.

For a brief moment in time, everyone in the front yard that day became present to the connected reality of life. It was a visceral reminder that life isn’t about us—instead, we are about life.

The eclipse taught me a valuable lesson. “Self,” as a context, isolates us from the world. To counterbalance this, we must regularly seek out connected states of “being,” whether in religious practices, contemplative practices, or nature.

The evolution of “being” proceeds from “I” to “We” to “One.” To begin that journey, we must open our perspective to the connectivity of life.

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