During an eclipse, darkness falls and wonder rises
Some people scream. Some people cry. Some do both.
The regular movements of the heavens are the oldest and deepest intimations of order in the universe. So it is hard, no matter how enlightened you consider yourself to be, not to feel a primordial lurch in your gut when the sun suddenly disappears from the sky.
On Monday, the Great American Eclipse, as it has been branded by astronomers and trip
promoters, will begin off the coast of Oregon and barrel across the country for an hour and a half before exiting off the coast of Charleston, S.C.
A total solar eclipse happens about twice a year somewhere on the globe, but this is the first time since 1918 that the continental United States has had an exclusive on the spectacle, one of the true rare treasures of nature.
Here’s our chance to see the shy corona, a pale sheath of energy the color of moonlight, wisping its tendrils into interplanetary space, and to stand in what feels like the Eye of Sauron as the winds rise, distant darkness spreads over the hills, and an eerie coolness invades the day.
About 100 million people live within a day’s drive of the path of totality, a band about 70 miles wide. If the forecasts are correct, many of us are likely to be viewing the eclipse from a traffic jam.
And that’s OK. Just pull over, get out of the car and look around. An eclipse is the ultimate democratic experience. Permission is not required.
If you don’t have those special eclipse sunglasses, make a pinhole camera with your fist and see an image of the sun on the ground as it is eaten away by the moon.
The whole show, for those privileged to make it to the hallowed ground, will last about two hours, from the time the moon first bites into the sun (“first contact,” in astronomical jargon) until the sun is finally whole again (“fourth contact”).
At first, nothing dramatic will happen. Half a sun, or even a quarter, is still daylight, after all. You won’t notice the sun shrinking unless you have special glasses or you’re carrying a pinhole camera.
If you are under a tree, the gaps between the leaves may serve as pinholes. When you look down, you may see the ground carpeted with crescent suns.
It’s when the crescent gets small that things start getting weird. Shadows sharpen drastically. The landscape is bathed in a melancholy banana light.
Then it all happens too fast. If you are in a high place looking west, you might see the moon’s shadow approaching. Regulus, the brightest star in Leo, will step out of a robe of sudden twilight over the sun’s shoulder. Mercury, Mars and Venus will pop out of the deepening gloom.
The last glimpse of sunlight as it disappears behind the moon looks like a diamond ring. And then, suddenly, the corona is there.
You always knew it was there, a hidden vibration in your soul, the intuition of something unseen, a mandala meaning whatever you want it to mean. But you couldn’t perceive it.
This moment — “second contact,” by the way — is a good time to scream.
Think of Monday’s great darkening as a chance to commune with the essence of the cosmos. The universe itself is made mostly of shadows: of dark energy and dark matter, of black holes interspersed among the stars.
But we are children of the light, and when the light comes back, we’ll be dancing in it. That, by the way, is a fine time to cry.