The world – at least as I knew it – stopped.
Regular life was cast aside like an outgrown snakeskin. Everyone still wore their work attire and clutched their coffee cups, but for the first time in what felt like forever, all of our eyes settled in the same place.
As the moon prepared to pass between Earth and the Sun, we looked upward with bated breaths. Phones buzzed in pockets ignored. Necks craning, eyes straining, ears echoing with terms like “totality” and “corona” instead of whatever new dude a Kardashian was dating.
I only lasted a few moments, and from my vantage point the eclipse was just partial. But for those moments, everything changed. The world dimmed. Temperatures dropped. Even the birds were calm.
Then it was over.
Everything back to normal again. Everyone went back into apartments and schools and offices, and humanity drifted apart.
The NASA live feed ended a few hours later. Eclipse stories were relegated to text messages and dinnertime conversations. The next day, the sun behaved just like it usually did.
We moved on.
But a part of me lingered. There were implications. I had questions and still do – not that I expect you (or myself) to be able to answer them.
I don’t remember them all because when those questions came, they came fast and furious. A few of them went as follows:
After such an unusual event, how could I just wake up the next morning and dutifully power up my desktop for work? How come the buses were still running, the traffic swelling, and the gossipy media tripe clogging my news feed?
I don’t know. I wish I did, truly. I spent the day after the eclipse alternating between wanting to shake everyone I saw and remind them what had happened – and slapping myself whenever my thoughts turned to something as meaningless (at least in the cosmic sense) as business email.
But ordinary life moved on. It’s relentless that way. The cosmic blends with the minutiae. One second you’re wondering what your ancestors must have thought during a total solar eclipse – what strange new rituals and deities were born. And the next? You’re worried about clipping your fingernails.
As time passed, I thought about the eclipse less and less. I must have a remarkable ability to compartmentalize it all. Maybe we all do. Because all of this, the utility bills and superheated balls of gas, the weekend and heading your head around infinity, it’s all too messy and overwhelming to figure out.
Go ahead. Try it. See how long you can make it through a workday flipping thoughts between expense reports and quantum physics before your mind starts to crack.
Feel that pressure? Those cosmic needles puncturing your routine?
I know I do. And when I do, I’m always tempted to dive back into “normal life.” Focusing on what’s right in front of you. Normalcy is as seductive as quicksand. You find yourself slipping in – even crawling in willingly – whenever confronted with cosmic head-scratchers like death or an eclipse or figuring out the Right Way to live on this spinning rock we call home.
Above all, we make assumptions. The sun will rise and fall just like we’re used to. You’ll wake up in the same bed and remain the same person as you were before. All of that might be true…
Until the next cosmic event or existential crisis or three AM phone call from the cops shatters that bubble-wrapped reality.
If I assume the sun will always rise and fall, what other assumptions am I making about myself?
I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. But I want to keep wondering, keep questioning.
Imagine scraping out an existence thousands of years ago. Just you and your tribe and the endless steppes. After a rough morning spent hunting and gathering, you’re huddled around a fledgling campfire. Doing everything you can to get it going – probably because you’re tired of starving.
And then a shadow swallows the sun. For a few moments, the brightest and hottest fire you knew goes out.
Do you carry on with your life just as before?
Or do you lie down in the grass every once in a while with your hands folded behind your head, look up and wonder?
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Eclipse – Corey Pemberton