I wish I would have thought to record the hallowed moment that the solar eclipse went into totality -- only so I could live it over and over again.
We did other things ... like dedicating one of our iPhones to perching on my grandma's windmill to record a time-lapse video. But the moment of the total solar eclipse? The moment of "totality," as they call it? That's the precious moment in time I wish I could have bottled up in a mason jar and saved for the future, to sip on whenever I need a dose of perspective -- to keep as an overwhelming reminder of how truly small I am and how massive the universe is. "Totality" is such a plain, insufficient, and -- honestly -- ugly word for the phenomenon I experienced in Scottsbluff, Nebraska.
Early on, the moon's journey across the sun seemed almost spooky -- as if something had taken a bite out of the sun (that's how it looked here in Denver, I imagine!). Through our special glasses, we watched in awe as the sun grew gradually smaller, morphing through its Pac-Man phase and then, eventually, into the familiar crescent shape that usually belongs to the moon alone.
We waited with bated breath. Holding our protective viewers to our eyes, we watched as a black disk slid over the glowing sun. The world around us had dimmed, the sliver of remaining sunlight casting just enough glow to keep the world lit with pale orange and yellow tones, washing out the other colors like the vintage setting on a phone's camera app -- or like a 20-watt lightbulb trying to light a room where you'd prefer 100 watts. The sun was just a sliver for an instant, and then? Through our glasses, there was nothing. Pitch blackness. The world went eerily silent while we came alive, our heartbeats quickening with excitement, adrenaline rushing through our veins.
"It's happening!" "This is it!" "Holy crap!"
We ripped our glasses off and stared at the hole in the sky where the sun should have been -- had been just moments before. A black hole surrounded by a sparkling diamond ring, a shimmering halo. I could barely breathe.
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This is happening.
Around us, cheers from the people on other neighborhood streets filled the air -- awe-filled exultation, surprise, and delight from out-of-state visitors and Nebraska citizens alike, echoing off of the bluffs as we all gathered to soak in a once-in-a-lifetime celestial event -- the perfect alignment of the sun and the moon.
Time seemed to stand still.
The moon hung in place.
The world remained quiet, save for a few chirping crickets.
Colors inverted.
Shadows disappeared.
The horizon -- on all sides of us -- resembled a fading sunset.
Here it was, almost noon on a warm August day, but the drop in the temperature and the dusky light made it seem like it was about 8:30 in the evening. I could feel the cool of night in the dead of the day.
The sun and the moon had perfectly converged, overlapped, for this sweet moment in time -- but nothing could have prepared us for the world's responding silence -- its repose -- as if even nature itself were holding its breath, waiting for permission to move.
The synergy and connection with the universe was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Everything had glided and clicked into place, including my very soul. Breathless, I felt my heart and head drawn to the heavens, like I was being held to the sun and moon by a string.
It all hung there just like that for a minute -- maybe a little more. We snapped photos of the blazing white corona, of the bluish-tinted world around us, of the street lamps that had come on with the faded light. But no photograph could ever do it justice, could ever adequately capture what we were feeling. And deep down, we all knew it. So we tried to soak up every drop of the experience while it lasted.
In the corner of my mind, I've filed away a list of those surreal moments in life -- those miraculous moments when I've been granted a peek at nature in all its glory and felt so completely small in comparison. Like seeing a breaching whale in the ocean off the coast of Mexico ... coming across a bear in the wilderness of Montana ... being drenched by the waters of Niagara Falls.
This moment was right up there with the best of them. This one made the list.
It was a deeply beautiful, holy, and spiritual experience -- crazy, unforgettable -- and over all too soon.
Much before we wanted it to, the moon disk slid to the other side, revealing another thin glimmer of light from that powerful sun, immediately restoring the earth's warmth and glow until, ever so gradually, everything returned to normal once again.
So the word "totality"? Not so much. It just doesn't do justice to the fullness of the eclipse. It's too frail of a word -- doesn't adequately paint the picture -- lacks color. It doesn't tell the story of how for a brief moment in time, the sun and moon aligned, and the earth grew quiet out of sheer respect.
You know what word I do like? "Syzygy" -- a word I just learned (and can't even really pronounce!) that throws the official vowels out the window in an attempt to explain what we "eclipse chasers" saw on Monday. It's as if even language itself knows that the rules sometimes have to be bent to accurately convey the level of grandeur of a complete and total solar eclipse.
Did you get to experience the syzygy? To see the eclipse in its "totality"? Where did you go? Tell us about it in the comments!
