An Eclipse in a New Direction

On August 21st, 2017, there was a total solar eclipse that traveled across the United States from the southeast to the northwest. Even those who were nowhere near the path of totality were awed to see the world turn gray and the shadow of the moon slightly crescent the sun. Friends on Facebook who either lived or traveled to the path of totality in 2017 expressed awe and frustration at their all too inadequate words to describe it. Over and over again on social media I read "in 2024, if you are anywhere near the path of totality, go. Drop everything, go. Even if you aren't, drive there. Make a trip. Make it a priority." I listened, and took it seriously. In 2017 I marked down the date of April 8th 2024 to take a vacation day and travel. 

As of a few months ago, it wasn't clear if I'd be able to take the day off. A coworker in her 70s was (rightly) adamant also about going to see the eclipse, and half jokingly said that she should have priority because of her age and the fact that she'd never get another chance. It was a fair point. So we waited to see if we could both get the day off. A month ago, we found out both of us could get the day off. So I started to think about where I wanted to drive. 

As of a week ago, I still wasn't quite sure. I wanted to keep my options open and not get my heart set on any one destination, since the predictions of how many people would be traveling to Ohio to see the eclipse varied from 150,000 to half a million people. I didn't know what to expect. As of Friday, my coworker and I chatted and agreed we both thought the smartest thing to do would be to drive up route 13, a small rural highway, toward Mansfield. To what destination, we had no idea. 

I was born and raised in Mansfield. I lived there until I was 14, and so the idea of heading to an area I knew pretty well was appealing as well. On Sunday night I started to search for eclipse events around the area, just to see what was happening. And I discovered that Kingwood Center, a public historic gated mansion and gardens about a five minute bike ride from my childhood home, was holding an eclipse event. I abandoned my previous plan to drive to a small town west of Mansfield for a street festival. Sitting in a garden surrounded by nature was a much much more appealing prospect. 

In the middle of the night Sunday night, I woke up to answer the call of nature, and as I was slipping back into sleep, the thought occurred to me that instead of wearing comfy clothes I should dress up. I decided to wear a golden rose and sun rays headpiece I made several years ago for a Faeriecon group costume (we wore the gowns of the fairy tale Allerleirauh, in sun moon and stars dresses) with a comfortable black dress to symbolize the eclipse, and a chain belt with a pendant of the sun and the moon. Sometimes I just can't resist the urge to make an already special occasion even more special by dressing up for it, even if I'm probably the only person who will do so. I suppose it's a way of romanticizing my life and adding a bit of whimsy. The sun and moon were putting on a special performance for an audience of millions: the least I could do was to dress up for them.

We (my husband and I) left home shortly after 8am, after stopping for gas and to pick up a pair of new camping chairs (we've had a lot of rain lately and would be waiting five hours for the eclipse totality). The road was blissfully free of traffic, and in beautiful weather the drive up 13 can be one of the loveliest in Ohio in my opinion. We sped along past glowing meadows and empty cornfields, through the picturesque towns of Mount Vernon and Bellville. Every time I go back to Mansfield, I'm hit with that slightly dizzying and wistful feeling of nostalgia as different locations remind me of childhood memories. I pointed out the old sit-down Pizza Hut building where my Uncle loved to have his birthday parties, the steep hill with a creek at the bottom of it where we would go sledding in winter. And then we were at Kingwood Center, where the gates had just opened and there was already a decent stream of people entering the admission building. A peacock stood on the fence by the front door, calling a hello to everyone as they arrived. 

The response to my outfit throughout the day was absolutely lovely. I received so many cheerful remarks and compliments. I was called "The Sun Princess" and "The Eclipse Queen" and several other kind things. A little boy asked for a picture with me and his sister shyly slid in at the last moment. What people need to understand about those of us who dress up for things like this is...it is oftentimes not even slightly for the attention. Sometimes, it is equal parts 1. wanting to recognize the magic of the moment, as I said above. 2. wanting to wear something that seems truthful to who they are, and who they are is whimsical and storytelling and 3. wanting to bring a moment of joy to the people who might see them. The third point is so very important, and so I kept a giant smile on my face all day as I made eye contact with everyone I walked by. And oh, there was so much to walk around and see. The weather was gorgeous, with moments of cloud cover and sun. We walked around the gardens when we first arrived. I showed Tom the lovely greenhouses, the duck pond, the sleeping rose garden. 

I was excited to see the formal terraced gardens again, but what I didn't expect was the emotion I felt to see them. When I was a child, Kingwood Center was just that place down the street where we went to take family pictures, or maybe where some people met after church. (Back then there was no admission fee, so it was easier to just pop on by.) But even in my casual childhood disregard of the beauty of the place, the formal gardens still seemed to hold a mystery and magic. The koi pond, the strange terraced stone steps and sunken garden spaces. The hedges that hid what was around the next corner. And then there were the statues. Oh, the strange folkloric mythic statues of a goat-footed man, his arms arched above you as if in attack as he danced, and a naked flute playing pointy-eared youth standing entwined with a goat. They felt strange to my good little Christian girl eyes. I was drawn to them, but I felt like they were sinful and frightening. They stirred things in me I didn't understand. Looking at them on eclipse day, I recognized the magic in their bronze shapes. I thought of the little girl I was then, and the woman I've become. And it started to make sense why I was at Kingwood of all places for eclipse day.

As the day went on, we sat in our camp chairs and I listened to soothing meditative music on my airpods as I looked around at the other groups of people walking and socializing. After getting an umbrella from the car, I slipped my boots off and dug my toes into the grass. The clouds thinned and the sun shone brightly. I walked around the herb garden barefoot, picked a tiny wildflower from the grass and pressed it in a book. My heart filled with the sort of languid, relaxed feeling that can only come on a sunny afternoon when there's nothing to do but wait and enjoy. As we sat there and occasionally walked around to stretch and enjoy the gardens or use the facilities, the parking lot filled and filled. Apparently there were people at Kingwood from as far away as India, Alaska. As we left later in the day I heard a couple speaking Japanese.

And then it was after 2:00, and the eclipse began. At first there was just a small dent in the sun, but as we paused every ten minutes or so in our languid lounging to pull on our glasses and peer again, the shadow swallowed more and more of the solar light. At this point I need to tell you that although I had read beforehand that the difference between 99% coverage and totality was day and night and worth traveling any distance to see, I hadn't peeked at any spoilers of what the actual experience details might be like. 

The sky grew darker ever so slowly, and a chill returned to the air. The light was so strange and surreal ("surreal" is a word I could repeat a million times in regards to the whole experience). I told Tom that it felt like the opposite of a golden hour. Everything seemed to slip into a gray dusk charged with electricity, like the heavy air before a massive storm. The peacocks started to walk in confusion around the groups of observers scattered across the lawn on blankets and in chairs. I shivered and draped my coat back around my shoulders as I tipped my head back on the chair, gazing up at the sun as the fingernail of glowing light grew smaller and smaller and....

photo by Annalise Rose

Then the world turned black. I could see nothing through my eclipse glasses. Looking around, startled, I heard a cry go up from everywhere around me. People started clapping and I whipped off my glasses to see a world gone dark, with a subtle orange fire around the horizon. I started trembling uncontrollably. No one had told me it would happen so quickly, like flipping a light switch from on to off. My eyes filled with tears as I looked up at the black hole where the sun should be. It was awe-inspiring, it was terrifying. Even knowing the science doesn't prepare you for how apocalyptic it feels to look up at where the sun should shine in midday and see only a ring of fire surrounding an ebony disc. Tom tapped my shoulder and pointed to my right, where a peacock walked by on the sidewalk two feet from me. As I stared at the sky, they started to call out, a frightened and haunted sound that was completely unlike their earlier daytime noises. There was a peacock on each sidewalk and they walked toward each other, calling out as if asking "what is going on? Do we go back to roost?" The groups of people murmured in hushed voices to each other as the bang of fireworks went off in the distance. 

There was a glowing red flare at the bottom of the sun during the eclipse. We were astounded by the unexpected sight. Apparently it's called a prominence - hot gas coming out of the sun in a magnetic loop -- but at the time all we knew was that it was strange and marvelous and we were speechless. I giggled a little, slightly hysterically. I felt humbled and awed. I felt afraid, despite knowing that we were experiencing a fully scientific phenomenon. And then it was over. Totality ended, and even the smallest minute sliver of sun meant that everyone's eclipse glasses had to be slipped back on, and the black night returned to gray light twilight again. 

We sat there for a little while, astounded by the experience. I had known to expect something powerful. But even coming into a total solar eclipse with that knowledge, I didn't expect all of the emotions that had overcome me. People were laughing and chatting again. I wondered how they could be so blase. But I think I understand now. The total solar eclipse makes a person feel humbled and awed, realizing for a moment the transience of all our existences, the vast enormity of the universe. And the way in which people react to such a thing varies as widely as...well...people. 

When I was sitting and waiting for the eclipse I was browsing social media, and I saw a post where someone was explaining the meaning of the eclipse in Hindu mythology. As part of the post they pointed out that the last eclipse in 2017 had bisected the United States in the complete opposite direction of this solar eclipse. Just as the experience had been a fully scientific phenomenon, but my feelings had turned them into magic, I also cannot help but try to find some personal meaning in that simple directional change. 

After August 2017, my life grew much harder. In November, my beloved cat I'd loved my entire adult life died. In December, my Grandma, my heart's beloved, passed away. My boss who we all adored quit her job, and I was installed as the next branch manager, a job I quickly discovered I was ill suited to and abandoned after a half year to return to my old position. Covid came along in 2020, I quit my job at the magazine and then had a massive private upset in my life in 2021. People started to only half-joke that we were in the darkest timeline. The world only seemed to grow bleaker and bleaker. 

And so, you'll forgive me if on a personal and wider level I hold out some hope that perhaps the fact that this solar eclipse traveled in a new direction might mean that perhaps my life might start moving in a new direction since the last solar eclipse occurred. Just like I am not the same person I was when I was a little girl, frightened at those satyr statues and scared of the magic they represented, I'm also not the same person I was in 2017 when I saw the world go gray and the birds go silent. Perhaps, just perhaps, I can shout even louder at the world like that peacock did. Calling out in maybe a bit of confusion but also making my voice heard, making my stories heard. 

Maybe I can just keep writing, and in that way I can be a bit of a light in the darkness.