Hi friends,
We started “tell me something true” a few weeks back and our first round was…soul food, a long hug, a spark of hope, an honor. So many of you participated and I hope it was one, or all, of those things for you, too. There’s something about being able to speak your truth that helps you discover what’s real and alive in your heart. Thank you for creating this safe, held container with me.
If you didn’t join in last time, here’s how the game goes: I tell you something that’s true and alive for me today. If you are a paid subscriber (that’s how we’re able to keep this a private and safe space), in the comments you share what’s up for you. We all hold space as a community, being gentle with each other, and offering the type of support that’s requested. So simple and yet so nourishing.
Okay, I’ll go first.
Let’s start with a little eclipse trivia: did you know that solar eclipses always happen on the new moon?
(Which means, moving to our new/full moon cycle, Tell Me Something True community posts will now align with solar eclipses… Or at least within a few days of new moon/solar eclipses because, energetically, a new moon is a window of time, not an exact moment.)
Now that you know that solar eclipses always fall on a new moon, any guess on lunar eclipses?
If your powers of deduction are leading you to think hmmm, maybe it has something to do with the full moon? then give yourself a gold star.
These are just a few of the astronomical delicacies I was munching on as I prepped to head to Dallas in hopes of witnessing the solar eclipse.
I saw my first total eclipse in 2017. It happened near Asheville, so we closed Herbiary and took our staff to the Pisgah Astronomical Research Institute where we lounged on a hillside with a few hundred other people, picnicking and staring at the sky through weird cardboard glasses with silvered lenses. It was such a bizarre sight, all these humans sprawled on brightly colored blankets, their eyes flashing silver as they laughed and swigged microbrewed beer and hard cider.
Through the glasses, the sky seemed black. The moon became a slow-moving PacMan. Then I’d pull down the flimsy cardboard specs, and blue would return to the sky. It struck me that until the moment of totality, you could completely miss that an eclipse was in progress. You could just go about your day like nothing was happening. For some reason this realization sent my mind scuttling back through the ages, thinking about the way in which the moment of totality—when day becomes night—would just sneak up on people in ancient Mesopotamia or China. Those people weren’t hanging on a hillside, imbibing alcoholic beverages and watching the moon play PacMan with the sun. To their eyes, it was day. And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, it was night. The seemingly abrupt change must have been startling and terrifying. No wonder eclipses were seen as ill omens. It was a reminder that behind the work-a-day world were things beyond their comprehension.
Which is exactly why I am now smitten with total eclipses and trooped off to Dallas to try to see another. There’s so much my mind can’t quite grasp about life here on Earth. Like the fact that our sun gives off so much energy that, even when it’s been eaten down to a mere crescent, there’s still heat and light. Through my glasses I could see only a tiny sliver of sun peaking from behind the moon. Yet I pulled my glasses off and the sky was still bright and blue. Our sun is a powerhouse in ways I can’t begin to fully take in. I don’t think much about the sun, don’t give enough minutes to reveling in its kick-ass existence. I spend plenty of time in gratitude and appreciation, but the size and scale of an eclipse lets me sink deeply into awe.
More trivia: The sun, by the way, is four hundred times the size of the moon but the moon is 400 times closer to Earth. This odd geometry, apparently found nowhere else in our galaxy, creates the phenomenon we call an eclipse.
Once the sun is fully obscured by the moon, its glow—which we know is daffodil yellow from looking at a zillion kids’ drawings—that glow turns a pure and burning white. Today, as I watched my second total eclipse, my brain saw that white corona and kept thinking diamond fire. Which is cheesy and not logical but my brain seemed very pleased with its word choice.
The hush was eerie. Not the silence of twilight but something else. A held breath, maybe. Something in me stilled, like my blood had gone sluggish in my veins. I could feel calm settling in my solar plexus (yes, I’m seeing the pun or word play or truth). And I just keep staring at the diamond fire corona, now sparking with orange solar flares, first at twelve o’clock then at five.
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