As far back as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the cosmos. My science projects were almost all about the solar system, I’d fantasize about when we’d colonize the moon and what it would be like to live there. Would there still be shopping malls? Would my swatch watch still work? In my childhood imaginings, this just seemed an inevitable matter of time, I figured I’d be there by 20-years-old at the latest.
My favourite movie was Space Camp, about a bunch of kids who went to - obviously - space camp and then found themselves in space for real when their shuttle launched accidentally (?) - my memory is fuzzy and the 80s weren’t much for realism. I watched and seethed with jealousy, certain I could safely pilot a space shuttle if called upon.
I also love animals, mountains, oceans. I nearly made a driver run our car off the road in Calgary by shrieking with joy when I spotted a moose (they’re HUGE). When I saw whales and elephants in the wild in South Africa, I cried.
But it’s always been the infinite concept of the universe that captured me the most. I couldn’t wrap my head around (and still can’t) the idea of an endless space. Wondering if there was life outside of Earth. If there is (and surely there must be?), what did that mean about humanity and our importance.
As a dreamy child, these thoughts would sometimes consume me. The unknowing could drive me mad, and the knowing that I would never know made me feel worse.
I can still sometimes find myself getting caught up in this loop, like on a particularly clear night when the stars seem to hang lower in the sky, when Saturn is just bright enough that you can see the rings. I feel almost morose, but it’s a sadness I embrace, because of the beauty and the vastness of what I will never know or understand.
So unsurprisingly, I was unabashedly excited about the eclipse. I had thought Toronto was in the totality, and when I discovered to my great disappointment that we were only 99%, I tried to make plans to go just outside the city and experience the full solar eclipse. Unfortunately, better planners than me also had the same idea, and it wasn’t possible.
I ordered eclipse glasses and figured 99% was better than nothing.
I blocked an hour off work, and at around 2:45pm made my way outside. I thought I would be the only one there, but to my surprise, a crowd had already gathered on my street. We made excited small talk, showing off makeshift eclipse boxes, or saying how we managed to get one of the last pairs of glasses from Canadian Tire.
It was cloudy, the sun would only peak out for the briefest periods, and as a collective, we’d throw our eclipse glasses on, or look through the cereal box jury-rigged as a viewing device and exclaim about seeing the moon’s outline around the sun.
And then the sky started darkening. As if on cue, we all stopped talking. We stood together silently as the darkness descended around us, aweing at the stillness. The birds had stopped chirping. A dog across the street sat quietly, seeming to know too that something bigger than us was taking place. For four minutes we said nothing, and allowed the silence to say everything. It was so moving and powerful.
As the moon moved off and the sky started to lighten, we started chattering again, properly introducing ourselves and giving little bios. The clouds parted enough for us to see the sun slowly being unveiled again. I put my eclipse glasses over my phone camera, and two of my neighbours pressed the camera button for me, a three-person effort to take some photos that will never capture what our eyes saw together.
A few of us hung around, not quite ready to leave and go back to real life. I commented that it reminded me a bit of the beginning of the pandemic. How much nicer we were to each other then. The dance parties people would have on their balcony, the way we would greet each other from our safe distance. How we briefly felt bound together by our shared humanity. How today felt like that too.
I can get bound up by melancholy if I’m not careful, especially during the winter when everything is cold and dark. My mood improves immeasurably in spring. I know I’m not alone in this, but since covid I’ve had to force myself not to lean into the isolation. Not to become consumed by the ugliness of the world. Because the world can be incredibly ugly.
I know it’s important to only focus on what I can, and to try make my infitensimally tiny part of the universe better. Do good and be good about things I can control and can change. Be kind.
So I find lately that anything that reminds me of our small and insignificant place in the universe, something that used to fill me with an existential terror now brings me calm. That stupid thing I said that one time, when I realized I left a party with a booger clearly visible in my nose, how I called my kindergarten teacher ‘Mommy’ once - who cares, nobody will remember.
But what I will remember is the feeling I had today. The sense of humanity. The kindness. Our shared excitement. The quiet. When the world feels particularly dark, I will instead remember the darkness of today, how bright and warm it was.
One of the true marvels of life on earth is that the sun, moon, and earth exist in such perfect relationship that both solar and lunar eclipses occur. Makes you stop and think once in a while.
An awesome peace, Ruth. Really speaks to me. We each can repair the world in some tiny way. ❤️ chug Same’ach