Abstract

I share my extraordinary journey for the April 2024 eclipse

Shadows

April, 2024.

Bonham, Texas.

In the path of the total solar eclipse.

Our chosen place under the shadow.

I will just lean onto your shoulder at 12:25 today, just start my pass in front of you like we’ve done before. For centuries. She sounded coy. I will take my time - there are a lot of things happening, you know, with my pirouette the earthlings call rotation, their own rotation, and my flight through space, they call orbit, at over two thousand miles per hour. Such choreography! The Sun nodded, used to his daily center stage, but agreeable to retreat backstage on those occasions. He wasn’t just humoring her; rather looked forward to their near brush and brief alignment. I will savor this passage, spotlighted for two hours thirty-nine minutes. I will appear to hover, the only orb in the sky, black as coal, for over three minutes. Three minutes, 1.8 seconds to be exact. And yes, I will be counting. She relished those minutes and seconds when her diminutive self, four hundred times smaller than his bulk, but four hundred times closer to her Earth than him, blocked his radiant life-giving light and dazzled the earthlings, heads tilted back, watching in awe. It would be such a spectacle! She recognized that his light made her glow in the night, and appear soft and white during the day. But to Be The Spotlight, center stage, never ceased to thrill.

My husband, Ken, and I were there, front row. We’d flown to Texas for the total solar eclipse. We had in hand our road map of Texas on which I’d drawn the outer boundaries of the 115 mile wide swath, the path of totality, that ran southwest into Mexico and northeast, arcing over Oklahoma and Arkansas and beyond. And we had more than enough pairs of eclipse glasses. We hoped to experience what I’d heard was an event-not-to-be-missed—the blocking out of our Sun by our Moon. I’ve since heard that this particular total solar eclipse was dubbed The Great American Eclipse: its path covered so many big cities in so many states in the US that the possible fortunates counted in the millions.

We’d started preparations late—long after many of the folks who’d planned ahead and booked flights and lodging—and had struggled to find reasonable airfare and rooms. Just when I thought we might give up this dream, we found acceptable airfare into Dallas, and vacancy at a restored Victorian Bed and Breakfast in Bonham, Texas, a small town seventy-two miles northeast of Dallas, fourteen miles from the Red River and the Oklahoma border. I headed into our journey with that enthusiasm and openness of not knowing: I had never been to Texas, and neither of us had seen a total solar eclipse. Nor had we experienced a tornado…there had been recent warnings.

We flew to Dallas on Sunday, April 7, the afternoon before the eclipse. The sky was fairly clear, the sunlight bright. We found our Turo rental car parked at an arm of Love Field and drove the hour and a half to our destination, the last stretch on a quiet rural highway under a few wispy clouds. “Well, we can at least say we saw the Texas sky,” I observed cheerfully, clinging to optimism in case real clouds covered our objective the next day. It was Texas sky over new territory. It felt unique.

We made a brief stop at the flea market just outside of Bonham, walked past their array of metal armadillos and roosters, then drove into town to the Carleton House. The three-story Victorian was a soft shade of grayish lavender and I wondered how it would look through the eclipsed light the next day.

We stepped through the front door into the nineteenth century. The beautifully renovated home, on a quiet tree-lined residential street, was filled with authentic antiques, original furnishings, and soft murals on the walls and ceiling painted by Karen, our hostess, who welcomed us with her warmth and humor. Over three days, she fed us delicious breakfasts on a lace covered table next to their parlor. Steve, her husband and friendly accessible host, shared local history, as well as played fiddle in their entry hall, accompanied by Karen on washboard equipped with cowbells. We’d stumbled onto a jewel. I was totally charmed—and to think this would be topped off by a total solar eclipse. I felt lucky.

The morning of Monday, April 8 was sunny and warm and I felt luckier still. After breakfast, we walked around the half-acre of lawn and flower garden surrounding the Carleton. Ken took a photo of me standing on an authentic carriage stone along their front walkway, with Steve’s 1931 Model A Ford parked in their driveway. We were in a different place and time. Eager to see the town, we walked down the street toward the square under a blue sky, a few fluffy clouds floating overhead. The eclipse was to start at 12:25pm, with totality to be at 1:43pm. We had time to explore.

Bonham is a small town of almost 11,000, one of Texas’s oldest cities dating to 1837. Buildings frame the square around the impressive courthouse that was recently restored to its original architecture. We felt relaxed and comfortable, but my eyes kept darting towards the sky while we walked the square, stopped at the feed store and a few small shops, and visited the winery at the end of town. The winery owner seemed excited — they were planning an eclipse party with live music — and invited us to come back. Everyone everywhere was friendly; there was the buzz, the talk, the build of something to come. The visitor center felt festive, where we were given a Welcome to Bonham goodie bag. We still had wide swaths of blue above— but medium-sized clouds were showing up now, some with gray bellies, and we took longer looks at them as they drifted our way. It was late morning,

“I see clumps of clouds. There’s definitely some clouds,” I noted.

“For sure. Let’s head back,” our confidence in luck and atmospheric cooperation was starting to wane.

More clouds rolled in, seeming to aim straight towards us. I tried to study the swath of clouds, the density, the direction of their drift; the changing sky. Could I detect an ending edge to their growing mass? Was it just a passing group? Some started to cover and surround the Sun.

We walked back to the Carleton House unsure of what to do. I kept looking at the sky, hoping to see a final boundary to the growing overlap of clouds clearly sailing in our direction. But they continued to follow each other, a quiet curtain threatening to cover the stage for the total solar eclipse. We had considered that driving out of town, maybe hours, to seek clear skies, would be an option. Maybe a necessity. We’d read be ready to be mobile. We had snacks. We purchased water and a Styrofoam cooler for the car from the local Walmart. A few days before our flight to Dallas, I’d even returned to our local AAA office to get the Arkansas and Oklahoma map to add to our Texas one. Just in case. “We’re flying to Texas for the eclipse,” I excitedly shared with a woman at the counter “They’re having tornados there,” was her flat comment, as she handed me the map. Tornados!

We spread out the Arkansas and Oklahoma map on our bed in our upstairs room at the Carleton House. The cloud cover had gotten denser. I wondered who, other than my weather app that I’d consulted constantly, might be best able to advise. I looked up the National Weather Service, happy to see an office for the Dallas-Fort Worth area. After a refreshingly short automated phone tree, I spoke to a human. “We’re in Bonham,” I told her. “Do we need to drive to Arkansas?” She’d know what I was talking about. She was pleasant, understanding, possibly had been fielding many calls that day. She described the sky as having scattered clouds that might further scatter at the time of totality, and that, no, she didn’t think we needed to drive to Arkansas. We were relieved. If we were not going to see the eclipse, we may as well not see it where we were. We’d stay put in Bonham and hope for the best.

We headed outside around 12:20pm. Ten chairs were set up on the front lawn of the Carleton House, facing their gazebo. There were chairs within the gazebo, too, for the local and visiting guest musicians who would play banjo, fiddle, guitar and washboard prior to totality. We met neighbors who’d come over with their instruments, watched as they set up—chatting, anticipation, and excitement all mixed together. I moved a chair further out on the lawn, out from under tree branches. My husband and I posed for a photo with our eclipse glasses held to our faces, grinning, although all we could see was black: the Sun was covered by clouds at this point, our eclipse glasses eclipsing the whole sky. We had almost another hour before totality. We knew the Moon had started her journey across the Sun from the time on our watches.

Time had been stretching during our stay in Texas. I attribute this, as during most new experiences, to being in the moment—with attention to new surroundings; eyes, ears, and all senses wide open. It seems to stretch time—moments, hours, days passing more slowly.

“Why does it feel like we’ve already been here a long time,” my husband asked me that morning at breakfast within earshot of our gracious hostess.

“Oh, he wants to go home already!?” Her words sounded as if hurt, but spoken with a smile.

“No, not at all, ” I explained. “Our time is passing slowly. We’re savoring each moment. It’s a good thing.”

I did not yet know that time would stop in its tracks at the moment of totality.

The musicians in the gazebo were ready. The music joyful. Steve played his fiddle. One of the guests from Mt. Baldy, James, plucked his banjo. His wife, Patty, played the washboard. A fellow with a fabulous white beard sat down, strumming his electric guitar, and two women, Dallas and Wanda, joined with their acoustic guitars. Birds sang and clouds rolled silently over the Sun, then would part for a brief glimpse. Ken and I kept our eclipse glasses in hand, and shifted our chairs here and there on the lawn to maybe get a better view.

The Moon was gliding across the Sun, bit by bit. We knew this, but the clouds teased, kept the curtain drawn, then opened, drawn, opened. It was getting closer to the time. The musicians came out onto the lawn, dragging chairs with them.

“Where is the Sun? I can’t tell through all the clouds.”

“Over there, that brighter spot.”

Everyone looked up, protective glasses to their eyes.

When the wind or good fortune would brush away a cloud, the Sun and Moon would peek through. We could see how far the black circle of the Moon had carved away the light. During those moments, heads back, faces raised, the Sun shone on us.

“It feels really hot, doesn’t it? Intensely hot!”

“Does it seem brighter than usual?”

Was this just the brilliant baking Texas Sun? Or was this special celestial event hyper focusing the light of our star? Was our Sun, streaming its remaining light past the enveloping cloak of the Moon, shouting, ”I’m here, I’m still here. I’ll keep you warm.”

This peek-a-boo with the Sun, Moon, and clouds—this veiling, then opening, covering, then revealing—lasted almost another half hour. Then, as the Moon covered more of the Sun and the Sun contracted to a crescent, the air cooled. Leaves rustled on the trees. Did the solar lunar dance shudder the air? I felt a shift in atmosphere: a hush heard and felt; the drop in temperature; a blanket on the light. As if anticipation reaching a summit. Then, like a blessing, like a culmination—four minutes before totality, the clouds vanished. Through eclipse glasses, the sky was black. We could see the Moon covering more and more of the Sun, right to left. Heads tilted back, chins up, I held my glasses with one hand and supported my head on my achy neck with the other.

Then it happened. An arrival, a completion, a settling into place. Like a time-lapse video of a flower opening, it felt exquisite. We were given view of something extraordinary, and what we knew was altered, transcended, and beautiful. The Moon covered our Sun and rested there, her brief interlude. We removed our glasses.

The sky was a dusky blue. The air was cool. The birds quiet. Everyone was quiet. Two planets shone in the sky. The Sun’s corona glowed around the blackest of black circles, like an infinite hole punched out of our sky rimmed in light.

I’d entered an untravelled time zone. I can describe the colors, the black, the coolness, the air, the sound of quiet—the feeling is hard to distill into words. Witnessing the depth and breadth of two huge spheres, seen from a third, all moving yet feeling motionless, I somehow felt in place.

The Moon’s unstoppable glide across the sky appeared to pause. She hovered, then took a bow and started to slowly exit left. The Sun peeked past her, a sliver of light. Glasses back on. I heard low chatter, soft laughter, folks sharing, hushed excitement. I had tears. “I am so happy,” I said, over and over.

James had walked out onto the street to see if he could see the shadow of the Moon racing towards us (at over 1000 mph) and came back to share: he hadn’t detected the shadow, but saw streetlights coming on, one by one, as the shadow darkened the afternoon. Steve pointed towards his sideyard, “Look. The Christmas lights on our outdoor tree came on!” Karen had hurried into the house and returned to pop a bottle of champagne.

Dallas, seated in a lawn chair, shared awesome photos taken with her cell phone and texted them around. People packed up instruments. It felt like the end of a party. Everyone slowly left the lawn and walked inside the Carleton House to have snacks. It was about 2:00pm.

I remained on the lawn. Standing, sitting, with my eclipse glasses on. I wanted to stay with the Moon while she completed her passage. I wanted to watch. She had just done a most marvelous thing: completely obscured our immense fiery Sun with her small body that appeared to have grown large enough to block all light. I didn’t want to abandon her. So, I stayed. The eclipse ended at 3:04pm. I remained under the closing spectacle until about 2:45, my neck aching, the Sun gleaming and blazing hot. I watched our Moon almost leave the stage.

I feel freshly introduced to the Sun and the Moon and even the Earth—about sharing space and being part of an explosion of life on one orb interconnected with the other two. Three huge spheres, each rotating on its own axis within this immense celestial arena—when they line up just so, do-si-do, the timing feels miraculous. To think, not possibly grasp, that we join this cosmic dance while riding our planet, orbiting our Sun, at 18.5 miles per second. Extraordinary fun facts, beyond comprehension—as awe may be beyond comprehension as well.

Just three days after we returned to California, on a warm and sunny afternoon, I drove down the street. The shadow of a crow slipped across the pavement and dove under my car as I drove under an unobscured Sun. The shadow of its body with outstretched wings flew towards me. I took notice. Further down the road, the Sun over my right shoulder, tall tree shadows reclined across the road. They leaned, parallel with each other, trunks defying the light of the Sun. It was about 2:00pm, the same time the Moon had begun to release some of the Sun’s light on April 8.

I looked up eclipse in our huge dictionary that sits authoritatively on a wooden bookstand. I thought it might help me put language to my experience of the total solar eclipse just two weeks and two days ago. I narrowed to “solar eclipse” and the definition on page 618 read: the obscuration of the light of the Sun by the intervention of the Moon between it and a point on the Earth. Condensed accuracy, it sounded removed, technical. A definition, for sure, but not at all what those minutes had delivered. Not at all the Wow, the Oh My Gosh. And not what I continue to feel.

Besides noticing shadows more—those round ones under conifers on the side of a far hill, a shadow flying past me when I don’t see its owner overhead—my body feels different in the space between the Earth and the sky. I’m a point on a ray that continues beyond me. I’m part of a system of spheres, a cosmic grouping of which I know only a tiny point. I had wondered before we went to Texas what it would feel like to witness a total solar eclipse. And hoped that I may be graced to feel my place in the midst of this passage and whirl.

I saw the crescent Moon last night, a delicate sliver lit by the Sun. The dark part of the Moon was visible against the night sky. I felt the Moon and the Sun in conversation. They had switched places, the crescent Moon mirroring the shape of the Sun when the Moon strode past him over Bonham. Somehow, we recognize these patterns of movement, of light and dark, of passage, bound with the Earth and all stars and all things. We lift our faces, grin, ooh and aah, and gratefully feel a part.