"A
majestical experience!" "Awesome!" “Amazing!” Those are some of
the reactions people expressed about the total solar eclipse April 8.
I had a
different reaction.
We live in
central Indiana, directly in the path of totality, and figured on getting some
good shots (my husband John is a photographer). We debated setting up his
equipment at an overlook at Eagle Creek reservoir or the huge empty parking lot
at Lafayette Square Mall, both locations a few miles from our home, but
eventually settled on our own house. The best viewing spot happened to be from
our front walk—at three o’clock the sun would be above the tree in our front
yard.
I brought
out our camp chairs and settled in while John set up his cameras. The afternoon
was bright and sunny. There was little traffic on our street, as is normal. It
was very quiet. My neighbor came out to watch, and the neighbor next to her.
They kept up a running conversation during the event that was eerily loud. Then
the lighting started getting very strange as the moon passed in front of the
sun, and at the moment of totality it was dark-but-not-dark, similar to how it
is at sunset. But there was no blazing red sun to the west, or anywhere, so it
was like I was on a different planet—all very strange and unsettling. I was
also disoriented by the eclipse glasses not allowing any light in at all except
for the sun—you couldn’t see anything but the yellow ball in the sky.
It was cool,
but not cool. Suddenly everything in my world—my yard, my street, the very sky
above me—was unfamiliar to me in the darkness. Even though I knew what was
happening, I couldn’t help thinking, “This isn’t what 3:00 PM DST at 39°46′07″N
86°09′29″W is supposed to look like.” It was a disruption of “the way things
should be.” My discomfort surprised me—instead of the awe and wonder I expected
to feel witnessing this rare celestial event, I felt nervous and off-balance,
to the extent I became dizzy and nauseated. I can absolutely understand why
people regarded an eclipse as a harbinger of doom. I would have been one of
those Vikings banging on drums and yelling my head off to frighten away Sköll,
the sun-eating wolf—or worse, searching (probably in vain) for a virgin to
sacrifice. “We must do something to bring back the sun!” then a few minutes
later, relief: “I guess making a lot of noise worked, the sun is back!”
The
dizziness and nausea abated after a few hours, and I realized if I’d stayed in
the house during the whole affair, I wouldn’t have been bothered at all. But I
would have missed an exciting event many people all over the world would envy
encountering—one I had only to step out of my front door to experience.
“O dark,
dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without
all hope of day!”—John Milton
