In the middle of October, on a day when autumn finally whispered its way into the air, I stood in my driveway and watched the sun disappear. The technical term for what was happening in the sky is an annular eclipse; my less scientifically rigorous description is that the light got really weird, with both blaring, straight-ahead sun and long, languid shadows, like noon and evening were coexisting in one moment.
Memphis was not in the primary path of the eclipse, where the sun would have appeared as a hollow ring of fire; the moon’s path never fully intersected with the sun, from our vantage. Observed through a pair of eclipse glasses (remnants of the 2017 total eclipse), the moon’s interruption made our star look, paradoxically, like a crescent moon. I kept thinking of the moon as a quarter fed into a parking meter, slowly slotting into place, then disappearing. The wind seemed to slow as the light faded, or maybe I imagined that. Either way, when I walked back inside, I felt … different. Smaller, yes, in relation to the universe around me. But more connected, too, to the vastness of all that surrounds me, to the generations on generations of humans and other animals who have stood outside on their own sunny days and watched the sun mysteriously fade.
photograph by anna traverse fogle
For reasons practical and otherwise, I’ve not put myself in the pathway of awe very much, lately. The shorthand reason is that I’ve been busy, which is true. The more-true truth is that when you’re running on fumes, it’s harder to remember to look up, to look out — and I’ve been running on fumes for a while. (I know I’m not alone.)
Not so many years ago, I prided myself on having a keen sense for when a rainbow might appear in the sky, or for when the sunset would dazzle. To some extent, this was probably true: I am fairly well attuned to particular qualities of light and have spent a not-insignificant amount of time paying attention to conditions that will produce fleeting marvels. But it’s also true to say that I spent a lot of time actively seeking out wonder, because, quite simply, I like the way it makes me feel.
Back then, I lived in an eight-story apartment building (the Gilmore) with a roof deck that offered sweeping views of the horizon; when I noticed raindrops falling in a still-bright sky, I would rush up the stairs and stand breathless on the roof, scanning for rainbows. Do that often enough, in the right conditions, and you will be rewarded at least a few times. Of course, I would post photos of the rainbows on social media — but not photos of all the times I darted up to the roof only to stand there damp, winded, and rainbowless.
(As an aside, and as some of my friends are already aware, I would be so very pleased if some bright app developer without much concern for making money would create a crowd-sourced smartphone app that would alert us when there is a rainbow in the sky. Like, hey you! Step away from your desk and go outside! RAINBOW IN THE EAST! If my phone periodically delivered rainbow notifications, I’d be tempted less often to throw the darn thing into the river.)
In 2023, I have managed to witness exactly zero rainbows. I’ve noticed the conditions are close to perfect a few times, but there are always trees in the way of where I think the arc might land, or else I’m stuck in a meeting, or working against a deadline. One of my other extra senses is for four-leaf clovers, but I’ve found the same number — zero — this year. It’s not a matter of my eyesight, which is the same level of terrible it’s been for ages. No, it’s something to do with how I’m looking, rather than how I’m seeing. Those few minutes of strange long eclipse shadows reminded me that I need to do more looking.
The next solar eclipse won’t happen until next year. But in these last couple months of the year, I hope to remember to look up, out, and around a little more frequently. Doing so won’t fix any specific quotidian challenges; it won’t ease conflicts around the globe or here in Memphis. But refilling our quotas of awe might help us feel our way through whatever comes.
