The Path of Totality

It was the middle of the morning, 9:30AM, when I went outside, put on my special glasses and looked up at the sun. I could already see the moon crossing over, leaving a crescent-shaped shadow over the sun.

It was amazing. Seeing the moon in shadow. In daylight. Seeing what appeared to be the two celestial bodies almost switching roles.

Copyright: C. Martin

Copyright: C. Martin

I didn't expect to sit through the whole thing, but that's exactly what ended up happening. I sat down on a lawn chair and watched the show for the next 40 minutes or so. Every few minutes, I'd put my glasses on and look up and see more and more of the sun disappearing behind the moon.

As time went on, I realized I was shivering. It was getting colder. The shadows were getting longer. The light turned to an almost gray color. The shadows were unlike the shadows I normally see. The lines and patterns strange, unfamiliar.

I ran inside to get a sweater about 2 minutes before the peak of the eclipse. I stopped short. The house was dark inside, except for a few more odd shadows laying themselves across the floor and walls. I stopped to take pictures, then ran back outside again.

The whole backyard looked gray, like someone had fiddled with the contrast and exposure settings on a picture. It was genuinely cold.

I sat down again, and suddenly…there it was. The moment where everything went almost completely dark (I was about 30 miles south of the path of totality). It was like that moment just before night falls. Total quiet. Chilly. Gray.

There was something almost creepy about it, but mostly it was fascinating. Awe-inspiring. It made me realize just how vital the sun is to our lives. Would we survive in that darkness? In that cold?

And then, almost before I could blink, it was light again. Even after the moon had only moved the tiniest bit, even only 90 seconds of that darkness…the yard became so light again that it felt as if someone had switched on a lamp. Just in a moment. Light to dark to light.

It was magic. Pure, beautiful magic.

Reading the Land

My first boyfriend was obsessed with a series of fantasy novels whose name I can no longer recall. He identified so strongly with the protagonist that he insisted everyone call him by that name instead of the one he was given. When we began dating, he said I was just like the female lead character. The girl in the story was a scryer - she threw stones and was able to find hidden answers in the patterns they made.

At the time, my boyfriend did not know what an intuitive I considered myself to be, how much I believed in magic, or even that I read tarot cards for fun. I found it incredibly affirming that he associated me, early on in the relationship, with someone who had such a strong connection to nature and such deep, intuitive insight.

As the years have gone by, I forgot about that book, about that character. My attention was caught again and again by other things.

Walking through the same woodland for 25 years, my artist's eye starting noticing the contrast between the different colors of bushes and bark. I became entranced with the dances the long grasses made when the wind blew. I especially loved textures and patterns - the way dead rabbitbrush would fan and flatten as it died, lying there alongside elegant twists and turns of living branches, or the delicious, slightly fuzzy bark that would peel away from the trunks of juniper trees.

Copyright: Yancy Lael 2017

Copyright: Yancy Lael 2017

I delighted in all of this, always wishing I could capture the beauty with more than just my camera.

And then one day, I read a blog post written by the luminous Sylvia Lindsteadt. She compares the detritus that washes up from the sea to runes and speaks about the secret language of the land that is hidden in these seemingly random items, in the patterns made by sea and sand.

I began to think about the patterns that, at one time I simply noticed, and that now I seek out - the random bone left behind by a coyote, the deer trails that crisscross the woods, the tiny, fluffy owlet feathers that still seem to appear in the most random places.

Copyright: Yancy Lael, 2017

Copyright: Yancy Lael, 2017

While I am glad to notice these things just to appreciate their beauty, what if there is more to our interaction than that? What if these are the runes of the land? What if these are the stones that we scry with? What if these items, these seemingly random placements and patterns, are not at all random? What if they are telling a very specific story of the land around us? What if those stories have instructions for us, information that could help us navigate through our own woodland (or seascape, or desert, or…)?

If we listen, if we read the runes, the stones, the bones, the feathers…what would they tell us?

The Fine Line

This is it. The moment we cross the boundary from darkness back into light. A time of life, of activity, of busyness.

 

There’s always a fear in me when we’re at the opposite side of this event – the autumnal equinox. While I love fall and the onset of the holiday season, I don’t do as well in the darkness, especially if the weather is particularly bad (as it was this year.) It is my instinct, as I think it is with most people (since we were biologically designed this way) to sleep more, rest more, listen more.

 

Unfortunately, I don’t feel like I have that opportunity when we’re in the dark side of the year. Schedules don’t change. Demands aren’t altered to make room for these seasonal and biological needs. The world keeps moving along, as fast as if it were the hot, long, busy days of summer.

 

But at this time of year, my energy matches the expectations of the world out there. I’m excited. I’m energized. I’m ready to hit the ground running.

 

This is such an exciting time, with all the plants in the world waking up, reaching toward the sky, getting ready to put on one of their two big events of the year – The Great Blossom. I love the air in April, when it’s filled with perfume, when every breeze carries a whorl of fallen petals on its breath. It’s like the earth is reaching out a hand to us, telling us how much it loves us, and how much it longs for us to love it back.

 

Copyright: Yancy Lael 2017

Copyright: Yancy Lael 2017

We’re just at the threshold now. Everything is suspended in one perfect moment of balance. But just one. After that moment (Monday, March 20th, 3:29 am Pacific Time), we’ll be barreling toward action, drive, production, creation. Gardens will be growing, the ground will be warming, rivers will be running high with snow melt. And it’ll keep going until we hit the next equinox and watch the earth go back into sleep.

 

This is our dance. It’s certainly a nice thing to remember at a time like this, when some of us might see the world as so wildly out of balance.

 

But we only get one moment. Then the pendulum swings again. Spring comes to the earth now, but some of us feel that we are just entering a long winter. We can look ahead, though, with hope, because we know that moment of balance will return, eventually. The air will be filled with perfume again, blowing those petals all around.

 

For just a moment.