Breaking news: Eclipses are great!

But that's not what I loved most about this afternoon

I don’t have any particular interest in the cosmos. That’s not a value judgment, mind you. Thank goodness that other people think about the universe more than I do. I’m sure I’d be a more interesting and well-rounded person if my astronomical and cosmological understanding extended beyond “Pluto used to be a planet, you know.”

When I woke up this morning, I thought I’d miss out on the whole eclipse experience. I was working on a piece about a recently published book on rural American politics. It isn’t a very helpful book, though it’s clearly trying to be. I’ll still write that essay, but for now I’ll just say that it’s the kind of book that flatters its readers by assuring them that there is another group of people who live somewhere else who are dangerous and angry and presumably the source of all of our problems. The book was a bestseller, I hear. That’s not surprising. We all love stories like that. They are one way that we make sense of a world which often makes us feel powerless, just not my favorite way.

My wife was working from home today. She at the kitchen table. Me at the Ikea chair in the corner of our bedroom. She was the one who convinced me to pay attention to the generational mystery appearing in the sky above us. Am I proud that I needed convincing? No. But those words! About rural White America! They weren’t going to write themselves!

How was the generational mystery, by the way? Pretty neat. It was a beautiful spring day in Milwaukee. Only a few clouds. 90% totality, a phrase that as of three hours ago I now throw out as if I have a PhD in eclipse-ology. I loved that it suddenly got cold and dark, and then slowly but surely the sun came out again. I loved that my wife and I got to watch it together. I loved that we talked about how little we understood what was going on. I loved that all we basically had to say to one another was “whoa.”

But also…

I loved that we kept running into neighbors.

We walked by the corner bar closest to our house. A couple guys were outside with one of those big cardboard box set-ups. They let us take their contraption for a spin. Other neighbors were out with colanders and pin-pricked pieces of paper. Is there a high tech, venture capital backed, fully optimized Eclipse Viewing Solution? I don’t think so, and if there is I don’t want to know about it. I had forgotten that this was an empty cereal box and duct tape holiday.

We kept walking. The family on the other side of the alley loaned us an extra pair of glasses. They had gone to a lecture at the planetarium a few days previously. “You remember any cool eclipse facts?” I asked! “No!” they replied, protected eyes staring up at the sun, big smiles on their faces.

I loved that there was so much more to understand. There are experts out there who do in fact, know a million times more about eclipses than I do. And I loved knowing that. But I also loved that there was something legible about this experience to us easily enchanted laypeople.

I loved that the whole event required noticing, but not so much noticing that the human beings around us didn’t disappear from frame.

We continued on, past our kids’ school, doing our best to avoid embarrassing either child. Somebody had donated glasses for the entire student body, so by the time we walked by all the kids were enraptured, spread out across the playground in tiny clumps. One fourth grade class commandeered the gaga ball court, just a bunch of slightly bobbing heads peering upwards. At one point, a first-grader said something about macaroni (perhaps that’s how the sun looked, peeking through the moon?). Soon the false solemnity of the moment was broken by seven-year-olds trying the joke on for size. “MACARONI!” (laughter) “MACARONI!” (somehow even more laughter).

I loved that no teachers corrected them. They, too, were staring upwards, the same big grins on their faces.

My wife went home with the glasses to enjoy the remainder of the moment from our backyard. I kept walking. “Did you see it?” strangers would ask me from their porches. I gave a big, goofy thumbs up in return. Again, this was an event that, six hours previously, I was fully committed to skipping.

I passed by our Quaker Meeting House, on the banks of the river, where the purple flowers have already taken over the hillside. I was surprised to see a few elders sitting on the tiny front lawn, as I knew that they would have had to travel a bit to come there.

Why was I surprised? Of course that’s where they came.

I loved that, when the universe is beyond our understanding, there are places where we feel drawn to, places that are safe, places that we can find without a map.

I thought of my community, and how we were celebrating this holiday beyond comprehension with our homemade contraptions and tiny kindnesses. And then, I thought beyond us.

I thought of places I have loved that are not my home. A couple decades ago, I lived on the Navajo Nation. I thought about how many Diné were inside for the eclipse, pausing all activity in a spirit of prayer, meditation and reverence.

I thought about a world full of the parents who, this morning, plaintively reminded their kids “don’t stare at the sun!” and then, when the temptation came over themselves as well, had to issue the same caution inward, likely more than once. I loved that how it’s always like that.

I loved how much I wanted to stare at the sun.

I thought about the people who drove thousands of miles to an unfortunately cloud-covered place and how that must have been disappointing. I’m sorry for them, but I loved that they cared so much for chasing wonder and delight that they gave it a go. I hoped that they were with family and friends and that the car ride home was full of laughter.

Last week, we had a discussion in this space about hope, despair and cynicism, and how there is a time and a place for all of them. And one of the risks with both days and essays like this is that the moral might be misunderstood as one more privileged solipsism. “You see? Human beings are not just cruel and vicious to one another. We do not elect authoritarians and bomb aid trucks and destroy the environment. We are gentle and kind, full of wonder and neighborliness and homemade contraptions for staring at the sun. Just look for the helpers!”

The truth, both fortunately and unfortunately, is that we are both. And more frequently than not, we live in a world that brings out the more frightened, provincial, hurtful parts of our nature.

And so it’s no small thing when not just any world but this particular world stops for a second and we are in love with what is in front of our eyes and our only immediate hope is that our neighbors can see us too.

The eclipse, I am told, is generational. But I love us every day. And we have to love us every day. Because everything terrible about us— as a hierarchy-sustaining, harm-causing species— is true. But it is not all of who we are. It can’t be all of who we are. We are this too. This curiosity. This care. This big goofy thumbs up passed from neighbor to neighbor. It may be buried, but it is there, waiting to come out.

End notes:

This week’s song of the week is “Embrace the Crimson Tide” by ‘90s Athens, GA art weirdos Elf Power. I think it matches the vibes of today’s piece well (it’s droney and propulsive) but the real reason why it’s on my mind right now is that instead of sending a link to an organizing podcast to the folks who’ve already signed up for spring Barnraisers courses, I instead accidentally linked to anApple Music playlist where this is the first track. I make a lot of mistakes, but sometimes some good comes out of those mistakes (in this case, a nice song).

This week’s book update:

1. Have you gotten a copy yet? There’s no time like the present, and I think you’ll enjoy it.

2. I’m not sure if I can think of a bigger compliment to the book than this piece by

   Erin Boyle
   which is about her mom and PTAs and how she decided to get more involved in her community.

3. I’m still on the road!

   1. LaCrosse, I’d love to see you on Thursday (the 11th) at the gorgeous Pearl Street Books at 6:30 PM.

   2. Omaha,

      lyz
      (the Midwest’s favorite New York Times bestseller) and I will be at Pageturners Lounge NEXT WEDNESDAY (the 17th) at 5:30 PM

   3. Friends everywhere,

      Courtney Martin
      and I are doing a virtual hang-out about the book on April 19th at 1:30 PM. Link to register here.

   4. More dates still being added (both book talks and organizing workshops) below and at my website.

4. I’ve got one more “this is me talking about narrating the audiobook” video to share! I remain ashamed of my posture, but proud of all other aspects. More If you like audiobooks, I think the final product turned out really well. This week, a listener told me “they somehow got you to slow down!” Which yes, they did.