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In the End

In the End

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Back home now after two 12-hour drives that bookended a day of planetary splendor. First, I want to credit the supporting cast, the resplendent redbud trees that lined the highway and gave my weary eyes something to feast on, counteracting the white-line fever. 

And the clouds themselves, which provided a light show late Sunday as crepuscular rays slanted down to the flat, black, Indiana fields, already plowed, waiting to be planted.  The clouds that politely parted on Monday, letting the sun and moon steal the show. The clouds that returned Tuesday, making for a muted and pleasant drive east.

But it was Earth’s star and satellite that stole the show. Our own sun, in a form I’d never seen before. Not blotted out but transformed, covered enough to let its true splendor shine forth “like shining from shook foil.” 

Since Monday afternoon I’ve been trying to put the feeling into words. It was awe-inspiring, yes. Once-in-a-lifetime, yes again. Most of all, it was comforting. It was light winning out in the end. 

(Monday, April 8, 3:04 p.m.)

Total Eclipse

Total Eclipse

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The temperature dropped.  Birds sang their roosting songs. And then, the sun went away. All that was left was a ring of fire. 

Our safety glasses came off, someone blasted “A Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and for almost four minutes we gaped in amazement at the darkened world, the weird twilight, our hilltop transformed.

I looked up and around, to the left and the right, marveled at the 360-degree “sunset.” I felt a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. And then, it was over. 

“This was the universe about which we have read so much and never before felt,” wrote Annie Dillard in an essay called “Total Eclipse,” “the universe as a clockwork of loose spheres, flung at stupefying, unauthorized speeds.”

I looked at my photos, none of which captured the corona, and there, glimmering in the lower right-hand corner of one, was a single white dot. It was the planet Venus — in the middle of an Indiana afternoon. 

Witness to Wonder

Witness to Wonder

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It happened at 6:50 p.m. the night before last. A burst of light in the sky, a fireball or meteor, a visitor from space, vanished before those who glimpsed it even knew what they were seeing. 

What was I doing at the time? Swapping out the old red plastic egg crate toy bins for new cloth ones? Or had I already come upstairs to fix dinner? One thing is certain: I was not outside looking up. 

I’m thinking of Bruegel’s famous painting The Fall of Icarus, and Auden’s poem about it, how human suffering can be obscured by the ordinariness of life. The same can be said of wonder.  How often we miss it. Our heads are down, focused on the page or the skillet, the task at hand. 

Most of the videos sent to the American Meteor Society are from home security cameras. There’s no one around to see the meteorological marvel. But one of them shows a man taking out his garbage. You see the falling star with its long tail. You see him see it. He stops in his tracks, trash bag in hand. A witness to wonder. 

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Woods in White

Woods in White

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The main roads were plowed by Saturday, but wind chill kept me inside. By yesterday, though, temps edged up to the high 30s, and I was itching to leave the house. Would the Reston trails be clear? 

Some were, and those that weren’t I avoided, snapping a photo instead. 

I trod paths I haven’t walked in a while, passed the “laughing tree,” which now sports a white mustache. 

There was a thin layer of frosting on bowed limbs, like a squiggle of toothpaste on a toothbrush. 

I hiked for more than an hour. I was not alone. 

Split Rail

Split Rail

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A frosty walk this morning, a split-rail fence beside me part of the way.  Surely this is fencing lite, only the barest barricade, I think, as I amble beside one of the more open models (two horizontals). 

Though now they now seem more decorative than anything else, split-rail fences have a long history in this country. They were used to mark property boundaries, protect crops and livestock, and, during the Civil War, troops burned them to keep warm. 

In my neighborhood, split-rail fences are the only kind allowed in front yards. In the back you can go wild with a picket or other plank styles, but the front must be open, natural — much like the snippet of yard I photographed this morning. 

It’s a fence … but barely. 

Stan’s Side

Stan’s Side

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For the last few days I’ve been getting to know an old friend, Standard — Stan for short.

I haven’t seen him since March, but here he is again, and up to his usual tricks: early mornings, early evenings, a sense that darkness is winning. In a way, it’s not his fault. He arrives on the scene just as the light is fading, and departs when it’s coming into its own. He’s left holding the bag.

Some people want to banish him forever. Others think we should get rid of his flashy cousin. Until we do one or the other, Stan will be the sober fellow who says “you really should go home now, it’s getting dark” or “early to bed and early to rise.” 

If you happen to catch him in the morning, though … it’s a different story. Trust me, I know.  

(Two sunrise photos in a row? Stan made me do it.)

Endless Summer

Endless Summer

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There was a freeze warning last night, and the furnace is humming as I type these words. Time to remember warmer weather. 

I’m thinking of a beach: salt air, gentle surf, an inquisitive egret strolling through the waves, eyeing the bait bucket as he passes a fisherman on the shore.

I’m remembering the way my body feels in the sun, loose and warm and grateful to be alive.

I’m reliving walks under palm trees, fronds clicking in the breeze and the air heavy and full.

As the season turns, the mind can mutiny, can claim for itself an endless summer. 

Bridge at Sunset

Bridge at Sunset

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The Port of Savannah is the third largest in the U.S., plied day and night by colossal container ships. But when I snapped this shot it seemed to be holding its breath, and the Talmadge Bridge seemed delicate as lace.

Today we leave this city for its cousin across the river — Charleston, South Carolina, with its French Quarter, waterfront and Rainbow Row.

We may take another span to get there, but a bridge will be involved, just the same. 

(As it turns out, we took this one.)

Down of a Thistle

Down of a Thistle

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Several days during the trip last month the air was filled with flying fluff. It took a while to determine the source, to realize that the fluff was the down of a thistle, the national flower of Caledonia.

Here’s a perfect example of vacation thinking. Were I at home, I would find the thistle a weed and the fluff frustrating evidence of its spread. But in Scotland, I found it enchanting, winged messengers of hope and beauty.

Watching the gossamer stuff float through a heathered Highland landscape was a magical experience. It brought the Clement Clarke Moore lines to mind:

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle/And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle …”

And that’s just what we did — fly away, that is.  I miss that magical vacation thinking. 

(I saw a lot more heather than thistles.)

Kerrera to the Rescue

Kerrera to the Rescue

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One of the things I like best about travel is that it shakes you out of your routine. In fact, sometimes it flips you over and turns you upside down. But when it just jostles you a bit, the sensation can be pleasurable.

The main reason we traveled to Oban was to explore the Inner Hebrides. We were excited to see the birthplace of Christianity (Iona) and Fingal’s Cave (Staffa). Instead, as soon as we landed I learned that the ferry and boat tour was canceled. Bad weather was moving in. 

After being in Scotland four days, I can safely say that bad weather is always moving in. But good weather is, too. And with Mull, Iona and Staffa out of the picture, we needed an island to explore. 

Kerrera to the rescue! This small island is a five-minute ferry ride from Oban and basically car-free—a walker’s paradise. We skirted Horseshoe Bay, lunched at the Kerrera Tea Garden, and marveled at the ruins of Gylen Castle. We met some fascinating people. It was not what we planned to do, but it was just right.