I can’t stop thinking about the corona. I think that’s what it’s called. The sun, when it was fully obscured, looked like it was billowing with cotton candy, streaming out from the glowing ring in long wispy strings of white. I guess they are always there, but we can’t see them. What other amazingly beautiful things in nature’s creation can’t we see?
I was surprised by a few things. How long it took: hours! How weird the darkness was: like dark gray sunglasses. How much more fun the anticipation was, than the second half: like childhood versus old age. How very cold it got: cold enough that Rachel got her jacket. And how completely spectacular the eclipse was: the enormity of it; how big the sun seemed with the corona; how much the sky seemed more alive during the sun’s partial death than it usually does in the bright, too-glaring-to-watch daytime that I love thoughtlessly each day.
If I could witness that every day, I would do it. I would stop everything I was doing and stare at the sun for those two minutes and try to drag them to eternity in my memory. Try to burn the details of the rapidly changing skyscape into my visual memory for my eternity.
There are no photos, no videos, no records that quite capture it. It was too much. Too dynamic. Too unique for human representation.
