At about 8:15 p.m. on Sunday, September 27, I sat down to write this column for what seemed to be the millionth time. I was in a very distracted mood. Unsurprisingly, I was swiftly interrupted by yet another distraction, this time in the form of a text message.
I had vowed to be done with interruptions, but I checked my phone anyway.
By chance, my friend Keith had texted me to tell me that I might want to step outside.
Next thing you know, I spent an hour and a half gazing at the moon (more specifically, the total lunar eclipse).
A few hours earlier, I had actually given up on seeing the eclipse that night. The meteorologists had all bemoaned the predicted cloudy skies overnight, the daytime had been gray and foggy, and I had work to do.
After the text, I hastily ditched my laptop and my blank Microsoft Word document and darted out the front door, barefoot, into the grassy patch of concrete in the middle of my cul-de-sac. I sat down on one of the random rocks lying there (which was bumpy and moon crater-y itself) and glanced up at the sky.
I didn’t think I’d ever witnessed an eclipse before this, and after what I saw and felt that night, I knew I had not.
For those of you who are in the dark about how a lunar eclipse works (pun intended), here’s what I know: a total lunar eclipse phenomenon happens when the sun, earth, and moon align in a way that the earth casts a shadow over the moon, which is normally illuminated by the sun. This shadow from the sun makes the moon glow red. What made this eclipse so anticipated was that it occurred at the same time as the supermoon, magnifying the visual beauty of the event.
Sitting in the grass, alone except for my iPhone,my instinct was to take a million photos (is there any way to get a selfie with the moon?) and call everyone I knew who had also given up on seeing the sight. But somehow, I fought the urge for a while and gave into the solitude.
Soon after I arrived outdoors, a few of my neighbors tiptoed onto their driveways, some of them talking softly to each other. I could hear the crickets. A toddler and her mother walked inside as she called out “goodnight, moon!”
But no one was with me on my rock.
I wanted to know: what makes something so universally awe-inspiring, even when we understand the science behind it?
Eventually, I called my mom to share the moment. I sent my brother a grainy photo of the sky, incase he missed the event. Later, my roommate Michelle came outside to join me, and we sat on the rock with her cat, watching the incoming clouds cover and then reveal the reddish orb. The magic was almost over.
Although I captured a few fuzzy cellphone photos and witnessed a celestial event that won’t occur again for another thirty-something years, that’s not what I took away from what I saw.
There was something beautiful about being alone in the moment, and at the same time, feeling the absolute unity of the entire population gazing at the same mystery.
