Eclipse

What links all these magnificent environments I’ve been blessed to visit? The common thread? 

Birds. Their song, while vocally unique to their breed, are joyous, unsolicited and a call to all to stop what we’re doing and listen. If you do, for more than a second or two, you’re bound to hear hope and love and peace. 

It’s 7:20 a.m. and I’ve been up with the birds since dawn. (A week ago in Kauai, I was up with the crowing roosters.) After brewing a cup of coffee I picked up from a funky Albuquerque coffee shop, I’m now sitting outside wearing a light coat, stocking feet, gazing at the lake, listening to a surround-sound chorus of acrobatic singers, counting my blessings—once again—and remembering, “Oh, yeh, today is the total eclipse” when my flying friends will stop singing.

When the sun vanishes in a couple of hours, it will become eerily silent. At least it did in New Mexico at the alpaca farm where I witnessed last Fall’s partial eclipse. The temperature dropped and it was silent until the sun reappeared. I’m not sure how it’s going to play out here on the West Coast—the outer edge of the eclipse—but I’m pretty sure the animals will be spooked by Nature’s phenomenon. 

Collapse. Expand. 

Inhale. Breathe out.

It’s cloudy. It’s sunny. It’s cold. It’s hot. Families are happy one minute, then torn apart the next. There’s chaos. There’s peace.

Splinters. Fractures. Earthquakes. A dove’s gentle coo, coo, coo. 

Nothing makes sense. It all makes sense. 

We’re tough. We’re fragile.

Welcome to The River’s current. You can fight it, as I’ve done my entire life, but what a waste. You’re going to end up where you’re going to end up so you might as well enjoy the journey. 

This isn’t poetry. It’s Life. 

I have no wisdom. I’m paddling the canoe just like everyone else, surrounded by jubilant birds, an umbrella sun, and an Irish green, patchwork coat of Spring. 

What I know in this moment before the moment is eclipsed by the news story of the week, is that nothing lasts forever, not the season, not this glorious morning, not the frog-in-my-throat allergy scratch, not the concerning 11 p.m. phone call I got the other night from a family member, not the near silence of a Monday morning, and not this glorious sun which will disappear and remind us that we’re not in charge. We make choices, we can change, pivot, discover a new direction, but if we don’t “get” what we’re supposed to “get” while the sun is shining, who knows if we’ll ever get another chance?

Postscript: With the Sun just 20% eclipsed here in Central Coast California, our birds continued to sing, but their voices were noticeably hushed like the cool breeze which ribboned its way through the campground.

My friend, Allison Q. , shared this book recommendation, “This is Flesh” by Cole Arthur Riley. From the first paragraphs, I’m hooked:

“I have a favorite sound.

To be precise, it’s not a single sound but a multitude.

Have you ever stood in the presence of a tree and listened to the wind pass through its leaves? The roots and body stand defiant and unmoved. But listen. The branches stretch out their tongues and whisper shhhh.”

Guess I’ve found a reoccurring theme for this Spring Sojourn: Hush, and the answers will appear.