Lost and found. Most public places have one. It’s an ordinary term that contains a metaphor for our lives. What doesn’t weigh us down lifts us up and we find that there can be light, even in darkness.
GOOD NIGHT SUN
Our sun is just an ordinary star, average among the hundreds of billions that make up the Milky Way galaxy. It’s kind of middling in age as well. At 4.6 billion years, half of its ordinary life has elapsed, which represents a third of the estimated 13.8 billion years that the universe has existed.
My universe, the one that I am a part of, began a relatively short time ago. During most of that time, I’ve tried to understand what I can of the universe, and for good reason. Like a star-crossed lover, my being is inextricably joined with the universe. Still, as an infinitesmally small subset of that universe, my days are numbered. But the sun? Another 4.6 billion years makes it feel as though it will be there forever.
But, on August 21, 2017, the sun will go out – at least for a couple of minutes. On that day, the shadow of the moon will race across the continental United States from the northwest to the southeast. Around noon central time, those fortunate enough to find a near cloudless sky along a relatively narrow path, can expect an awe inspiring experience – the total eclipse of the sun.
Why should a shadow matter so much? Does mine? Until now, I never imagined that my shadow might be awe inspiring to, say . . . an ant. In fact, my shadow casting is mostly aimless. I go about my business, preoccupied by other things. I’m almost certain that the same can be said of the moon. The big stuff, like the universe, galaxies, stars and moons; they don’t worry about their subsets. I’m betting that August 21st will be just another ordinary day for celestial bodies.
As for my body; it hopes to be awe inspired, but not only by the sun and the moon. The geometry of a solar eclipse isn’t that complicated. Instead, on August 21st, I’ll be taking a hiatus from the ordinary life of a subset. Minus the normal sun and the normal moon, I’ll be seeing myself in the abstract, if only for a little while. When the everyday influence of a superset, like our sun and moon, is briefly suspended, it allows us to see the sum of what we are made of, without the entire superstructure. Such an exclusive glimpse can be exceedingly rare . . . about as rare as a total solar eclipse of the sun.