Every Now and Then I Fall Apart

A beautiful but sobering Eclipse Day in the Shideler-Swindle household.

Apr 09, 2024

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I don't know if you heard anything about this or not - I mean, it kind of flew under the radar - but there was a total solar eclipse yesterday for much of North America. And I guess it was a pretty big deal.

I'm kidding, of course. Eclipse mania has taken over the discourse, elbowing aside continuous coverage of the trials and travails of Trump, the Israel-Gaza war, and anything else in the event’s path. If only there were a word for the way that this marvel has just sort of ... shoved its way in front of everything else, blocking all of it from view.

Hmm. Well, anyway.

My first instinct when it comes to any subject that no one can shut up about is to immediately disdain it. A contrarian at heart, I often suspect that anything that appeals to the widest part of the bell curve is simply not for me. So, in protest, I spent several weeks doggedly not caring.

Meanwhile, everyone online was busy planning trips to Texas or Ohio or Indiana to witness the total solar eclipse from the path of totality. Indiana? Suddenly I sat up straight. My home state was in the path of totality?

You'd forgive my surprise. In a Natural Wonders contest between the two, the point unquestionably goes to my adopted state of California (though the Hoosier State holds its own in both the Home Cookin' and Historic Brick Farmhouse categories, which are crucial).

But I'd hardly heard anyone back home say a word about it yet. Didn't they know what they had? Right in their own backyards?!

Suddenly and perversely, I was seized with longing. My snooty opiate-of-the-masses attitude was ... again, gosh: "overcome" doesn't seem quite right. I know there must be some word that describes this. Oh, well.

Luckily, there was still time - the eclipse was still a week away. Glasses, I thought, in a frenzy. Gotta get glasses. Where do you get eclipse glasses? Not realizing they were free at libraries, we ordered a multipack from Amazon.

Next, I considered planning a celestial spread for the occasion: Sun Chips? Star Crunch? Moon Pies? Perhaps I could make little chocolate cake pops, dusted strategically with edible gold glitter to mimic the corona? Achievable goals, Sally, I scolded myself.

Wait a minute, I thought: how much eclipse was Southern California even going to get? 57% coverage, I learned. Well! That would still be quite a fascinating astrological phenomenon, I was sure - even without the diamond ring, the corona, or the Bailey's beads those in the path of totality would witness.

But then I read something that gave me pause: "The difference between a partial and a total is like the difference between being out in the parking lot at a concert and being onstage with the band," lectured AlphaDawg636 in the comments of an article.

A vivid metaphor, I thought. And it stayed with me.

You see, the last total solar eclipse in Indiana, where I'd lived most of my life, was in 1869. That's right: the Civil War had recently ended, ladies' dresses had the circumference of a child's wading pool, and tourists apparently flocked to Morgan County, Indiana to watch their world subsumed into a mystical darkness in the middle of the day.

And the next total eclipse visible from most of the United States wouldn't occur for another 21 years.

"Hon," I said calmly to Dave last Thursday. "Um. Would you have any interest in, oh, I don't know - taking Monday off and driving to the path of totality?" I knew it was a long shot. We probably wouldn't even be able to get a room.

Dave laughed appreciatively and patted my arm, not suspecting that I was serious. It took all of my willpower, but I chose not to push it.

So, on Monday morning, I managed to hit "snooze" only twice - a record - before springing out of bed to make sure everything was in place. What was there to put in place? Just the eclipse glasses, but still.

"Where are the glasses?" I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. Why was I so desperately into this?

David blinked at me a couple times. "Oh, yeah," he said, finally. "That's today!"

We watched the CNN coverage for a couple hours before it started above us. We went outside and put the glasses on. It looked like someone had taken an adorable, cartoon-style bite out of the gorgeous California sun. Meanwhile, the sky darkened.

"It gives me an uncanny-valley feeling!" I exclaimed. "It looks like 4 or 5 pm, but the shadows are in the wrong places."

I'd set an alarm for the apex of the event, the point in time when the sun would be 57% covered before the moon moved away again. I'd cued up "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler. At 11:13, we went outside and stood in the driveway, listening to her whiskey alto.

"Turn around … turn around …" Rory Dodd intoned. Instead, we looked up.

I felt the surprising weight of Dave's arm around my shoulders as he held me close. We stared, silent, until the first chorus ended. I fumbled blindly with my phone and turned down the volume.

And suddenly, as I gazed up at more than half of the sun blocked out, I felt the most pressing, crushing, inexplicable despair.

I'd read that both astrologers and astronomers attribute fits of high emotionality to celestial events. Maybe it was that, because this was out of character. All I could say was, "We're going to the next one, OK? We just are."

"OK," said Dave, taken aback. I shook myself and took a dose of my ADHD meds. That would fix me right up.

Photos rolled in from.my parents; from Dave's parents. My ex, right in the middle of the totality path, called me pretty much just to say, “Dude!"

"Dude,” I confirmed, a bit listlessly.

Later that afternoon, I combed through the internet and lost myself in stunning professional eclipse pictures. This stuff - it's art. Captured so perfectly were all those amazing visual phenomena I'd read about so eagerly: the ring, the beads, the wavy photos showing the atmosphere as light filtered through, out of sync with the laws of physics. And that devastatingly beautiful, absolutely soul-shattering corona.

I felt hot tears forming. I had really wanted to see it.

Mortified, I swept the mood away and focused on watching the director's commentary of "Good Will Hunting" with Dave. But it popped up again, late at night, after he had fallen asleep.

I let myself cry. But just one round of tears. As I wiped my face, I couldn't imagine what was going on. Why had I fallen apart?

"Every now and then, I get a little bit tired

Of listening to the sound of my tears

(Turn around)

Every now and then, I get a little bit nervous

That the best of all the years have gone by

(Turn around)"

Well. I don't know. I think it's just that I'm in a new phase of life. Statistically, about half my life has been lived. There's only so much more time left to say, "Sometime, I really want to ..."

Sometime, I really want to go to this immersion camp in Wisconsin where you study black bears for six weeks with biologists. Sometime, I really want to be in a musical again. See a total solar eclipse.

Have a baby.

Okay, at 39, there's a lot of "sometime” left. I know that. But there's less than there once was, and no amount of time or money can speed up - or slow down - the literal workings of the universe. If you miss something like this, well, you just miss it. That's been on my mind for the past month, since my stepbrother Kyle died in March at age 40. And watching everyone else watching a spectacular natural wonder that's captivated humans for thousands of years - I guess it brought my mind closer to other ancient cycles of life.

Sure, if it's that important, I could fly to Spain or Iceland for the 2026 total solar eclipse, or somewhere else, some other time, to make sure I get to see one. And maybe I will! But I don't have limitless opportunities stretched out before me in quite the same reckless, unfettered way.

Actually, I never did have limitless opportunities. I know that, too. But it felt like I did when I was 18. And now I'm not anymore.

Just before I started writing this essay, I took my dog out into the yard. While I waited, I sat, looking up yet again, this time into the Great Mystery of moon and stars. As I did, I felt a little jab of pain at the left base of my skull.

My brain couldn't help singing to me, "Turn around ... turn around ..."

I obeyed, arching my neck down, unkinking the muscle. And when I did, I looked at my beautiful, spunky dog. I looked at my cozy little apartment, where I live a happy life, writing, editing, and loving my family.

This is right, I thought. Even if it's partly over.

"Now there's only love in the dark ..."

There's nothing I can say. It's a total eclipse of the heart.