Back in 2024, I watched dozens of people gathering in a field. Children ran around. People set up telescopes and cameras, talked excitedly together, and handed out weird sunglasses. Then, as the solar eclipse began, darkness descended and it got really quiet. Children stood still. People leaned close and barely whispered. At totality, no one move; no one spoke. Complete darkness. When the first speck of sun reappeared, the whole field burst into cheering and people hugging each other.
Years earlier, I sat in the woods alone. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the leaves making little round pools of light on the ground. As the moon slid in front of the sun, the pools became tiny strands of hair—the golden curls of the vanishing sun child. Colors withdrew into an eerie gray. Everything stilled into deathly silence. No breeze, no birdsong, nothing. The forest held it’s breath. A moment passed. Another. Is this forever? I held my breath too. Then a tiny songbird, a whisper of color, and the sudden in-breath of joy in my heart told me: we made it through.
I thought of a trip I took once to a small town in Spain. When our plane touched down, the passengers cheered and laughed. I laughed too. It’s not as if we think maybe the sun won’t return or the plane won’t land. Rather, our hearts recognize a passage that is much more magnificent. It’s good to share these moments of unexpected joy: we made it through, together.
Illustration Adrien Jutard
