Understanding Umbraphiles
“Cloudy Skies”
“Storms”
“Chance of Rain”
Everyone in the path of totality anxiously checked and re-checked the forecast leading up to the day of the big event but were met with ever dimming hope as meteorologists wincingly confirmed what we had all been dreading.
Despite this, droves of spectators set out on course to their chosen viewing spots. Some, eyes glued to radar, drove up and down highways and back country roads for a better chance at catching a glimpse. “We’ve come this far,” I heard someone say at the QuikTrip that morning. “May as well fight for a chance!”
I had stayed up the night before dyeing shirts for my family to wear for the occasion. My family of salt fiends did not stock up on Moon Pies, sticking with Sun Chips and sharing a sleeve of “Space Dunk” Oreos.
We had shared a partial solar eclipse in 2017, celebrating with a crowd of people in downtown Round Rock at their library.
At that time, you could only view the eclipse through glasses, or by looking at the shadows on the ground for the crescent shape. Which, having never seen anything like it before, was thrilling for me.
Then, in October 2023, something else entirely happened. Working off the experience of the partial eclipse in 2017, we didn’t have anything planned. My partner happened to pick up a couple of eclipse glasses on the fly because they had been right next to the register at the gas station.
Neither of us knew what was going to happen, or that there was much of a difference between a partial and annular solar eclipse. We were in the car driving to a farm to enjoy the beautiful weather as a family when it happened.
I remember it clear as day (pun unintended but intentionally left). I felt my breath catch as the world sunk into this false twilight I’ve only ever seen in dreams. By the time we reached our destination, it had mostly subsided. I immediately leapt out of the car and looked up through the glasses to watch the Moon inch across the sky in front of the Sun.
I wanted more.
When I found out that the next eclipse would be coming through in less than a year, I made sure to mark my calendar. I wouldn’t be caught unaware this time. It landed on a day off, and as the date drew near my partner’s company ordered everyone to work from home. With his hour lunch, it would be plenty of time for us to wander down to the large field at the end of our street and enjoy the whole spectacle.
I was arguably more excited than he was, having been bombarded with all things eclipse for weeks leading up to the day. That morning I sat in my office trying desperately to concentrate on writing about the event I had attended the day before (see previous “It’s Eclipse Day…”), and you can tell when reading it that I was distracted.
As the time drew near, I anxiously set off without him. “I’ll meet you down there,” I chimed, heading out the door. “Have fun!” he shouted back.
There was already a neighbor setup at the edge of the field with his tripod and camera aimed at the overcast sky. In that moment we were unspoken companions caught in hopeful anticipation beneath the roiling clouds. Wanting to provide space for revelation, I walked the perimeter of the field a ways until one of the limestone boulders bordering the space called to me.
Here I would whisper to the clouds, asking them to part, even if only for a brief moment, during totality. “One peek,” I asked, without getting my hopes up. Bristling with anticipation, I reassured myself that I would at least be witness to that ethereal twilight again. That would be such a treat.
More neighbors gathered back towards the street, talking with the man about his camera, while we caught glimpses of the Moon making its way across the Sun through veils of puffy water vapor. It was then that my partner arrived, with five minutes to spare, and made himself comfortable on the next boulder.
We both laid out on our surprisingly comfortable spots, glasses balanced on glasses, staring up at the sky. Both of us made comments each time the celestial bodies flashed us before disappearing behind the cloak of poor weather again.
Then… the clouds broke. Suddenly, there was not a single one anywhere above us, and just as this amazing stroke of luck began to register, the world around us began to sink into darkness.
Crickets began chirping, embarrassed that they were tardy for their sunset song. Birdsong swelled with an air of confusion. I soaked in this other world before looking up just in time to see the brilliant white ring of totality erupt in the sky above me.
A celestial romance.
The diamond ring forged
By the Sun and the Moon,
Hung in the Sky for all to see.Brazen.
Hopeful.
The Cosmos asking Humanity,
“Will you love me as I’ve loved you?”On our blue marble rarity,
Hurtling through space.Promise Me Your Heart
Your Bated Breath
Your Adoration
Your Starry Eyes
Your Beginnings and
Your Ends
Your Triumphs
Your Obstacles
Your Witching Hour Fears
Your Early Morning WishesAnd I will give you
The World(“Totality” by M.T. Wylde)
As the world around us righted itself, technicolor waning, tears dried on my cheeks. How did 1 minute, 45 seconds last both an eternity and the blink of an eye? As quickly as the clouds had cleared, they scuttled back in. Dazed, I stayed to see the Moon through the rest of her voyage.
Shaking off the dream-like stupor back in my office, I found myself looking up where I could see the next total solar eclipse. And as I texted a friend about traveling to Greenland in 2026, I realized, this is how umbraphiles are made.
