Gathering in awe.

Many have written beautifully, strikingly, about the experience of a total eclipse, like the one that passed through my home state of Maine on April 8th (Annie Dillard’s 1982 essay is a bit of a mic drop on subject).

But that’s not what I want to talk about here.

Because what struck me was yes, a stunning, electric, celestial magic, but also something human. When was the last time you you came together with strangers because wonder and beauty and cosmic amazement compelled you to do so?

We gathered in awe.

Which, at this moment on the planet, is rare. We tend to coalesce in groups and sub groups, political groups, affiliations. Consider your own calendar with its potlucks, PTA meetings, work meetings, friends and family, book clubs, sports events, spiritual gatherings, support groups, rallies.

In all these configurations, we’re loosely bound by a thing we’re trying to do or people we have something in common with.

But it wasn’t because of task or denomination that we drove out to Rangeley, Maine, and parked ourselves on the long slope of a hill. We packed snacks and chairs, brought the dog, because who knew what the traffic would be on the way home (significant, it turned out). We went without plan or instruction, part of a great happening that we didn’t understand but were game to try.

I don’t tend to throw in with strangers. As a craniosacral therapist, I’m less likely to tailgate than launch into a screed on the dangers of TBIs. But wonder as an organizing force? An experience to behold rather than debate? This I can get behind.

No one on that hillside seemed immune to the magnificence. There were cries of beauty and surprise, aghast exclamations - “Can you believe this?!” - that broke out over the crowd, and applause when the gold warmth of sun finally returned. Even my 14-year-old, for whom idling on a hillside is not a relished activity, lit like the sun itself when the sky turned blue black and the snowy lake below became something else entirely.

Listening to the radio on the way home, we heard children and reporters alike giddy, awash in feeling for all of it: the silver ring of light, our place in the sky, relief at the sun’s return.

We cannot orchestrate celestial events - perhaps that was part of the magic. But also this: For days, I buzzed. I still do. And gathering there, all of us abuzz, all of us in awe together, lit something wordless and wonderful that I couldn’t see until the darkness came.