Maybe I’d have seen the eclipse if I lived somewhere between Iceland and Norway, two countries that I’ve spent at most 15 minutes of my 50-plus years contemplating, and most of those lost wondering how cold I’d be and what kind of pajamas would I need to sleep in an ice hotel and could I possibly – willingly – enter a cave carved in blocks of ice for a little adventure getaway – and what does it mean that I’ll NEVER answer any of these questions, as I’m in fleece and long underwear when its 60 degrees out.
Hummingbirds might not grace the nectar-filled feeders hanging outside the ice hotel’s entrance, yet I imagine the tiny creatures with iridescent plumage have made peace within themselves that they’ll never bungee jump, hurtle out from planes, or get married in an ice chapel. If they can heal these wounds, you’d think I could, too. Does all creation continually have to make peace with all of God’s bounty that is simply not for them? Or is that just a me thing?
Anyway, I missed the solar eclipse yesterday. Apparently, they had great seats, those Faroe Islanders, a people who have lived since 400 AD in a place I’ve never heard of. I wonder if they’ve heard of my town. If they read in their news about the crescent moon I saw tonight, perched above the city skyline, or if they keep tabs on the celestial happenings of Alaska and other places dotting the 62nd parallel, but none of the lower 48. It looks all picturesque and remote, fjord-like and pristine and, basically, underpopulated, this Scottish wave-crashing isle with front-hill seats for the total solar eclipse. I found a time-elapsed video that reduced the event to 24 seconds, the down-coated townspeople becoming jerky little chromosome pairs under magnification. Another video, from the air, eclipsed the eclipse with the nonstop chatter of the stunning brunette reporter.
There was no reporter for what I saw. A delicate sliver of moon seemingly pushed under by the bulbous orb of its heavyset other half. A shimmering arc just waiting to be adorned, tender and naked without ornaments or charms, not even hand-strung popcorn-and-cranberry strands. Next to it, seemingly right next door, the Columbia Tower sported three iridescent red borders. Of course, the 76-story-building was never right next to the crescent moon, but for that instant, driving westward over the water, they were together again, eye to eye, neck to neck. Over 900 feet high, you’d think that would be tall enough, would permit the one with the shine in his eyes to reach as high and as far as he wants, but no outstretched arms could close the gap, allow him to slip off the red necklaces and place them, one by one, on the moon’s soft exposed neckline.
Some distances we never reach, no matter how close we appear through perspective’s distortion.