Eclipse

While my friend Steve in Utah was no doubt sitting in a lawn chair in his own backyard with special glasses and a tripod and a telephoto lens right in the path of totality, I climbed a hill with a makeshift paper pin hole projector in hand to see what I could see.

I didn't expect much, and that pin hole thing proved worthless, but I wanted to experience, if nothing more, the moods of light as the shadow of the moon began its sweep. And I wanted to be all by myself for a little while. Preferably on a hilltop.

Well, I already knew we weren't in the "ring of fire" zone, but I didn't see anything even remotely eclipse-y projected through that pin hole onto the index card behind it: not a shadow, not a luminous curved edge. Maybe I was doing something wrong. Nor were there walls or sidewalks where I was standing for delightful little crescent shapes to land; I've seen quite a few of those in photos since.

But even so, it was wonderful to be there. I tried to take some pictures without looking at the sun, just pointing my camera in its vague direction skyward and clicking sort of randomly.

A series of pictures like the above transpired, nothing eclipse-like about it, just a hint of the usual miracle that happens, unrecorded, every day.

And then I wised up and looked in other directions at everything else around me.

I know. This has nothing to do with the solar eclipse. But the earth was gilded.

On the other side of Sacate Canyon, the hills looked soft; breathing, almost.

Nothing dramatic...but the things I usually worry about were momentarily eclipsed.

Everything was waiting, rendered more beautiful in the shifting light.