Somewhere in Indiana, U.S.A. – April 8, 2024
Back roads through small towns. Vibrant murals on decaying brick. My brother Grant pilots my car while I peer out the window. Heads turn to watch us pass. Expressions of friendly curiosity. Out of state license plates are usually only seen on Indiana’s interstate highways. Passing through. Stopping only to fuel up, eat, or spend the night in generic lodging establishments. Today is a special day, however. Hundreds of thousands of visitors have converged on Indiana. Pilgrims to a celestial event. Most of them will congregate in stadiums or at planned events. An introvert’s worst nightmare.
I have chosen a place away from the crowds. A tiny church and graveyard deep in rural territory. Thank you, Google Street View.
Grant finds my choice of venue amusing. “Maybe we’ll stumble upon a doomsday cult!”
“And the cicadas will descend upon us right at totality.” I cackle. It’s supposed to be a historic year for these insects.
We both agree that would be awesome.
The Great American Eclipse 2.0 is about to begin. The original version took place almost seven years ago. I was living in France, on the very edge of the path. The sun was ever so gently grazed by the moon. I slipped through the crack in the doorway like an intruder. And got my mind blown. That feeling is so distant now, it seems like fiction. The bliss of carrying the sky inside me dissipated long ago. It was so easy to forget the sky’s many incarnations. It is cloudy and/or dark more often than it is blue.
That shift in my consciousness brought me back to America after nineteen years away. Back where I started: Michigan. Blinking in bewilderment. The paralysis and despair. Not knowing why, only that it had to be done.
I recount the story to Grant, in case I am once again rearranged. “It most likely won’t happen, because I’m aware of it.”
He smirks. “Well, if it does, I’ll just slap some sense back into you.”
Grant’s chihuahua Scruffy is curled up in a blanket on the back seat. He has been ill, so Grant didn’t want to leave him home. His little baseball head peeks out, bulbous eyes hazy with painkillers.
Indiana may not be on most people’s must-see lists, but I savor this exploration. Faint lines on road maps always lead to hidden treasure. Ghost towns and nowhere land.
The towns recede. Flat farmland stretches into the horizon. The awakening Earth shimmers with the first tinges of green. Grand white farmhouses and matching barns loom over vast fields.
“Amish,” Grant says. “You can always tell, because there are no power lines.”
Uniform garments sway from clotheslines. Black for men, periwinkle blue for women. Ladyfolk and children recline on immaculate lawns framed by white picket fences. Smiles and laughter. White bonnet-framed faces tilt towards the sky, but only for a second at a time. Are they aware of the phenomenon that has begun to unfold? Do they have the proper eyeware? Or would that be considered too technologically advanced? How much of current events seeps into their quiet lives?
In recent years, there has been a steady migration of Amish into our corner of northern Michigan. They sell their produce and baked goods at roadside stands. Grant buys his propane from them. “I wonder what they think of us,” I muse out loud.
“They have no problem with the English.”
“Is that what they call us?”
A nod. “In just a few generations, they will be the majority ethnic group in America. They average six kids per family.”
I contemplate this enigmatic culture as we venture deeper into their territory. What would it be like to live in close community, in simplicity and minimalism, with freedom from most choice? The proliferation of options only seems to have made life more overwhelming and shallow. Depression and anxiety have only increased.
“If any culture could survive an apocalypse, it would be the Amish.” I smile. “Good for them.”
A buggy appears ahead. I allow myself one clandestine photo through the dusty windshield. The young man acknowledges us with a slight lift of his red-bearded chin as we pass.
The edges of the landscape have begun to soften, like mist on a watercolor painting. My heart stirs. If I could wish for anything right now, it would be clarity. I am so lost, again.
My nocturnal voyages have begun to transport me to lands previously unconsidered. Usually the country is African, but sometimes it’s South American. It is always a tropical land, ominous in its obscureness. Too good to be true in its lushness and possibility. I wander these lands, my steps uncertain. Why had I previously dismissed them as not worthy of consideration?
Be open to that which you never considered.
Those words, again. The words that brought me back home.
The first, and most difficult, step in changing one’s life is the admission of unhappiness. It is even more difficult when there’s so much to be grateful for. I love my family, my rabbit, my cabin. I have a respectable, well-paying job. My chest constricts. A job that has dulled my shine.
A film reel of my life in Europe plays through my mind. I swoon with nostalgia. How I miss my two suitcases. I do not belong in this culture. I do not want to belong. And yet, Europe has changed. The world has changed. I have changed. There is no going back. And, truthfully, I don’t want to.
In the past, there was always a way forward, usually through a door I had closed and locked. Now the path ahead has never been so dark.
Since my return to America, I have been trapped in the murky liminal space of midlife. From this high vantage point, I look down, no longer on years, but decades. One person can inhabit so many incarnations in a lifetime. There are some things I will never experience again. A wave of grief rises over me. A long, slow inhale. I dive in and let it pull me under. I resurface and float towards shore. Exhale. Despair turns to relief. There are some things I will never again experience.
A tiny brick church and cemetery materializes. “This is it!” I announce.
We park along the side and make a lap to see if anyone is around. I search for a mailbox or address without success. If someone shows up, I’ll offer to give them a donation. We stretch our legs. Grant lets Scruffy out to do his business. I wander down to the small creek, but don’t linger. Broken glass and rusty metal. Mud everywhere. Such is early spring.
A vulture soars overhead in languid, purposeful circles. Riding the invisible waves of heat that rise from the Earth. The groggy croaks of newly awakened frogs emanate from the creek. We hold the colorful paper glasses to our eyes and peer into the sun. Two tiny cartoonish dots appear, like 1980’s video game characters: a yellow dot almost completely devoured by a black one.
A black truck pulls into the parking space in front of the little church. A couple emerges, then two small children. The woman’s smile is apologetic. “We didn’t want our grandkids to be around a lot of people.”
I return her smile. “We didn’t want to be around a lot of people, either.” I stifle my disappointment. Shrieking kids will dim the mood. But they have just as much right to be here as we do. I grab a beach towel and walk to the center of the graveyard. Shadows bleed into the grass. This strange metallic vintage horror film light.
I unfold the towel and sit. And breathe. Set my camera aside. This portal is so very finite. Three minutes and some seconds. There is no time to waste with futilities.
Grant strolls into the graveyard and stands next to me. “The vulture is going to roost.”
“Here it comes,” I whisper.
Bathed in shadow. Encircled by light. We are under an inverted spotlight, surrounded by a 360 degree sunset or sunrise. Is it the beginning or the end? As if there’s a difference. What is the opposite of illuminated? Enshadowed?
The silence is absolute. Us, the frogs, the children.
A thin veil of clouds softens the void. Filaments of light pierce the blackness. This secret light which can only be witnessed in total darkness.
A tiny orange bubble appears. I gasp. “Oh, wow. Do you see that flare?”
“It’s actually called a prominence.”
We know the magic of full moons, sunrises, sunsets. Both of these neighboring celestial bodies are now locked in an embrace, adding another dimension to my comprehension. The magnitude of the cosmos. We live on a planet that orbits a star in a galaxy in a Universe of mostly emptiness. The intelligence behind it all.
The frog chorus begins again, piercing the silence.
I flop back on the towel, arms spread wide, and hurl myself into the void. Enough. If there’s a truth I need to understand to finally move out of this phase, reveal it. I am no longer afraid.
A sparkle at the edge of the void blooms into a bubble of pure radiance. The diamond ring. I catch my breath. One last wistful look, then I lower my eyes back to Earth. Grant drifts towards the car. The family has already left. I linger among the gravestones, as the world shifts from blue-gray to sepia to watercolor. My atoms hum with joyful effervescence. This secret light. We are all tiny lifeforms struggling to exist. And one day all of this will end.
