The path of totality is the locus of our obsession
The path of Monday's total solar eclipse begins over Mexico's Pacific coast, dashes up through Texas and Oklahoma, crisscrosses the Midwest, Mid-Atlantic and New England, before exiting over eastern Canada into the Atlantic. Credit: AP
A phrase making the rounds these days is wonderful in its fluidity:
The path of totality.
It sounds like a description of the damage field caused by a nuclear bomb. Or Dr. Strange's explanation for a tear in the universe. Or a meditative concept in some trendy Eastern philosophy.
Most folks, however, will recognize the current relevance of the path of totality as a description of that portion of Earth where the full eclipse of the sun can be viewed.
The event occurs Monday and there are many ways to measure our fascination with the path of totality. Trips booked to locations in the path. Prices raised for lodging in the path. Highway signs warning about traveling to and from the path. Culinary inventions paying homage to the path. Endless online postings about heading to the path.
We're all a bit obsessed, it turns out. And that's all for the good, for many reasons.
A solar eclipse is the kind of common cause that doesn't happen often enough these days. It binds us — superficially, perhaps, and somewhat fleetingly, but it binds nevertheless. We saw that in Central Park during the eclipse of 2017, which around these parts didn't have near the totality as this year's display. We saw it in the people gathered in the clearing where we sat. They watched raptly, exchanged smiles when it was over, then quietly went on their way. Awe is good for the soul, and better when it is communal. A heat map of the nation's population Monday afternoon will blare red along that communal 115-mile-wide swath from Texas to Maine.
A solar eclipse is a brush with science and a lesson in math — things we also need more of these days — and a seminar in what can take place at the juncture of randomness and surety. Consider: Scientists can say with certainty centuries before a solar eclipse appears not only that it will take place, but where and when and its duration and extent — a precision that surely is the envy of meteorologists who struggle to get tomorrow's weather right.
There are eclipse maps for decades to come — the next one to occur over the lower 48 states, for example, will arrive in 2044 in Montana and the Dakotas — and these maps show that these events pop up virtually every year in some part of the world in what seems a random pattern and yet is utterly predictable. To further mix those variables of reliability: If you're in the right place, you're guaranteed to see the eclipse, unless it's cloudy. Consult with a meteorologist.
A solar eclipse is humbling in the way nature often is humbling. With a simple straight line — from Earth to the moon to the sun — it hints at the vastness of our universe, and our smallness in it. In the moments before and after, it offers a glimpse at the elegance of celestial motion.
Much of the focus naturally is on that moment when the moon completely covers the sun and only its corona remains visible, the only time it can be seen. We won't see that here, but descriptions make one understand why people feel compelled to travel to witness it. This is the moment of the 360-degree sunset, colors spanning the horizon in all directions. It's a moment of darkness and dropping temperatures. Streetlights might flicker on. Birds and plants and animals and insects might start acting unusually. In the 2017 path of totality, some species in zoos huddled together for protection. Some began running around. Some started mating. Some swarms of birds suddenly left the sky and roosted.
A solar eclipse is an invitation to confusion — what must our ancestors have thought was happening — and a celebration of the unknown.
In a total eclipse of the sun, things can get a little crazy. So can we.
Columnist Michael Dobie's opinions are his own.
Michael Dobie is a member of the Newsday editorial board.