11 Apr Light and Dark
I shared two blog ideas with the girls that I was considering writing about and asked their opinion of which one I should use.
“Why not both?” they suggested.
“Why not,” I thought.
So here are two stories.
Story 1: Parking at the dentist’s office at 11:20 a.m. on Monday
My dentist appointment happened to coincide with the peak of this week’s solar eclipse. I parked in front of the medical plaza and noticed a group of people gathered near a tree.
They were all looking down and pointing.
The gaps between leaves on the tree acted as multiple pinhole cameras, projecting thousands of images of the partially eclipsed sun onto the ground and the nearby wall.
It was a strikingly beautiful sight to see the ground and walls dancing with images of the crescent sun.
People were delighted. A woman rushed from the nearby bus stop to look more closely. A doctor ran out of the building with her stethoscope around her neck and began taking pictures and offering to text them to others. Kids from an orthodontics office tumbled out the door with paper bibs still tied around their necks. One man had a stack of solar eclipse glasses that he was handing out to anyone passing by in case they wanted to look up.
A Japanese legend came to mind, where the sun and moon, despite their differences, found these rare moments to be together. It was a reminder to people that love is never impossible.
As I stood with this group of strangers, huddled around a tree and excitedly pointing out shapes, texting each other pictures, and caring about each other’s eyes, I thought about how nice it was to share this experience. All of us, connected for a moment and in awe of this miraculous sight.
What a hopeful reminder that love is never impossible.
Story 2: Realizing I am now late to my dentist appointment at 11:31 a.m. on Monday
Lost in the eclipse’s beauty, I lost track of time. As I hurried to my appointment, I walked past doctors’ offices with scripted names of professionals on the doors.
Outside of one of the offices was a wooden bench. A woman sat on the edge, close to a large potted cactus. Her head was in her hands. I glanced toward the door, seeing the word “Oncology” written above the doctor’s names.
I found myself looking away from her.
I told myself it was because I wanted to give her space.
I told myself it was because I was already late to my dentist appointment.
But if I am being honest, I looked away because it was uncomfortable.
As I opened the door to my dentist’s office, silently chastising myself for my behavior, I thought about how we often avert our eyes from suffering.
How isolating it would feel to be in a moment where the darkness is blotting out the light, like an eclipse. And no one knows how to look at you. So, they don’t.
After my dentist appointment, I returned to the corridor. The sun was shining again. The world looked back to normal.
The bench next to the oncology office was empty.
As I approached my car, I saw the man who had been handing out the solar eclipse glasses standing and talking with the woman who had been on the bench. His hand was gently resting on her shoulder, comforting her.
What a gift it is to have someone who looks, who stays, who remains present in the pain and tolerates the darkness alongside.
I’m grateful to be reminded how precious light is in a world that can sometimes be so dark.