There have been plenty of pixels spilled over the eclipse already, which you’ve probably read, and you’re probably sick of, but I am going to spill a few more because yes, wow, it’s worth it.

The only reason why I got to see the eclipse is because I happened to stay at a lovely hotel in Boston when I visited last, and now I’m on their email list, and they had an Eclipse sale for all the hotels that were in the path of totality. One of those hotels happened to be in Montreal. I sent that email to my husband was like, “should we… should we do this?” And he was like, “yes. Ta da. It’s booked.”

So, we had a place to go. And we had passports, so we could get there. And Google said, “yep, you can drive that. 10 hours in the car, ready go!” And the dog sitter came through. And our Federal refund dropped just in time to pay for it all.

20 hours of driving total for the whole weekend. 1 minute in totality. Money. Lots of money spent.

Worth it.

Awe is worth it.

Awe is a funny word. Mostly because everything in the world can be described as awesome thanks to marketing-speak and, perhaps, Ninja Turtles. Because everything is awesome, nothing is awesome. It’s a meaningless term. There is no such thing as awe.

As a girl who used to go to church regularly with real belief in my heart, there was a time when I felt jealousy of the characters in the Bible who experienced miracles (with understandable terror) or utter incredulity. Perhaps their feeling, that feeling of awe, is such a foreign concept to me.

Now don’t me wrong: I’ve felt awe before. I’ve given birth to two children. I’ve been on a boat at the bottom of Niagara Falls. I’ve watched Olympians and professional athletes meet their destinies live on television. Awe is possible and it can be felt, but it is rare. As it should be. It shouldn’t be as meaningless as we’ve made it.

And so, that’s why the eclipse deserves a few more pixels. And why I’m writing about it on my little writer’s blog. Because I forgot about it–the rush of it–the full-body, full-soul, full-mind, can’t-believe-it experience. To be in awe is to be captured, fully, in a moment in time, every bit of yourself focused on a central point. It’s to be brought back to your smallness, and yet also be made whole. To be reminded of your temporariness, your insignificance, your squishiness, and yet, to feel so utterly lucky to be at the right moment, to witness, to know and therefore make the moment real. Here you are, alive person. Here you are. You are alive. And this is happening. And you are here. Here. Here you are. Awe is to behold and to be held. Awe is suspension of disbelief. There is no denial. There is no escape. There is only the knowing that you are witnessing something extraordinary, briefly, but powerfully.

Imagine it. Far from home, kiddos squabbling, sitting among the roots of a beautiful tree just starting to bud. Snow is melting in the grass around the tree. People have gathered in the same park, most walking up stairs and a half-mile uphill trail to get to said park, which is just waking up to Spring, which is a few weeks away. The sun is strong, the sky is blue, the air is a lovely 60 degrees and breezy. Most of the people in the park are college kids: young and beautiful and burdened with (relatively) minimal cares. There are older folk. They’re brought wine and cheese. They’re laying in the grass or sitting at picnic tables. We’re strangers gathering in this ideal spot because we know that a thing is going to happen. We’ve brought our little glasses. We’ve taken off the afternoon. We’ve traveled long distances. We’ve brought our phones, committed to getting a good picture.

Imagine it. Imagine the slow, so slow movement and “nothing happening,” according to your kids. You take a call because you’ve got a little time. You post snarky things on Facebook because it’s an easy way to pass the time. You flick a spider off your leg. You tell the boys to stop complaining. They declare the whole trip boring.

The light starts to change. It’s subtle, until it’s not. Imagine the color of the world being akin to “golden hour” in the afternoon, but flatter, uncanny. And people start to make excited exclamations. “Here it comes!” and “It’s almost there!” You look up with your glasses, and yes, the sun is almost covered. Somehow, in the blue sky, it still looks like the sun. So you don’t look at it without the glasses. You look at the ground. You look around you.

And then things get darker.

And darker.

And then

it’s there. And you can look at the sun, which is weird. The sun is negative space in the sky. It’s a golden ring with something in front of it. And the sky is dark, but the ground below is ringed in sunset all around you. And folk are clapping, and crying, and screaming, and talking. And your boys have stopped moving and talking and complaining. The world is cool. The breeze is high. All focus is centered up and above.

And you are… there. Saying “oh my God.” And wanting to cry. And maybe crying a little. And you’re breathing and watching and wanting so hard to remember it, and you feel butterflies in your stomach, and breathing is the same but you’re thinking about it. You want to reach out and touch someone, but you don’t want to move. You can’t move, actually. All focus is up. It’s above. It’s here, right here.

And then it’s done. The ring turns into a crescent, turns into a sun you’re not supposed to look at, turns into that flight light and the rainbow around and then it all sorta returns to how it’s supposed to be. It was here. Now it’s gone. Like it never even happened. And folk get up from their places and start to meander back the way they came. The boys will say later that the eclipse was fine, but the trip out of the country and the food and missing two days of school was actually the good part. And you’ll roll your eyes and wonder how they got to be so spoiled.

And you want to do it again. When can we do it again? All your think about for days and days after are the schemes and the dreams and the hopes and the prayers that you’ll somehow, magically, get to do it again. How? Where? What can I do? It’s all I want.

Some writers attempt to write awe. We’ve all read stories in which characters (and therefore we) are brought to a moment of awe thanks to any numerous reasons. And some writers are able to capture it–without actually saying the word. Others, of course, fail miserably. Perhaps not because they’ve never felt awe, but because they haven’t felt it lately. Remember, as you write it, that the anticipation is important, and the moment even more, but then there is the after. The glow of it. The longing of it. Awe leaves a mark. Don’t forget that.

I don’t think the brain wants to forget awe. I just think awe is so overwhelming, the brain can’t hold onto it. I’ve written words here, but the feeling has slipped from me. It’s only been a week. I can fake it, and I can grasp at it because it’s still fresh, but the full visceral effect has left me. That’s too bad, but for the best. Can I write a character experiencing awe? I think so. I want to. If only to try to relive it for myself. To hold on, just for a little longer. Until I can do it again.

God, I hope I get to do it again.

If you’re a writer and you’re reading my little blog, your homework is to go chase a little awe for yourself. Via an eclipse. Via a big trip. Via a life-changing moment. They’re hard to do, but you can do it. (Probably the quickest and easiest way, if you haven’t already done it, is to get on a Maid of the Mist boat at Niagara Falls. Promise you’ll feel it. If you don’t…. I’ve got questions for you.)

Happy living, dear writers. And happy storytelling.