Choosing Small, Appreciating Humble
We’re about a month out now and I still can’t find adequate words to describe the total solar eclipse that happened in the skies above our slice of the world.
My brother, Mike, traveled from Hawaii for it (and to work on a kitchen remodel job with a dear friend of his) so I took the day off and we drove just forty minutes west from our place to a family farm-turned brewery hosting a watch party in their open-sky surroundings. We arrived early and the field where we parked was already half full. In less an hour, they were turning people away. By mutual agreement, we decided to tailgate the event in the parking lot far from the good-natured crowds with their blankets spread out on the grass and folding chairs unfolded. Official Eclipse Glasses? Check. Water? Check. Ok—bring on the show.
Two days later, I got out my watercolor crayons and a small 3x5” mini canvas and painted my experience of that moment when I looked up safely without Official Eclipse Glasses at a spectacle that has yet to be contained in a sentence or paragraph of the fanciest descriptors (painting is a relief for this writer whose initial go-to is an ever-expanding vocabulary). Georgia O’Keefe I’m not, but I signed the back of it anyway and mailed it to my brother the day before he headed back to the islands. I was so surprised by that simple act of creative gear-shifting that I painted a second one, signed it and now it sits on my studio table reminding me of the day Mike and I turned our gaze upward for the better part of a sunny afternoon in April. The carnitas street tacos we ordered from one of the food trucks there were excellent—we waited over an hour in line for them.
In the days and weeks that have rolled out since then, I’ve asked coworkers and friends about their solar eclipse experience and found that I’m not the only one to go silent, searching for the right words to describe the impact of what we saw. It’s not just me who’s weary of “amazing” and “jaw-dropping” (something our bodies do naturally when we bend our heads back) and all the other overused adjectives our superlative-addicted culture offers relentlessly (see also “stunning”, “awesome” and “incredible”). My brother and I agreed to get back to each other should some appropriate arrangement of words come to mind. Until then, we leave it to “that was great being with you for the eclipse”. and “I’m glad we shared that moment”. Sometimes silence is the most appropriate response, perhaps accompanied by a gentle squeeze of the hand.
Our current situation frequently offers up the chance to reflect on the continuum of grandiose to simple in our lives. I often consider our experience of the two farmers’ markets where we sell our humble kitchen-made granola. One is akin to a bustling street fair in the old downtown section of a suburb north of downtown Columbus. In the summer, we, alongside our nearly 100 fellow vendors, average 4000 - 6000 visitors on a Saturday (as high as 7000 on a peak weekend) and the rain doesn’t deter these stalwart patrons of all things fresh and local. They outfit their dogs and small children in raincoats and hats (I once saw a mixed breed pooch wearing the sweetest paw-fitting rainboots), bring all manner of colorful totes and wagons to carry their purchases, and shun umbrellas as something beneath their dignity. In between downpours, they buy our Blueberry Almond and Vanilla Chai flavors, we swap stories under the shelter of our green 10-foot canopy and reassure each other that we won’t melt. It’s a kind and gentle exchange that boosts us for the restocking granola-baking that the coming week with bring. We are always grateful.
In contrast, the local market just fifteen minutes from our home is a more intimate affair—a good weekend will see maybe 300 pairs of feet walk past the twenty or so vendors who, by market stipulations, must make or grow their table’s bounty no more than 25 miles from the town square. Our customers are neighbors we haven’t met yet and friendly visitors looking for the charm of a slower pace. The local college brings in parents for family weekend activities and they nearly always leave with a bag or two tucked into their student’s backpacks for snacking on in between classes (Mocha and Lemon Blueberry Tahini are favorites). Much to our delight and surprise, this smaller market consistently outsells the larger one and leaves us smiling and scratching our heads a little for their generous support of our small and crunchy venture, now in its eighth year. We’re always grateful here too, and it feels that much sweeter because we’re closer to home. I could see us making this our retirement gig when the time comes.
In between eclipses and farmers’ markets are sunrises that stop me in my ambitious morning-walk tracks to look up and about instead of just down at my feet, middle-of-the-night thunderstorms that mean I’ll be nodding off on the bus ride into work because I chose wonder instead of sleep, and sheer hand-clapping joy at the antics of a skunk family whose little ones tumble playfully down the ridge to the meadow, only to climb back up and do it all over again. How did I get so lucky? I don’t hear music in the background or see angels doing cartwheels across the setting sun (though I’m sure they do most every night). It all just comes and goes in a breath and if I’m paying attention I get to see it, commit it to memory and then walk back up to the house with the day’s eggs in a small-handled bag from the local nursery. Simple stuff, this, gathered and noticed and appreciated.
Until those other words come along, I’m fine with “beautiful”, “breathtaking” and “wow”. That last one will always be enough.
