The Eclipse That Measured My Life

When a partial solar eclipse became visible across Europe this week, I grabbed the most sophisticated piece of scientific equipment I own.

A kitchen colander.

I’d read that the tiny holes work like a pinhole camera, projecting dozens of miniature eclipses onto a sheet of white paper. It sounded just improbable enough to be worth trying. So I packed the colander in my backpack, walked to the open fields outside my village, and joined hundreds of other people who had gathered to watch the sky.

Some had brought telescopes. Others carried homemade viewing boxes or expensive camera gear. A few generous souls let curious strangers peer through their eclipse glasses. Children pointed excitedly at the strange crescent-shaped shadows beneath the trees, while amateur photographers compared lenses and filters.

For a brief moment, complete strangers became companions, united by the simple fact that something remarkable was happening overhead.

My humble colander turned out to work perfectly.

More Than an Eclipse

The last time I witnessed a solar eclipse was more than twenty-five years ago.

As I stood there watching the Moon slowly uncover the Sun again, I realised how much life had happened between those two afternoons.

Back then I had only recently been ordained. Podcasting barely existed. Smartphones belonged to science fiction. I hadn’t studied in Rome yet. I hadn’t experienced burnout. I hadn’t spent years making television documentaries, walked the Camino de Santiago or started writing novels.

Standing in that same sunlight, I wasn’t just watching an eclipse. I was looking across almost three decades of my own life.

It’s strange how time works.