Departing from San Francisco, we headed north towards the path of totality for the solar eclipse, which just so happened to be in Madras, Oregon - where we just so happened to have family friends with the most stunning 250 acre ranch. Hanging on a farm for a few days brought back so many memories of my visits to Estes Park in Colorado growing up, spending a few weeks in the family cabin as a small girl, doing wilderness stuff like building forts, throwing knives, and for some reason, running around and cutting the high grass with a machete (not sure why my parents let me run around with a machete at age 11, but I still have 10 fingers and toes and have never once cut myself on a blade, so I suppose it ended up a pretty good life lesson).
There's a silence that echoes the one we sought out when moving to Joshua Tree that calms the spirit and quiets the mind. It's restorative and aligning, much like the eclipse is meant to be.
We watched the eclipse on the edge of a cliff that overlooked miles and miles of canyons filled with ponds, rivers, streams, and fields of greens. I'll never forget being perched on the edge of the cliff on a large lava rock, its rutted surface digging into the small of my back as the sky went completely dark and the world went utterly silent.
Or the song that our 80-year-old hostess sang quietly to herself just before it happened, wearing glasses that blocked out everything but her and the sun. It felt so significant. Like the beginning and end of something at the same time. Or like a whisper, unleashing all the secrets of the world at once before being swept into another lifetime.
"I'll never see you again, oh I'll never see you again. Oh I'll never see you again. So why don't you come and get me and I'll go with you and we'll be good friends forever and ever, or I'll never see you again."
Photos by Nikko DeTranquilli