*Sun
Solstice
Acrylic painting by J.M. Clay
Sun
Day 11 — February 20
No surprise, it was dreary and overcast the day Elizabeth and I visited Stonehenge in 2013, while on our second of two travels to England. We stood in awe of this prehistoric monument—4000 to 5000 years old—oriented towards sunrise on the summer solstice and possibly built as a temple to the sun.
Several days later we were visiting Wells Cathedral, and a guild of community artists were hosting an art fair. For us, the ideal souvenir is art—both as a remembrance of the trip and in support of local artists. We purchased three small acrylic paintings by J.M. Clay, this one depicting Stonehenge on the solstice.
Elizabeth was anything but a sun worshipper, though. Like her mother, she shunned the sun, which meant she would remain looking forever young. But there was one particular “sun day” that was stunningly memorable. I had made reservations months in advance in Ogallala, Nebraska, so we would have a hotel room close to the path of the total eclipse on August 21, 2017.
As the moon moved across the sun and the sky darkened and the crickets began to chirp as though it were twilight and the cows mooed and settled down for the night, we were in awe of the heavens and the wonder of that momentary disruption in time and space and expectation. Darkness in the middle of the day!
As they witnessed an eclipse, ancient people are said to have been terrified as the light of the sun faded. Imagine them going about their daily lives, and a cold chill settles upon the land, and where there was bright sun, there was instead dimming light, and— in the swath of totality—the sun stops shining, and stars are shining in the night sky, and where was supposed to be the orb of the sun in the sky was a black disk, a hole of darkness, surrounded by an explosion of dancing light.
Stunningly memorable, indeed. Such that we were already making plans to experience it together again on April 8, 2024, in northeast Ohio, Elizabeth’s home.
Day 11: the art of love and loss
view all posts at kentmueller.com
February 10, 2020, was the day my wife, Elizabeth Izant, entered the hospital. She and I were on a hopeful journey following her heart transplant five months prior. On March 1, she entered hospice and died March 11. This series is not about her medical journey. This is about sharing stories and reflections about our life together. In our 29 years of marriage, we collected a piece of art or two each year, often in celebration of our marriage anniversary. Each day from February 10 to March 11, I will be sharing an image of that art. And a story.