What We Do as the Eclipse Approaches

Written for the participants of The Heads Network Leadership Seminar, Asheville School. April. 2024.

The eclipse approaches.

It will happen tomorrow.

The children—and the science teachers—are excited.

At an assembly on Thursday, Izzy whispers

“How does the barber cut the moon’s hair? She asks.

I shrug.

‘E clips it!”

In the chapel, I giggle, glad to be the person she has shared this joke with.

Then, I pack a bag and head to the last leadership seminar I will emcee.

How many weekends have there been?

I’ve lost count.

On the plane, I remember coming to this very workshop.

The luminaries of girls’ schools our faculty--

Divorced, widowed, childless.

Each a force.

Intimidating.

“Not for me,” I thought, “though fascinating.”

We were at Miss Porter’s that weekend,

Another boarding school full of flowering trees.

Spring reminds me that nature is stronger than all of us;

She will not be held back.

Which brings me back to the eclipse and how little I know.

It will happen, no matter how little I know.

We schoolteachers sometimes imagine lots of things are within our control

That aren’t.

We arrive, establish ourselves in this lovely room.

High ceilings, beveled windows, dark wood tables.

Begin the work of the weekend.

On our way to Asheville, we tell each other after supper, we were busy.

One by one, we introduce ourselves.

I planned Head of School day, one of the first participants says,

(though, please note, she is not

Yet

A Head of School)

“It’s a surprise celebration

Because of the eclipse.”

Once in a lifetime.

Monday’s eclipse is happening.

Some of us are right in the path.

On our way to Asheville, we walked and kissed and petted and fed a lot of dogs.

Is it okay for a dog to look at the sun, a tenth grader asked Thursday.

A Science teacher—competent, matter-of-fact—answered briskly, “Yes, it’s fine,” but I am still wondering why it’s fine.

I am thinking a lot about vision. What it means to see. Eclipses and other things.

Our older daughter got a scary diagnosis—spots on her retina—perhaps genetic.

She phones me, weeping, as we arrive on this bucolic campus—

pink cherry trees in bloom,

Almost shouting, “Look at me, look at me!”

Glorious crimson Japanese Maples,

Their leaves unfurling like stars beyond the big window in our room.

“You will be okay,” I reassure her. “You’ll get through. We all love you.”

What is essential, St. Exupery reminds us, is best seen with the heart.

Still, she is frightened, and I shudder at the idea of her not being able to see.

Ever.

Or my not being able to see.

Love will see us through, I think. I hope. I hold onto love.

We—my family, these women—are rich in love, in fortitude.

We do get through, wearing our resilience like shields.

Of course we manage,

serve as assistant heads,

do more,

get paid less,

worry and fret about next steps,

new beginnings,

moments that do not go as planned.

Because we are planners.

Listen.

Before I left…we tell one another:

I taught my husband how to crank our 9-year old’s expander.

I took my mom to a doctor’s appointment.

I organized the Middle School clothing swap across two campuses, so everyone could play.

I worked through what to do when a student threw a pen at me.

I taught chemical geometry—they hated it.

I announced we were the vocabulary bowl state champs, and I didn’t even know we’d been competing.

Took kids bird banding

Scolded a child because she was late, and then I found out she’d gotten pulled over.

Personally, I was slow to focus on the eclipse—it seemed so far away up in the sky.

but I know our school is ready—

We’ve purchased solar glasses for the kids,

Organized programs,

Invited NASA to explain

Why this is such a big darn deal.

My favorite explanation on Instagram was of a meme with Oreos,

showing the moon moving over the sun.

I read it’s going to look like dusk everywhere around the horizon and that doesn’t happen very often.

But we are here, thinking about headship, not eclipses, aren’t we?

In our lives, we toggle busily between school and home—

another domain where we are often in command—

Hiding candy, eating Toast bites,

kissing the twins,

asking the spouse did you pay attention to the text chain?

She needs her white soccer jersey, not the maroon one.

We are ourselves orbs of light, criss-crossing the sky, daily,

What makes the sun bright, I wonder?

How does it manage to rise every day, no matter what, and get on with the business of illumination?

No vacations or personal days. No pd to help it glow brighter.

No evaluations or feedback forms.

Even when we cannot see her, she is there.

The moon, too, I guess.

Except on Monday, when they will do a light and dark duet,

Choreographed without rehearsal—can you imagine? My nightmare.

No one asked the sun and the moon if they’re excited.

They will simply perform, crossing, one over other, as predicted.

Like all of us?

Each day—unremarkable, just doing what has to be done in our schools and families.

The sun doesn’t get to say, “I don’t think so—this is all too much for me.”

The moon doesn’t get to say, “Umm—I don’t feel up to it—could you get a sub for me?”

They will do what they do—maybe the tides have had some influence?

Can you tell I don’t know enough about space and planets?

I know a lot about women in schools, though.

How we, too, are sources of light, and love and warmth and competence.

And wonder.

How we put up and shut up and move up and often do not take up

Enough space.

How we, sometimes, very often, much of the time, put others first,

And say:

“It’s not the right time “or

“Do I want all that responsibility?”

or “I could never leave Ohio,”

or “My parents need me”

or “My kids have three more years in my school.”

We are full of reasons why we resist the unknown.

On the eve of this once-in-a-lifetime eclipse,

I am wishing for a catapult that would scatter all of us into the sky—

a bundle of stars—

already arrived at our next chapter without worry or dread or waiting or negotiation about salaries.

Against the navy night,

we would

Sparkle and twinkle and glimmer and shine,

keeping the moon and sun company,

cheering them on.

Points of light

spread in a vast dark sky, but connected—a web of stars.

When I watch the eclipse tomorrow,

From a field on campus,

With houseguests I forgot that I will need to feed,

I will think about the women gathered here in Asheville,

Mulling over new beginnings and possibilities.

I will think of us eating supper on the stage of the theatre—

I love that we ate dinner there--

Bathed in light.

So many lovely things said,

me without words for once,

but full of gratitude.

We say in drama that we must hug the whole experience--

Laughter and tears, dark and light.

And maybe that’s why a once in a lifetime eclipse

Is a worthy metaphor

as we contemplate next steps.