Today, the moon will pass directly in front of the sun, casting a shadow on Earth—and on us, eager onlookers ready with our eclipse glasses, necks craned to the sky. Some people will have traveled a long way to get a better look; others will seep out of homes or office buildings, temporarily united for the purpose of celestial wonder. Why do we care so much?
This won’t happen again in the U.S. until 2044, it’s true. But even on an ordinary evening, the moon can capture the imagination. It’s not as spectacular as Saturn and that planet’s halo of glowing rings; it’s not as intriguing as Mars, which people dream of inhabiting; it doesn’t shimmer like the blanket of stars around it. Perhaps we’re fond of it simply because it feels near, and it’s humble in its plainness. It’s ours.
In his 2006 poem “Half Moon, Small Cloud,” the author John Updike proposes a similar theory: The moon is both magical and familiar. We admire its magnitude; we know we’ll likely never brush our fingers along its craters or walk on its dusty floor. But we go through life seeing it so often, a comforting constant watching over us. Its greatness feels almost—almost—comprehensible. When we gaze up and appreciate the moon, we can feel the kind of fondness one might for a kindred spirit. Sometimes, Updike says, it can even seem, to us, almost human.
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