about the great eclipse… and the eclipse of a friend.
The Great Eclipse of 2024 happened, it came and went. It brought hidden things and unforeseen consequences, as eclipses are wont to do.
Heads up: this post discusses suicide.
I decided to take myself out for a picnic to watch the solar eclipse of April 8, 2024. Here in RI, while it wasn’t a location for totality, it was still expected to be a good show, and I wanted to experience the event. I made a sandwich, packed an apple and some cheese, a bottle of rosé and my beach chair and eclipse glasses, and drove to a little park in Providence where I knew there would be a good view. Eventually, others showed up, with their beach chairs, picnics and blankets, kids, dogs, bicycles. A very stoned couple set up their blanket not far from me and canoodled while passing a joint back and forth. The atmosphere was calm, expectant, friendly. We were all there for the same reason.
Ed was a writer, a professional classical musician (an expert in Renaissance music), a sailor, a yoga and meditation teacher, a former software entrepreneur, a retired financial planning officer for various universities. He’d had a fascinating life, including living aboard his 40 foot sailboat “Kairos”.
In another town in Rhode Island, not too far from where I was settling in for the event, a friend of mine was preparing to experience the eclipse in his own way. Edwin and I had originally met by chance a few years before, online. It was on a dating site for the spiritually inclined. (In case you weren’t aware, there’s a dating site out there for every inclination.) After some meaningful email exchanges we’d agreed to meet for lunch, and while it was a lovely connection and he was a deeply interesting person with a fascinating life, I knew I didn’t want to pursue a relationship. He made his disappointment clear. There were follow up emails and phone calls, a fond adieu.
Ed was a writer, a professional classical musician (an expert in Renaissance music), a sailor, a yoga and meditation teacher, a former software entrepreneur, a retired financial planning officer for various universities. He’d had a fascinating life, including living aboard his 40 foot sailboat Kairos and “sailing the mystery”, as he put it, for a number of years. He wrote essays about meditation, love, opening the heart, healing, personal loss, gratitude. He led workshops on Conscious Aging. He published a compelling memoir about his life, solo sailing journey and self-discovery. A fascinating man, but I was not ready to dive in. And he was seven years older than me; at that point, I was approaching 70. It felt like too many years. He sent me a signed copy of his memoir, which was well-written, entertaining, and insightful, and I discovered a lot about Edwin.
Last year I got an email from Ed, reaching out for a hello. I invited him to dinner at my loft, and we met for lunch a few times, shared some meaningful conversations, took a drive around beautiful Tiverton RI where he lived. He came to a talk I gave on art and spirituality. In November, he attended the opening of my solo exhibition “The Essence of Place: Recent Abstract Landscapes”. He was headed south for the winter, and promised to be in touch when he returned.
But back to the Great Eclipse… for several hours, we all hung around in the park, patiently waiting and peering. I had the best time watching other people and their antics, especially the kids and dogs. The eclipse was beginning, the sky got darker, things got quieter, there were whispered oohs and ahhs. Necks were craned, everyone had on their eclipse glasses, people lay on their blankets and held hands. Children whispered “Is this it? is it happening?” Things were very quiet as the sun gradually disappeared. The light was eerie. Birds stopped singing. I drank my rosé, leaned back in my beach chair, and watched, wondered and marveled. Slice by slice, the dark sphere shifted, gradually revealing our solar star again, and normalcy slowly resumed as people began gathering up their stuff and wandering off. The eclipse was over.
I would find out, about two weeks later, that while I was watching the eclipse on April 8th at a park in Providence, Edwin was in the midst of his own eclipse, which he must have planned down to the last detail, including selecting the specific time to make it happen. It was an incredible shock to find out that he had taken his life on that day, at the age of 77. He who had been a proponent and advocate for conscious aging, spiritual awareness, living life joyfully, the mystery of the journey. Sharing his wisdom and talent. By all accounts, Ed had a wonderful and meaningful life. I got to see parts of it, and parts of him; they were beautiful.
Truth be told, I’ve had my own flirtations with eclipsing. The word “suicide” was never actually uttered out loud; I called it “leaving”, and I didn’t share my thoughts about it with anyone.
I knew Ed had a troubled relationship with his only son; he’d shared his sorrow about it with me over our lunches. I didn’t dig deeper into it with him. Apparently, the son had a baby, a boy, and Ed was not allowed to see his grandson (something about the wife.) In his 2013 memoir, he writes about the joys of sharing music and sailing with his son. Perhaps the pain of that soured connection is what drove Ed to say adios to everything. Perhaps there were a host of reasons. I’ll never know.
Truth be told, I’ve had my own flirtations with eclipsing. The word “suicide” was never actually uttered out loud. I called it “leaving”, and I didn’t share my thoughts about it with anyone. I didn’t have any real reasons for making making a personal exit plan, other than feeling bereft, alone, victimized, guilty, stupid, unloved, angry, and that I’d made so many mistakes, I’d never be able to fix them. You know, the usual reasons people feel lost and sorry for themselves, and might consider “leaving.”
Deep down, I somehow knew I could never actually go through with it, but I wrote about it. I labeled the writings “Those Thoughts”, and they still live in a file in my writing folder. I wrote about how I might do it, what I would need, when and where it could happen, the letters I would leave, how to get things in order. “Those thoughts” floated around in my head on and off for a few years as I grappled with severe depression, attempting to hide it, pretending I was ok. In my heart of hearts, which needed deep healing, I knew it would never happen. And I am supremely grateful that this heart of mine has healed itself, and I have the life I’ve created, in my 70’s. I hope to make my life’s remaining chapters meaningful and luminous. I’m sure Ed would approve.
The Great Eclipse of 2024 happened, it came and went. It brought hidden things and unforeseen consequences, as eclipses are wont to do. Perhaps its influences have hit you in ways you are not yet aware of. I, for one, will never be able to forget it, or Edwin Merck.
“I sailed into the mystery, only to discover that life is not about resolution; we just keep adding capacity to engage more of the mystery. And that is the miracle.”
Ed Merck
I want to give a shout out to Paul Crenshaw, Writing Kindness at for inspiring me to take this step in sharing about suicide, even though it is a tough subject. Here at Continuing Wonderment, I’m never quite sure what I’ll come up with. I want to be engaging, sage, funny, all the things a writer needs to be. Not sure if I’m any of those things. But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll keep getting inspired by all the other writers, and for this, I am grateful.
Thanks for being here! Writing is a renewed creative passion for me. If you appreciate Continuing Wonderment and what I’m sharing, please let me know with a comment, a like ❤️ or share/restack to help my readership grow.
Beautiful, karen. You have written a moving tribute to this friend who crossed your journey with such open self vulnerability. The spiritual aspect of your visual and written craft is evident and present here as well. Thank you for sharing, I look forward to reading more. ❤️
Very moved after reading this brave, poignant story - I always admire deep dives into honesty and you've shared so much here. My son, who is 29, recently asked me during a crisis of his own, "So do I really just have to keep growing more scar tissue over everything?"
He seemed both shocked and indignant. This is what it is like to be young - the rest of us know that the truth is ... well, yes.
I guess the good bit is, that even though everything is always changing that too can be encouraging. Thanks for this, Karen.