The subject of the various definitions of the term “awe” (and its overuse or perhaps misuse in dialogue today) will be the subject of a future column. But the events of April 8 perhaps define the term and allow it to be absorbed directly into consciousness.

On the morning of April 8, along with three friends I headed to Schroon Lake, an area close to the eastern boundary of the zone of totality of the eclipse. It was also forecast to be free of the clouds that were spreading farther west in New York state, wiping out the view and disappointing many. 

The village of Schroon Lake was overflowing with visitors and their license plates revealed many of them had arrived from adjoining states. Even as early as 11 a.m., they had packed the town beach as well as every public grassy area bordering the village’s main street.

After driving for 15 minutes in a futile search for a place to park, we drove into the lot of the Tops grocery store where a few spaces remained. The lot had a clear view of the afternoon sky and so, after making a few purchases to sate our consciences, we got out our folding chairs and our lunches and settled in to wait for the spectacle to begin.

There is a mind-boggling series of factors that combine to produce a solar eclipse. The first is the astounding fact that the Moon — which is 2,000 miles in diameter — and the Sun — nearly 900,000 thousand miles in diameter — when viewed from Earth appear to be almost exactly the same size.

The Moon of course casts a shadow into space and, if its orbit around the Earth was precisely above the Equator and Earth’s axis was not tilted 23 degrees, there would be a solar eclipse every month. But, in fact, the Moon’s orbit is inclined to the Equator and so most of the time the shadow simply vanishes into space.

In addition, the lunar orbit is elliptical, not circular, so the distance of the Moon from Earth — and hence its apparent size — varies very slightly depending on its position. For a total eclipse to occur, the Moon must be at its closest point to Earth — what is called “perigee” — when its apparent size exactly matches the apparent size of the sun.

If the eclipse occurs at its farthest point from Earth — “apogee” — the Moon’s apparent size covers only around 96 percent of the sun’s disk. This produces the event known as an “annular” eclipse. 

The term has nothing to do with “annual” but rather indicates that the sun will appear as a glowing circle around the dark body of the Moon and will nonetheless be so bright that it is dangerous to look directly at it without protective glasses.

Considering these factors, it is astonishing to realize that eclipses of any nature can be predicted thousands of years into the future. But the universe obeys the laws of physics and mathematics for reasons that scientists and philosophers have been attempting to discern for centuries.

At Schroon Lake, totality had been predicted to occur at 3:27 and as the moment neared the streets became packed with late arrivals, viewing glasses and folding chairs in hand, heading for the broad town beach or any open area. But ensconced in the Tops parking lot we relaxed and waited for the moment along with others who had decided that the hoods of their cars were as good places as any from which to observe.

It was a warm day for April — temperature in the high sixties — and a gentle breeze flowed over the village under a milky blue sky laced with just a few very high, thin clouds. A few minutes before three o’clock, there was a stir of excitement as people put on their viewing glasses and noticed that a black sliver seemed to have been taken out of the lower right disk of the sun.

Without glasses, we would have noticed nothing irregular and that condition remained even as the sliver enlarged and worked its way across the sun’s face. Shortly the sun took on the appearance of the Moon at first quarter but it was so bright that only the most observant would have noticed that its light now seemed to be waning.

Soon the breeze took on a distinct chill and the landscape receded into the wan light of an overcast day though the sky was still almost flawlessly blue. It was now clear that something was interrupting the sunlight and one could well imagine the terror that must have overtaken primitive people as totality approached.

As the sun dimmed, observers lowered their voices and seemed to talk just above a whisper as though showing respect for the unfolding spectacle.

Just before the sun disappeared behind the dark disk of the Moon came the phenomenon known as “Bailey’s Beads,” named for English astronomer Francis Baily who first described it in 1836; three or four brilliant bursts of light appeared on the edge of the Moon and quickly vanished. These were caused by sunlight streaming through lunar valleys that was almost immediately blocked by the mass of the encroaching Moon.

Within moments the eclipse reached totality. The milky blue of the sky turned dark, the planet Venus suddenly appeared in the west, and the sun vanished behind an ebony-black dot surrounded by the halo known as the sun’s corona.

This is the atmosphere of the sun visible from Earth only during a total eclipse. The corona is plasma — ionized hydrogen and helium atoms with a temperature of over 2 million degrees — and it streamed out from the sun in wispy veils. Considering that the surface temperature of the sun is a blinding 10,000 degrees, it is one of the great mysteries of astronomy how the corona can be so hot.

Suddenly — and ever so briefly — at the base of the corona and seeming to leap off the dark disk of the moon, two ruby-red flares appeared. These were solar prominences, gigantic explosions leaping off the sun’s surface into space and invisible from Earth like the corona except during totality.

And then came the crowning spectacle — a diminutive, dazzling burst of light along a slender crescent creating what astronomers call “the diamond ring” effect as light poured through a lunar valley signaling the end of totality.

It had lasted barely 90 seconds. The corona and prominences vanished, Venus faded from view, the sky brightened first to deep blue and then to the milky blue it had been for much of the day.

Waves of applause and cheers swept over the village and it was only then that we realized the utter silence that had descended during totality. Along with a couple of thousand other visitors we had experienced an event few people get to see in their lifetimes.

It was a combination of dry mathematical and physical principles that somehow had evolved into a sight that filled one with emotion — an iconic example of a whole being so much more than the sum of its parts: a spectacle that a student of mine once poetically called “the signature of God.”

And it filled its witnesses with awe.

The term is often grotesquely applied to the mundane: the performance of a popular song, a skillful play in an athletic contest, and dozens of other things that in no way touch the mind and emotions as does a spectacle such as a total eclipse or one’s first view of the Grand Canyon.

But there are numerous things and events that truly exemplify the term and in future columns I plan to describe the awe I have experienced in other situations in life: moments when we realize there are powers far above the plane of human existence that stun us into contemplative silence.