Sun Stand: Increments and Flow

Astronomically, the solstice occurs at the precise moment when the Earth is at the point in its orbit where one hemisphere is most inclined away from the sun. This makes the sun appear at its farthest below the celestial equator when viewed from Earth.

Solstice is from Latin and means “sun stand,” referring to the appearance that the sun’s noontime elevation change stops its progress, either northerly or southerly.

Seattle Times, 12.21.21

Many things to say about the solstice, few of which seem to matter to Cedar, although one in particular should. I’ve bargained with the dark devil: She knows we don’t go out to walk until it gets light. So between her breakfast–usually around 6:30 or 7 am– and daylight, more like 8:30– I get to work (or squander precious time like this).

This should matter to Cedar: If I were an honest bargainer, by summer solstice we’d be walking around 2:30 am. The McKenna Filibuster rules will have been revamped by then; no question.

Also, I suppose fortunately, change comes slowly on the light front. We have six hours and 23 minutes of daylight today. What will you do with an extra six seconds tomorrow? (My recommendation would be to hug your loved one that much longer; more on the Cedar hug project, Katie McKenna, Principal Investigator, soon.)

I’ve been thinking about increments vs. flow lately. This thinking has been prompted by our Cedar (or Tom) walks, depending on your perspective. I’ve been working on how long I can get Cedar to heel as I walk up the hill by Steve and Molly’s place. It ain’t perfect, but we make a little progress each day. (Except today; Cedar was an elementary kid on a snow day.) Cedar has been working on how long she can get Tom to just stay still and watch and listen. We may be achieving some forward progress towards stillness.

And we both stop daily to look at the snow moving imperceptibly slowly off of Steve and Molly’s deck roof. Cedar may be wondering if ravens are hiding dog biscuits in there, too, but it makes my head spin with big dumb thoughts about how everything, even rock, is in some kind of slow flow.

I though this might have something to do with some of the higher math I almost but never quite understood in high school. I had remembered the concept of “limit” in calculus as something kind of poetic, like the fact that we can constantly halve the distance we close on something, but never reach it. Always better to be striving, right? And so I asked Tim, home from college, to tell me about it.

Apparently I was very wrong? (I have no idea.)

So on a day when the sun stands still, I’ll correct a mistake or two. And tomorrow, maybe hug a little longer.

For now, though, it’s light out after all. Walk time.

My increments, Cedar’s flow.