The Sun Also Rises

"Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth, that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen. . . . There are no fixtures in nature."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

"Generations come and generations go, but the earth never changes. The sun rises and the sun sets, then hurries around to rise again. The wind blows south, and then turns north. Around and around it goes, blowing in circles. Rivers run into the sea, but the sea is never full. Then the water returns again to the rivers and flows out again to the sea."

—Ecclesiastes 1:4–7

 

New hives of bees are on order for spring delivery.

Baby chicks are scheduled to arrive in May.

As of yesterday, the last of our ordered seed packets have arrived.  

Last week I unloaded a pallet of compost and seed mix soil, preparing for greenhouse work.

 

Each of those is a sign.  Despite the fact that it was negative two degrees this morning when I trudged outside to release the chickens, and despite the snow that still covers the ground, the incrementally shrinking nights and stretching days confirm that the season, as though italicized, is leaning forward.

 

But that deceiving description – "leaning forward" - belies the deeper reality of our story.  Forward movement is relative.  At least since the beginning of the industrial age, we have charted our imaginations on the illusion of linear progress.  Sure, we may take two steps forward followed by one step back; sure, there may even be occasional leaps backward, obscuring any evidence of progress made, but all life we have imagined happens on a line.  We advance or we retreat because those are the only two options on a line.  We move, one foot in front of the other, on a line.  Forward, always forward.

 

As ancient peoples have long recognized, however, that's not really the way it works.  Life travels in a circle, not a line.  "Progress" is something of an illusion.  We don't move "forward" as much as we move "around".  Today's bare branches lead to bud break, to blossom, to fruiting, to leaf drop, to bare branch.  Repeat.  Perhaps that is why the circle is the most common geometric shape in nature:  to remind us.  We moved past spring and summer and fall only in the way that a clock hand moves past "2" and "3" and "4".  They will come around again.  As with winter.  

The sun sets, but it also rises.  Hemingway borrowed Ecclesiastes' wisdom to speak of generational resilience, and I suppose resilience is a part of it.  But the biblical sage, I think, was reflecting more on circularity than strength.  We've tended to view his more famous observation that, "there is nothing new under the sun," as a cynically callous, almost nihilistic view of life.  But instead of dismissively mocking our creativity, couldn't he actually be making the same macro point again:  that the sun, supervising this great rotational rhythm, has simply seen it all before – and will again in life's rotational turn?

 

The rain falls and soaks and runs and evaporates in order to do it all again.

The soil nourishes the seed which flourishes to nourish the animals and birds – and us – whose waste then nourishes the soil in order to do it all over again.

Ends are beginnings which are ends which…

 

"Around every circle," Emerson wrote, "another can be drawn." 

 

Taken by itself, one can't discern from a photograph if the image captures the sun rising or setting – which, perhaps, illustrates the point.  

 

"Around and around the wind goes, blowing in circles."

 

And hopefully each time around I learn again what I learned before, only each time more deeply; gaining wisdom, each time, moreso than volume.  

And given that nothing is ever left behind, hopefully what I discarded last time around doesn't present too putrid or toxic or formidable of an obstacle as I approach it all over again.  

Because what goes around comes around.  

 

"…there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning"

 

"The sun sets, but also rises."  

 

This round earth having moved in a circle, not a line.

 

The Flakes, the Gray, The Promise

It is snowing this morning – an effortless, windless descent refreshing the crusted remains of last week’s storm.  It’s mild for this time of year – low 30’s – but the forecast cautions that this will be the high of the day.  By sunset we will be back below zero, replicating the pendulum pattern that has characterized this winter –

- Back and forth –

- bitter cold juxtaposing thawing mild.

But it is winter, and we expect such things.  

Three cardinals ornament the tree outside our window – swollen red counterparts to the shriveled red berries left over from autumn.  Undeterred by the morning flurries, they greet each other and the dawning day.  On the opposite side of the tree remains the nest that has miraculously survived not only snowy blasts, but derecho winds.  I haven’t given it closer inspection, not wanting to disturb or deter future occupants should they want to take up residence there for a season.  But I am curious about its general construction, and the nature of its adhesion.  What natural glue or binding could withstand 70-80 mph winds?  But there it remains, durably and securely ready.  Poignantly available.

 

The chickens, too, seem adjusted to the season.  No doubt the added minutes of daylight since the solstice advantage them to productive effect, but whatever the explanation I’m finding eggs again after a fallow season of several weeks.  To be sure, they had better things to do with their protein – refurbishing feathers, replenishing spent stores, remembering how to keep warm – but I’m grateful for the fruitful resumption.  And while it might be an overstatement to claim that they bound down the ramp as soon as it is lowered, after a few deep breaths and a ruffling of feathers, they do in fact descend and emerge to see what they can see – and consume.  Dwayne, the rooster, emerges with his usual announcement, before shortly thereafter bolstering it into a warning to the hens about the overflying eagle.  They retreat back inside, this time not for warmth or food but out of an abundance of caution – preferring not to become someone else’s food if they can prevent it.  

 

The winter day is commencing – sunless on this side of the gray; snowy, with the frosty confirmation that this inclement season is yet with us for weeks – and months – to come.  And yet…

 

…and yet there are buds on the branches foretelling promise and change.  Swollen nodes dotting the extremities of the trees, hinting at leaf and blossom and fruit.  

 

I shiver with a giddy gratitude and open my face to the flakes, taking in what I’m promised will not last forever.