As evidenced by it's comparative virility via shares on The Book of Faces, many tens of thousands of folks felt the same exact way as what this panel depicted. The solemnity of the seasonal event been duly noted here before: the summer solstice is a personal turning point insofaras tolerating the Interior. It's the most depressing day in many ways, but the paradoxical perversity of being being exceptionally cheerful come December 22nd makes up for it in many ways. Call it a six-month-long mood swing: never mind the holidays, emotionally and mentally I start to pick up like the ears on a sled dog turning in to the home stretch.
The swing of the seasons is an inescapable metaphor for life. At the height of the light you know the decline has begun, and the only way to avoid the slide is to leave early. At the depths of the darkness, you know you've made it and if you can just hang on you will be bathed in radiance again. And the wheel keeps turning, night after light after night after light until you fall off it at whatever point that occurs. I don't think I could take it for long, although I don't know if I could leave if I had been there for years. The rhythm of a place works itself into you. You can't forget that it's happening, even if you aren't there.
ReplyDeleteTry to imagine living in the tropics, where the day and night are nearly or exactly the same length, and twilight is about 30 seconds. I don't think I could do that either.
So true: over my migrations it's been funny to experience how jarring it can be to reset the default rhythm. Especially when blundering about the woods in the dark back East during summer visits.
DeleteBest comment ever, by the way.
"When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot, hang on and SWING"