Turn, Turn, Turn

With the passing of the autumnal equinox yesterday, the calendar officially turns from Summer to Fall, as is customary this time of year. And so even as we continue to perspire we begin to consider, faintly, the possibility, of open windows, long sleeves, and–dare we think it–sweaters and jackets.

On the strength of a cold winter followed by epic spring rainfall, experts and common folk alike had predicted a mild summer. But the climate gods had other ideas, so the summer that was supposed to happen did not. The rains, so generous in late spring, came to an abrupt halt, as though the tap had simply been turned off, and there followed many unbroken weeks of unrelenting, historic dry, which have yet to end as of this writing. By August the gains of spring had been all but erased, and we were once again fully in the grip of drought. The parched earth baked under a withering sun, and the mercury soared above a hundred for days on end.

The turn was late this year. As everyone knows, Autumn begins every year on September 21. Except that it doesn’t. Tugged this way and that by countless tendrils of gravity both slender and stout reaching to the stars and beyond, the Earth never traces twice exactly the same path in its journey about the sun. Our planet also wobbles a bit as it rotates. And so the sun stands exactly vertically above the Earth’s equator at a different measured moment every seasonal cycle. And there is something of a paradox in this because our calendars and our clocks both derive from the sun’s apparent motion, whose stubborn imprecision has caused no end of vexation for those wishing to keep close track of this thing we call “time.”

The solar zenith will cross the planet’s midline again, of course, in six months give or take a few hours, tracking in the other direction as it shuttles endlessly between twenty three point five north latitude and twenty three point five south. And as this reliable solar cycle defines the seasons, it also defines in ways both large and small the rhythms of life for this planet’s inhabitants.

Our eyes and our experience tell us that the sun moves while we stand still. It “rises” and “sets.” It crosses the sky daily, moving steadily and unerringly from one horizon to the other, always east to west. It moves yearly, climbing over the months to its apex, pausing briefly, receding to its nadir, and pausing again. But all of this motion is an illusion, albeit a very good one. Because by the implacable logic of Occam’s Razor, it is the smaller body, the Earth, that moves, and the larger, the Sun, that does not.

Illusory or not, from the human viewpoint, these cycles are themselves invariant and forever, reassuring absolutes in a world full of relative. Except that they aren’t. In the same way as a spinning top, the Earth’s rotational axis traces a wobbly circle–“precesses” in the argot of physics–completing a circuit every twenty-two thousand years or so. The change caused by this motion occurs slowly enough that it would take a half-dozen normal lifetimes laid end-to-end to even begin to notice. Nevertheless, in eleven thousand years, give or take, any humans still around will be celebrating the beginning of Fall in March. But in another eleven thousand, again give or take, this season will once again arrive at the “right” time, in the last quarter of September.

Even the familiar twenty-four hour day is a temporary arrangement. The tight gravitational bond of Earth and Moon act as a brake on the rotation of both. A billion years ago our planet spun much faster than now, completing three or four rotations in the same length of time now required to complete just one. Over the next billion or so it will continue to slow, gradually winding down until it and the moon are locked in a synchronous embrace. The moon, being a much smaller body, fulfilled its end of the deal long ago, so that from our viewpoint it has a bright side, familiar to us from its “full” phase, and a dark side, which we never, ever see fully illuminated.

Here at latitude thirty degrees, seasonal change is a subtle affair. This far south, not all that far from the tropics, the warm season dominates, lasting some years from late April to early October. And as if reluctant to depart, is almost always slow to release its grip. But change is happening, and  if you pay attention, the signs of it are legion.

Well off the vertical now, the midday sun, still hot, is no longer painfully so. The mornings have lost their former enervating heaviness, and while not exactly crisp yet, are beginning to hint in that direction. The days grow rapidly shorter; today we will have two minutes less daylight than yesterday and tomorrow we will have two minutes less than today. The light now has a slanting, golden quality to it unique to this time of year. Cicadas, white noise makers of summer, have ceased their endless hypnotic droning, having either mated or died trying. Pecans and acorns are ripening, and here and there a few outliers have already fallen. Squirrels, foraging with a manic energy, are visibly putting on weight.

If Summer is a brass marching band, big and bright, loud and glorious, then Fall is a solitary woodwind: wistful with a hint of melancholy, yet so beautiful it breaks your heart. The word itself, “autumnal,” in three short syllables captures almost perfectly the piercing ambiguity of the human condition.

With the arrival of Fall we welcome and celebrate the change, revel in the colorful turning of the leaves, enjoy the rediscovered, nearly forgotten pleasure of cool air on flesh. Without quite realizing why, our step quickens and we scurry about with renewed and welcome vigor. Yet beneath it all is an insistent and vaguely troubling sense of loss, which darkens what ought to be be a time of joy. And we are not sure why.

And then we remember. We remember that Autumn is the time of slow dying, the withering away of fullness and plenty, light and life. And as the light leaves us and Winter draws near, that ancient primordial awareness, older than our species, is reawakened. Suddenly, somehow we know, without even being told, that it is time to gather, time to reap, time to prepare. Because darkness soon falls.

A Life in Full

When a great man dies, it is as though a library has burned

–Author unknown

I was saddened to learn of the death of Oliver Sacks, the great author and neurologist, by cancer on August 30. He was eighty-one. Saddened but not surprised, as he had been ill for some time and had rapidly weakened in recent weeks. Dr. Sacks foreshadowed his impending death with a moving and eloquent essay on the meaning of Sabbath, published in the New York Times on August 15.

Two of humanity’s greatest gifts are: the ability to reason, and the ability to empathize. As they are very nearly opposing qualities, you rarely find advanced forms of both coexisting comfortably within a single individual. Oliver Sacks was that rare exception, and this made him a uniquely compelling personality.

A doctor by trade, an author by choice, Dr. Sacks made his mark in the world of popular literature with series of fascinating, often stirring accounts of neurological oddities he had encountered in his practice. The most well-known of these, The Man who Mistook his Wife for a Hat, became an instant best-seller when it was published in 1985, and made Sacks a household name. He is also known as the inspiration for the movie Awakenings, a somewhat fictionalized version of his 1973 book of the same name.

A lesser person would simply have regarded these unusual cases as clinically interesting, but having no larger meaning. Sensing a deeper story, Dr. Sacks used them as vehicles for sensitive and insightful explorations of the human condition.

Though not without a certain scholarly quality, Sacks’ writings reveal a person who was more philosopher than clinician, as empathetic as he was analytical, and a consummate humanitarian. His wide-ranging, disarmingly unselfconscious ruminations at times have an almost metaphysical feel. In Musicophilia, one of his later works, Sacks repeatedly uses the word “ensoulment,” a term probably of his own coinage, to describe the process by which the brain comes to be fully human. It is the sort of wooly-headed sentiment that might have diminished the reputation of a scientist of lesser stature. But to his many admiring peers, this was just another example of Oliver being Oliver. Dr. Sacks was so enamored of  life, which he saw as a splendid, transcendent, and unspeakably marvelous thing, that he couldn’t help the poetic digressions. He reveled in the simple fact of existence. To his way of thinking, to be a living, sentient being in the world was an extraordinary gift.

To arrive at this enlightened outlook, Sacks had to forget an awful lot of training. Neurology is the study of the brain as a biological object. Everything about it pushes the practitioner toward a coldly mechanistic view, in which the brain is simply a machine constructed from interacting parts, a biological mechanism behaving in accordance with physical principles, without mystery or deeper meaning. To the neurologist, what we call “humanity” is simply a coordinated neuronal discharge. And consciousness, that unique, amazing, and mysterious thing that only the brain does, is essentially irrelevant, as it cannot be properly quantified.

As in much of academia, there is a certain embedded rigidity in the practice of science, an institutionalized stickler mentality that reflexively frowns upon the very idea that this Very Serious Pursuit could ever be enjoyable. This face of science wears a rather grim expression and behaves as though wonder and intellectual rigor were mortal enemies. Sacks recognized this as a flawed model and rebelled against it. Rejecting the confining formality of his chosen vocation, Sacks’ writings brim with gee-whiz enthusiasm, humor, and wit.

Like most of his millions of readers, I never met Dr. Sacks. Even though in a way it felt like I had, having read several of his books, and many of his columns. Such is the nature of fame that we feel we “know” someone in the public eye because we experience their thoughts by way of their words and find some connection in them, or because we see images of them on our televisions and computers. We get a mental picture of this person we think we know, develop a profile of them, and are surprised when we find out certain things about them that do not conform to that model. We looked at Oliver Sacks and saw a burly, affable, avuncular, bearded bear of a man and assumed much based on this presentation, most of it probably wrong. When we learn about the other Oliver Sacks, the details surprise us because they do not in any way fit the profile. Who knew, for example, that he was British? or that he was gay? that he had been a top-notch athlete and a body-builder? or that he had neurological issues of his own? We would never have guessed that at one time he was a hot-dogging, tough-guy motorcyclist, or that for much of the middle part of his life he battled serious addiction. The picture emerges of a complex, flawed but highly competent, remarkably well-rounded person who wanted to absolutely do life, and was, in fact, pretty good at it.

Both as a scientist and as a good sport up for an adventure, Sacks claimed to be looking forward to death, and to appreciate the opportunity to experience it from the inside. It is tempting to think of this declaration as so much brave nonsense. But I think he really meant it, and very purposely did death with the same verve with which he did life. It isn’t hard to imagine him paying microscopically close attention as death enveloped him, noting every little detail, every unanticipated wrinkle, wryly aware of the supreme irony that the ultimate human experience, quite literally, is one that can never be shared. You imagine him gamely holding on to consciousness for as long as possible, but at the very end, surrendering gracefully.

Dr. Sacks was solidly a scientist, nominally an atheist, but enough of a natural spiritualist, I suspect, to have pondered as seriously as anyone the question that crosses all our minds at some point: Where do we go when we die? His scientist self would have been more or less obligated to respond that we don’t “go” anywhere. Rather, we stop, quite suddenly. But his spiritual self might have opined that in this magnificent universe, of which we know so very, very little, much happens that cannot be observed or measured, so who knows?

In one of his last essays, Sacks wrote of his desire to die at his country house in upstate New York, eyes fixed upon the stars. Regrettably, this did not happen. The end came a little sooner than expected, and Oliver Sacks slipped away at his apartment, in midtown Manhattan, surrounded by hastily summoned friends and loved ones, beneath a washed-out city sky.

In cinema, a major transition is commonly signaled with a fadeout. There are two types. Fade-to-black signifies an ending: This story, or at least this chapter of it, is over. Finito. Fade-to-white is more ambiguous. It isn’t really an ending, and it kind of leaves you hanging, uncertain. Something obviously happens next, but exactly what is unclear.

And when you get right down to it, this really is the ultimate question: When our time is up, do we fade to black or to white?

Well Dr. Sacks, which is it?