Sunlight takes about eight minutes and twenty seconds to reach the earth, and, like the paradoxical ancient Greek word pharmakon, meaning both remedy and poison, the light of the sun is a necessity of life, and also a lethal danger. Sunlight is scattered and filtered by our atmosphere, and it appears to us with differing qualities, depending on the season, or time of day. Morning and evening light travel a long passage through our gaseous ring to bring us golden hues and lengthened shadows, while the penetrating midday light encounters less dust and fewer molecules, giving sharp, short shadows, and bright blue skies. The fall season brings cooler weather, not because the sun is farther from us, but because of the angle of its rays, a result of our signature twenty-four degree tilt. Like that of morning and evening, autumn light is less direct, more diffuse, yellower, and softer.

Fall seems to have a natural poignancy, an emotional power that many of us respond to with introspection, thoughts of our larger voyage, a new perspective on our past, present, and future. This change in light is one of many signals on our perennial path to winter, perhaps the most obvious sign of seasonal change in these parts, where a day in late October can warm to the high nineties, but the leaves continue to fall, and the geese still pass with a honk. The cosmos are moving at the same speed as in summer, but the effects of this motion, and our response to it, form a watershed of evaluation, a time to acknowledge and effect change.

I received my election ballot in the mail this week, and I intend to fill it out this weekend, and if you too have received this powerful and long awaited packet of paper, I encourage you to do the same. For me, this act of inking will be a moment of personal victory, regardless of the ultimate outcome. Next month will be Oakland Yard’s fourth anniversary, and the fourth anniversary of an election that so changed and divided our country that we no longer recognize it. Four years ago, it felt like we needed to hang on tight, because the ride was about to get a lot wilder. Well, we were right - it got wild, and we’re still white-knuckling it – but we’re still here, and you’re still there, and despite that dark, orange day we lived through last month, and these dark four years we’ve endured in America, here comes the sun, little darling. Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right. It’s all right.

Cheers,

Max