Earth spins on its axis at varying speeds. Yes, varying. A car tire does the same on an axle. The tread of the tire, farthest from the spin of the axle, makes a turn through greater distance than the part of the tire that meets the rim of the wheel. Since the tread travels farther during one spin than does the part nearest the wheel, and since both make the turn in the same time, then the tread has to travel faster than the inner rim just to keep up with the rotation. Otherwise, the tire would break apart.
Earth is our car tire. The Equator is the tread from a bird’s eye view either over the North Pole or the South Pole. The Arctic and Antarctic Circles are analogous to the inner rim. Earth, like a rotating tire, travels at different speeds. People standing on the Equator, say at Quito, Ecuador, travel farther, and therefore faster, in a 24-hour period than people who live in Murmansk, Russia on the Arctic Circle. Quitoans travel about 500 mph faster than Murmanskans; that’s fortunate; otherwise, the planet would break apart.
At the end one rotation, both cities return to where they were. Returning is unavoidable on a rotating planet. But every return comes with a caveat: It can’t be exactly the same. After 24 hours we find ourselves in the same place that is not, silly to say, the “same” place.
As the planet rotates, it also travels round the sun. So, even though Quitoans, Murmanskans, and you return daily to where you were relative to the rotation, you move at the same time through space. Your “same” is always different 24 hours later, even though the return is ostensibly a point on a circle because the System races around the galaxy and the galaxy moves through the universe. Add two more layers of change on your apparent daily return to a single point. The same place is never in the same place.
We’re often torn between wanting stability and wishing for change. We think there’s nothing like something well known to provide a sense of stability with an accompanying sense of security. And for us, unaware as we are of much of the movement in our lives, nothing says stability more than being in the same old place. But then, being in the same old place ferments ennui or dissatisfaction in our lives, so we seek change, not realizing that even our seemingly stable place is in constant movement.
In a quandry? “Do I,” you ask yourself, “want stability that might lead to ennui? Do I want change that might disrupt stability? Do I want them both simultaneously?”
We’ve all experienced instability through unexpected change. That’s the nature of imposed change; it bespeaks insecurity. But what of self-imposed change? We can plan for it, anticipate its occurrence, and easily recognize it against the background of “what was” just as we recognize the movement of planets against a seemingly immovable background of distant stars. But as we know from our personal histories, even planned changes come with a sense of doubt.
The “what was” is that secure, stable part of our lives that underpins our identities even when we think we are manifestations of change. Against the spinning background, we convince ourselves that we can return to the place where we were. Our sameness is, however, a myth. Maybe all of us should rejoice in change that occurs in the semblance of stability.
You always have something to return to on a spinning world; in fact, you can’t really avoid returning. And yet, you never really return to the “same.” So, let me draw some sort of lesson from this. Maybe all of us should realize that during any time of ennui or disappointment the place where we are is always renewing itself. Look around. What seems the same is really different, and you, regardless of some temporary feeling you might have of going nowhere, are always on the move.
Earth is our car tire. The Equator is the tread from a bird’s eye view either over the North Pole or the South Pole. The Arctic and Antarctic Circles are analogous to the inner rim. Earth, like a rotating tire, travels at different speeds. People standing on the Equator, say at Quito, Ecuador, travel farther, and therefore faster, in a 24-hour period than people who live in Murmansk, Russia on the Arctic Circle. Quitoans travel about 500 mph faster than Murmanskans; that’s fortunate; otherwise, the planet would break apart.
At the end one rotation, both cities return to where they were. Returning is unavoidable on a rotating planet. But every return comes with a caveat: It can’t be exactly the same. After 24 hours we find ourselves in the same place that is not, silly to say, the “same” place.
As the planet rotates, it also travels round the sun. So, even though Quitoans, Murmanskans, and you return daily to where you were relative to the rotation, you move at the same time through space. Your “same” is always different 24 hours later, even though the return is ostensibly a point on a circle because the System races around the galaxy and the galaxy moves through the universe. Add two more layers of change on your apparent daily return to a single point. The same place is never in the same place.
We’re often torn between wanting stability and wishing for change. We think there’s nothing like something well known to provide a sense of stability with an accompanying sense of security. And for us, unaware as we are of much of the movement in our lives, nothing says stability more than being in the same old place. But then, being in the same old place ferments ennui or dissatisfaction in our lives, so we seek change, not realizing that even our seemingly stable place is in constant movement.
In a quandry? “Do I,” you ask yourself, “want stability that might lead to ennui? Do I want change that might disrupt stability? Do I want them both simultaneously?”
We’ve all experienced instability through unexpected change. That’s the nature of imposed change; it bespeaks insecurity. But what of self-imposed change? We can plan for it, anticipate its occurrence, and easily recognize it against the background of “what was” just as we recognize the movement of planets against a seemingly immovable background of distant stars. But as we know from our personal histories, even planned changes come with a sense of doubt.
The “what was” is that secure, stable part of our lives that underpins our identities even when we think we are manifestations of change. Against the spinning background, we convince ourselves that we can return to the place where we were. Our sameness is, however, a myth. Maybe all of us should rejoice in change that occurs in the semblance of stability.
You always have something to return to on a spinning world; in fact, you can’t really avoid returning. And yet, you never really return to the “same.” So, let me draw some sort of lesson from this. Maybe all of us should realize that during any time of ennui or disappointment the place where we are is always renewing itself. Look around. What seems the same is really different, and you, regardless of some temporary feeling you might have of going nowhere, are always on the move.
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