Some part of me on Midsummer Day
decides that winter has pretty much arrived. And this even if
yellow iris still bloom profusely in Mid-November.
It would be easy to think of my own calendar as consisting of a line
containing a down-hill part and an up-hill part. But the matter of
which part of the year is up-hill and which part of the year is down-hill
is hard to resolve.
Up-hill suggests struggle,
growling engines or aching legs. So I suppose the path from
Midsummer Day to Midwinter Day is apparently the up-hill part of my
year. And yet this does not sit right in my imagination, where this
time of year presents itself as down-hill. However, it hardly seems
right to think of the path from Midwinter Day to Midsummer day as an
The answer may be that an
up-hill/down-hill analogy is conceptually flawed. Down-hill
describes slovenly retreat, that coasting of frail character into the
nadir. On the other hand aching muscles and growling engines describes
that search for achievement, that reaching the summit, that moment where X
The problem may be with patterns that
repeat. There can be no down-hill or up-hill when the view from the
summit is predictable. The problem also might be with the idea of
line, because in an expanding universe there are no straight lines to
express the perfect spot between up and down, there is only the infinite
Necessary though to resolve this issue,
because as a point on my line of calendar I always seem to be aware of a
most tiresome up-hillness and a down-hillness, that reflects which
side of Midwinter Day I am on.
To put it another way, Midwinter Day is a
day of celebration for me, while Midsummer Day is a day of mourning, and
this seems upside down.