SPACE CADETS / WHO DECIDED THE EQUINOX & SOLTICE DATES?

Ancient Mayans

They don’t teach you this in school, or if they do, it arrives dressed in diagrams and Latin words and leaves before it can settle into the bones.   

We are told the seasons begin on December 21, March 21, June 21, September 21. Dates clean enough to memorize, tidy enough to print on a wall calendar. It gives the impression that someone, somewhere, made a decision. A committee perhaps. A royal decree. A bureaucrat with a pen and a fondness for symmetry.   

But no one decided anything.   

The Earth did.   

Not by intention, but by posture.   

Our planet leans. Not dramatically, not enough for us to feel it underfoot, but enough. About twenty-three and a half degrees. A slight tilt that changes everything. It means that as we circle the Sun, we do not face it evenly. We arrive at it, then withdraw, then arrive again from the other side, like a dancer who never quite squares her shoulders.   

Around June 21, the Northern Hemisphere tips forward, offering itself to the Sun. Light lingers. Evenings stretch. People stay out longer than they should, convinced time has loosened its grip. This is called the summer solstice, though it feels less like a term and more like a permission.   

Six months later, around December 21, we lean away. The light thins. The day folds in on itself. The same streets feel narrower, the same lives more interior. That is the winter solstice. No decree, no announcement. Just the quiet recognition that the Sun has stepped back.   

Between those extremes come the equinoxes, in March and September, when the Earth, for a moment, neither leans toward nor away. Day and night reach a kind of temporary agreement. Balance, not as a philosophy, but as an accident of geometry.   

Among the periodic builders of Stonehenge

Ancient people noticed this long before we named it. They stood in fields and watched where the Sun rose, where it set, how far it wandered along the horizon before turning back. They marked stones, aligned temples, built entire belief systems around a pattern they could not control but could depend on. Not because they were primitive, but because they were paying attention.   

We, on the other hand, prefer our versions neater. Meteorologists begin the seasons on the first of the month. December 1. March 1. It makes the ledgers cleaner, the charts easier to read. And there is nothing wrong with that, except that it replaces the sky with a filing system.   

The older method—the one tied to solstices and equinoxes—still carries a faint sense of wonder. It reminds us that the calendar is not entirely ours. That somewhere beneath our schedules and deadlines is a slower, older rhythm, indifferent to our preferences.   

Early Nile River civilizations

So when December 21 comes around, nothing has been decided. No switch is flipped. No season officially begins in the way a meeting begins.   

The Earth has simply reached a point in its long, patient arc where the light changes.   

And if you’re paying attention, you change with it. 

Ancient Asian Civilizations

FRIDAY FLICKS / IS THIS A GREAT PHOTO OR WHAT?

Sometimes a photograph says more about an era than a whole shelf of history books. 

This one certainly does. The image shows two young actors walking arm-in-arm across a cobbled studio street, laughing like a pair of college students who’ve just slipped away from class. The woman throws her hands up to adjust her hair, smiling her world class smile. The man beside her looks at her with amused affection, a pipe in his hand and one arm casually around her waist. 

The pair is Ingrid Bergman and Leslie Howard, photographed in the late 1930s when Bergman arrived in Hollywood to make the English-language version of Intermezzo. 

Howard, already an established star, was cast opposite the young 23-year-old Swedish actress who was just beginning what would become one of the most remarkable careers in film history. 

Nothing about the top image feels staged. Unlike the very posed shot at the end of this blog.  Most likely both images are the work of Selznick studio photographer Ernest Bachrach, one of the best Hollywood lensmen of his era. 

Howard wears high-waisted trousers and a striped shirt, looking every bit the relaxed European gentleman. Bergman, in wide-leg slacks and a belted blouse, radiates the natural warmth that made audiences fall for her almost immediately. Behind them are stacked barrels and rough paving stones that suggest a studio backlot dressed up to resemble an Old World street. 

But the setting hardly matters. 

What makes the photograph unforgettable is the sense that the camera caught something real. Not actors posing, but two people enjoying themselves. Howard’s amused glance and Bergman’s open laughter feel spontaneous, as though the photographer simply happened to be there when a small moment of joy passed by. 

Hollywood publicity stills of the 1930s were usually choreographed with precision. This one feels like a candid snapshot of youth, charm, and the easy chemistry that sometimes happens when the right actors meet at the right time. Nearly a century later, the picture still carries that lightness. 

And looking at it today, the only sensible reaction may be the simplest one: Is this a great photo, or what?