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| Sunrise, North Bay, Scarborough, Summer 2015 |
For me, March 1st is the
first day of Spring. When we lived in Edinburgh, that was the day the sun first
used to graze the edge of our kitchen cupboards before setting. Next day, the thin
band of golden light would be a little wider, next day wider still, reassuring
us that summer was on the way (always assuming, of course, that there were no
clouds – but I don’t remember a single year of not seeing the sun fall on our
cupboards on that date).
Where I live now, we don’t have
sunshine-on-the-cupboard day, though we do have something I like to call
sunshine-up-the-plughole day, in spite of my other half’s assuring me that the
sun is not really shining up the plughole. It certainly looks as though it is, which
is what matters to me. It’s not on Mar 1
st either – it’s sometime in
April and again in August – so it doesn’t signify Spring in the same way but it’s
better than nothing.
In Scarborough, on the Yorkshire
coast, where I spend quite a lot of time, it’s the sunrise I can see from my living
room window, for much of the summertime. In early March, it’s just visible over
some buildings if I lean out of my window a little, making its appearance at
around 6:50 a.m. I got up early this morning especially to photograph it for
you but it didn’t come out well, partly because I was leaning out of my window,
which on the fourth floor may not be a good idea. As the year progresses, the
sun creeps round, until in April it peers through the windows of the ruined
castle high on the cliff. By the summer solstice it rises clear out of the sea
and I have even been known to get up at ridiculous-o’clock to see this happen (for proof, see the photo above, which I apparently took at 04:26).
These days, because of time spent
watching the sea, I’ve also become fascinated by the phases of the moon and its
interaction with the tides. I keep thinking I’ve got it straight in my mind how
it all works, then it turns out I haven’t – but at least I understand the difference
now between a spring tide and a neap tide. (For those who don’t know, a spring
tide has nothing to do with the season. It occurs twice a month, when the sun
and the moon line up to produce high tides and low tides that are more ‘extreme’
than usual. This happens at full moon and new moon – though there is a delay of
a couple of days which I think is something to do with the surging mass of
water catching up. Neap tides happen when the moon is half full, either waxing
or waning. The moon and the sun are pulling at right angles to each other at these times so the
combined effect is less strong and the tides are not so high or so low.)
You either love this stuff or you
don’t (apologies, if you don’t). For most of my life I was pretty much
oblivious to the moon, apart from occasionally admiring its silvery radiance. I
certainly didn’t care whether or when it was new, waxing, waning or full.
Nowadays – and I hesitate to say this because you will think I am mad, if you
didn’t already – I
look forward to
the full moon. I feel sad (a little bit) when the moon is new, and something in
me rejoices (a little bit) when the new crescent moon appears in the sky. I get
gradually happier as the moon approaches full, and when it’s full – well, I wouldn’t
say it feels me with great joy but actually, yes, to be honest, it does. As it
wanes, I have a wistful, autumnal feeling… and the cycle starts again.
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| Full moon over the North Sea |
I am also at my most creative when
the moon is full. Perhaps there is something in the old myths after all. If
creating characters and stories equals lunacy (and I suspect it does), then
there you are. One theory I have is that I’ve started to use the lunar cycle as
a substitute for my menstrual cycle, which has not been with me for some time
now. You get used to living your life according to a monthly rhythm (OK, if you
are a man, you don’t, except that if you have a female partner you can enjoy it
vicariously, if ‘enjoy’ is the word). When your menses pause, you kind of miss them,
though of course it can be a relief, too.
It makes sense to adopt the moon as a
substitute – the cycles are so similar, after all. It’s great to have periods
without the pain. My surge of creativity used to happen mid-month, now it
happens at full moon – a fair exchange. Yes, of course it may all be
self-fulfilling, but who cares? It gives much-needed structure to my
post-menopausal, post-school-termal and self-employed life.
If I’m in Scarborough for full
moon, I sometimes see it rise from the sea (in roughly the same place the sun
rises from the sea at the summer solstice – this can't be coincidence, can it?). It climbs up
over the Castle Rock and sweeps round to the South Bay, eventually hanging in
the sky outside my bedroom window round the other side, only to set, a murky red
colour, in roughly the place the sun sets at the summer solstice. I need a
diagram… I love the enormous Harvest moons and Hunter’s moons that appear in
the autumn months. Feeling that I’m part of all this rhythm, all these cycles,
is very satisfying. I feel connected and it definitely helps me write.
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| Soon afer moonrise, Scarborough, July 2015 |
May your own
and the earth, sun and moon's natural rhythms serve you well.
Follow
me on Twitter @Ros_Warren
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