Word Smith: Aphelion
Earlier this week in the month of July, 2026, the earth reached its greatest distance from the sun, a point known as “aphelion.” It seems counterintuitive that Earth reaches aphelion every year in summer, but it’s the planet’s tilt, not its proximity to the sun, that gives us the seasons.[1]
At the point of aphelion, we’re about 94.5 million miles from the sun, a distance so vast as to be unfathomable. What we can fathom: our two feet pressing into Earth, taking up just inches of space. We’re here, now, in this room, in this house, on this yard, in this town. We are a body and a mind and five senses taking in as much as we can. We’re all so small, yet so powerful that we can think and dream and fuss and project entire worlds into existence. And then we think those worlds are the entire universe. Meanwhile, the earth’s orbit continues, the sun goes on shining, and the massive universe keeps expanding.
As a mind game that may be easier to conceptualize: On July 2 at noon, our earth reached the exact middle of 2026, 182.5 days on either side of that day and time. We can’t feel this “middle” any more than our distance from the sun, but we understand days. We understand the year and its cadence. We can picture the calendar in our minds, our equal distance from last January and next December. If you picture the year as a sea, and we’re treading water right here in the middle, two shores equidistant. Of course, there’s no choice but to head for the far coast; the tides will have it no other way.
This past Friday, July 17, 2026, Christopher Nolan’s cinematic interpretation of “The Odyssey” opened in theatres. Odysseus is hardly a man to tread water in the middle of a punishing sea, but he gets aid from the gods when he’s drowning: “The current ceased; the River God restrained / the waves and made them calm. He brought him safe / into the river mouth.” It takes Odysseus 10 years to make it home from the war. Ten aphelia, 10 summers, 10 midpoints from which to look forward and look back.
Once you know we’re around the midpoint of the year, taking stock of where we are thus far becomes irresistible. How’s the year going? According to plan? What’s happened so far? What’s done and what’s still to be done? This sort of personal audit feels productive; afterall, we mustn’t waste time! But what if we’re just here in the middle, observing without judgment, without toiling in one direction or another? There’s a brief moment in the tidal cycle called “slack water,” when the current is momentarily still, neither going out nor coming in. The cycle of flooding and ebbing stops. The twice daily tide bore halts, rests before it changes direction. It’s a reset, a breath-taking, a brief pause in the action. If the ocean can cease its relentless surging, even for a moment, then it certainly seems possible that we can too.
I hope you had a pleasant and nourishing aphalion.
[1] This article linked below was originally written by Katrina Miller in July, 2024 for The New York Times. It has been updated and modified to account for the change in seasons, extension of years, and arrival of the new movie. The story is worth repeating annually, as aphalion is a perpetual phenomenon. https://www.nytimes.com/article/aphelion-earth-sun-distance.html
Henry E. Hooper 