A few days ago I was listening to the episode of We Can Do Hard Things where Glennon, Abby, and Amanda talk to an astrologer. (It’s Episode 106, and you can listen to it here.) The astrologer, Heidi Rose Robbins, said to think of your star sign, moon sign, and rising signs like this: the star sign that you’re born under sets out the broad strokes of your life. Your personality, your tendencies, etc. Your moon sign refers to your past—the guiding influences and fascinations that shaped and structured your childhood. Your rising sign—your ascendant—can, if you let it, refer to your future.
When you factor your rising sign into things, you imagine your star sign like a car. You get in your car and drive away from your moon sign, bringing the best lessons from your past with you, and you drive toward your rising sign, which represents change and possibility and the things you might become.
Depending on what publication you’re looking at, my star sign is either a Cancer (which usually ends on July 22 but sometimes ends on July 23) or a Leo (which usually begins on July 23 but sometimes begins on July 24).
After the episode I went to my trusty best friend, The Internet, and looked up my zodiac profile. Your zodiac profile takes into account the position of the planets at the exact moment you were born, down to the minute. Here’s mine:
Sun sign: Leo. (And also, sometimes, Cancer.)
Moon sign: Virgo.
Ascendant/Rising Sign: Libra.
In the stories of Ancient Greece, Libra occupied a part of the sky that was associated with balance and harmony. (This could be because the Sun was at the autumnal equinox in Libra until 729CE, which would have meant that the constellation appeared in the sky precisely when the world was turning over into autumn and the days and nights were of equal length.)
In Ancient Babylonian stories and scripts, the constellation was known variously as MUL Zibanu, which translates to scales or balance, and also as the Claws of the Scorpion. Because stories migrate and carry common themes, the Romans also associated the constellation with scorpion’s claws.
In Ancient Rome, the constellation came to be known as the scales held by Astraea, the goddess of justice. Libra was an unit of measurement equal to 12 ounces.
Libra appears in the Northern hemisphere in the summer and the Southern hemisphere in the winter. The constellation is home to the Gliese 581 solar system, which consists of three confirmed and two unconfirmed planets.
One of those planets, Gliese 581c, was the first planet discovered to be in the habitable zone of its star.
The system is relatively close to us, at only 20.55 light-years away.
What is a light-year, anyway? It’s the distance that light travels in one year, yes. But somehow I find that saying this and understanding it continue to be two different things. But if I slow down the scale of things, this helps.
(I’ll still probably get all of it wrong.)
Distance and time are inextricably linked. If I walk over to the nearest grocery store, I can get there in twelve walking-minutes.
If I drive to the nearest grocery store, I will get there in about two driving-minutes.
If I walk to the grocery store, I will age more than I do if I drive. If I walk, I will be twelve minutes older by the time I get to the grocery store. If I drive, I’m only two minutes older.
It takes me twelve minutes (give or take) to walk a kilometre. So the grocery store is a kilometre away.
To get to the Sun, which is 148.48 million kilometres away, and assuming for impossibility’s sake that I could do this just like I walk to the store, I would have to walk for 1 billion, 776 million minutes (give or take) to get there.
1 billion, 776 million minutes equals 3378 years. So it will take me almost 3400 years to walk to the Sun. If I walk to the Sun, I age more than I would if I took other methods.
If I could hitch a ride on a beam of light, I would reach the Sun in eight minutes—from the point of view of the light. But everyone I’ve left behind would have aged for 3378 years, presuming that they continue walking around in solidarity with me after I leave.
So the distance that light travels in one year is essentially equivalent to the distance you would travel, via walking, in thousands upon millions of millennia.
Essentially: a light-year is one year for the light, but it becomes years and years and millennia for everyone else who is stationary, or moving much slower.
I think that’s roughly how it works, anyway.
Also: we can’t travel at the speed of light, because anything that has mass cannot do this. So it’s an entirely moot thought experiment in the end. (Too bad for you and your warp factor, Star Trek.)
But still. Fun, isn’t it.
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