Authors: John Hanson Mitchell
Following the Sun
Also by John Mitchell
Ceremonial Time
Living at the End of Time
A Field Guide to Your Own Backyard
Walking Towards Walden
Trespassing
The Wildest Place on Earth
Following the Sun
A Bicycle Pilgrimage from Andalusia to the Hebrides
John Hanson Mitchell
for Prince Averino
Contents
Invocations, Prayers, and Poems to the Sun
In the Hall of the Mountain King
Invocation, Prayers, and Poems to the Sun
Creator of all and giver of their sustenance
Egyptian:
Hymn to the Sun
You rise glorious at the heaven's edge, O living Aton!
You in whom all life began.
When you shone forth from the eastern horizon
You filled every land with your beauty.
How manifold are thy works!
They are hidden before men,
O sole God, beside whom there is no other.
Thou didst create the world according to thy heart.
Egyptian:
Akhenaton's Hymn to the Sun
Surya with flaming locks, clear-sighted god of day,
Thy seven ruddy mares bear on thy rushing car.
âTo the refulgent orb
Beyond this lower gloom, and upward to the light
Would we ascend, O Sun! Thou God among the gods.
Indian:
The Rig Veda
This divine and wholly beautiful universe, from the highest vault of heaven to the lowest limit of earth, is held together by the continuous providence of the godâhas existed from eternity ungenerated, is imperishable for all time to comeâthe beams of the sunâthe King of the whole universe who is the center of all things that exist.
Julian the Apostate:
Hymn to the Sun
I offer, offer cocoa
That I may be sent to the House of the Sun.
Beautiful and rich is the crown of quetzal plumes:
May I know the House of the Sun, may I go to that place.
Aztec
For it is after the solstice, when Christ, born in the flesh with the new sun, transformed the season of cold winter and vouchsafing to mortal man a healing dawn, commanded the nights to decrease at his coming.
Paulinus
âAbove all Brother Sun
Who brings us the day and lends us his light.
St. Francis of Assisi:
The Song of Brother Sun and of All His Creatures
Now this day, my Sun Father,
Now that you have come outstanding
To your sacred place.
That from which we draw the water of life
Prayer meal
Here I give unto you.
Zuni
In the abode of light are the origins of truthâIn the hand of the prince of light is dominion over all the sons of righteousnessâ
The Dead Sea Scrolls
The royal palace of the Sun rose high
On lofty columns, bright with flashing gold,
With bronze that glowed like fire, and ivory crowned
The gables, and the double folding doors
Were radiant with silver. Manner there
Had conquered matter, for the artist Vulcan
Carved, in relief, the earth-encircling waters,
The wheel of earth, the overarching skies.
Ovid:
The Metamorphoses
(description of Apollo's palace)
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Came slope upon the threshold of the west:
Then, as was wont, his palace doors threw opeâ
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire
That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared,
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades â¦
John Keats:
Hyperion: A Fragment
Saule wears silken garments
With a silver crown
With a silver crown
Made of gilded leaves.
Saule crosses the lake, brilliant as tinsel,
A crown of gold on her head,
And polished slippers on her feet.
Goddess mother Saule
Reached her hand above the river
Her shawl, her gilt shawl,
Slipped from her shoulders.
Latvian
We sacrifice to the undying, shining, swift-horsed Sun. When the light of the sun waxes warmer, when the brightness of the sun waxes warmer, then stand up the heavenly Yazatas by the hundreds of thousands. They gather together in its glory, they make its glory pass down, they pour its glory upon the earth made by Ahura, for the increase of the world of holiness, for the increase of the creatures of holiness, for the increase of the undying, shining, swift-horsed Sun.
Zoroastrian:
Hymn to the Sun
O Day-spring, Brightness of the Light eternal, and Sun of Justice, come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death
Roman Catholic:
The Great Antiphon
(traditionally sung on the day of the winter solstice)
E pur si muove
(Nevertheless it moves)
Galileo
(
sotto voce
after recanting his heliocentric theory at his inquisition)
Oh, Shamash, when thou enterest into the midst of heaven
The gate bolts of bright heavens shall give thee greeting,
The doors of heaven shall bless thee
Oh valiant hero, Shamash, mankind shall glorify thee
O lord of E-babbara, the course of thy path shall be straight.
Go forward on the road which is a sure foundation for thee.
O Shamash, thou art the judge of the world, thou directest decisions thereof.
Babylonian:
Hymn to the Setting Sun
[Whan] the younge soone hath y in the Ram his haf course yronne,âThan longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
Chaucer:
The Canterbury Tales
Preface
A Solar Transit
Long ago I lived in a little stone cottage at the end of a lonely road in one of the hill towns of New England. Winters in that country were sharp and snowy and subject to fierce storms, and after three years there, as the shadows lengthened and the days grew shorter, I began to feel a vague chill in my soul, a need to follow the swallows south with the sun. That January I went down to the Everglades at the southern tip of Florida. I stayed for weeks, making little kayak forays into the unpeopled rivers of saw grass and mangrove and getting myself badly bitten up by mosquitoes and other creatures of warmer climates. Toward the end of that winter, I reversed the journey and traveled slowly northward with the increasing light.
By this time I had devised an ambitious plan: I would continue this northward migration by bicycle. Starting in southern Spain on the first day of spring, I would ride slowly northward along the sun-blasted rural roads of Andalusia, through western France to England, and on to Scotland and finally west to the Outer Hebrides and the ruins of a great stone circle I knew of that marks the former solar temple at Callanish on the isle of Lewis. My plan was to arrive at Callanish on the day of the summer solstice.
With this idea in mind, I booked passage on a freighter outbound for Cádiz from Norfolk, Virginia. On a blustery, bright day in mid March, I wheeled aboard the freighter an old bicycle I had inherited, an antique Peugeot, constructed in the original Peugeot bicycle factory in France in the mid-1950s. It was a heavy old horse by modern standards, all black, with low-slung handlebars, ten gears with two ranges of five changes each, and a small rack over the rear wheelânot the sort of vehicle on which to undertake a fifteen-hundred-mile journey. But for me the Peugeot was a good means of getting from one place to another without losing touch with earth, air, and light, although to be true to form I suppose I should have walked or ridden a horse all the way.
In point of fact, I had begun to imagine myself a pilgrim on this journey, one of that ancient company of questing sojourners, traveling scholars, and troubadours who had once wandered the countryside of Western Europe during the twelfth century. I imagined the old Peugeot as one of the great horses of history, Alexander's Bucephalos, or El Cid's loyal horse, Babieco, or perhaps more to the point in my case, since this was nothing if not a romantic, misguided quest, Don Quixote's horse Rocinante. My horse bike would carry me through storm and sun, over the parching dry plains of La Mancha, and up foothills, steep valleys roaring with treacherous rivers, and mountain passes where wild beasts still snatched unfortunate travelers from their saddles. Or so I hoped.
As soon as we cleared the shelter of the harbor in Norfolk a roiling chop of whitecaps frothed the sea around us and high, bitter winds and cold sprays swept the decks. Flocks of gannets wheeled and dove in the gray waters, the sky was lowering and charged with scudding, fat-bellied clouds, and little bands of scoters and shags arrowed away just above the crests of the waves. Day after day, the freighter plowed eastward against the heavy weather, the great bow sometimes nose-diving into mountainous, rogue waves and rising again, streaming with foaming waterfalls. Fewer and fewer passengers left their cabins, and even some of the crew members looked grim about the mouth. But we crashed onward, the decks empty and washed with salt waves, the skies low in the east and black in the west at dusk. Then, finally, on the sixth day out, the weather warmed and the sea calmed.
That night I went out onto the foredeck. Just below me, I could hear the shush of the bow wave, and astern, like two plowed snow furrows, the white foam of the wake rolled off into blackness, tumbling and sparking in the starlight. It had been three months since the winter sun plunged into the icy sea and made the long nights linger. Now there were only six more days to spring, and only seven hours to sunrise. The Lion was rising in the east; Orion was sinking into the black sea sky astern, and northward, on our port side, the great circle of stars known as the Bears was wheeling past Arcturus. It was a moonless night, a black, star-spangled night when the tribes of constellations march in their courses across the sky and time and the circle of the sun seem for the moment eternally suspended.
The next morning, before dawn, I went out on deck again. There had been a warm, passing shower in the night, and the waves were subdued and steaming. Eastward a rose-colored slash of sky appeared and spread out over the gray horizon. To the north and south, churning horse-herds of clouds were forming and re-forming, creating towers and mountain valleys into which a silvery glow expanded. Slowly the colors changed; great sheets of yellows and reds flared upward above the horizon, the towers of gray black clouds began to crumble and sink into the sea, and then abruptly, like a rayed diadem, a golden bead of crowned light rose up, grew and spread, and formed into a full round orb of radiance. The sun had risen.
Three hours later we raised the toothy peaks of the Azores.
It was Rafe, the second mate, who pointed the Azores out to me through his binocularsâa few green stubs, barely visible on the torn line of the horizon. These grew all day as we steamed eastward, and by late afternoon we slid through St. George's Channel, with sperm whales rising and spouting off the starboard side as if in greeting and, on the port side, the sharp, volcanic hills of Sao Miguel, with its verdant sheep pastures dotted with white houses and its raking little vineyards where the locals grew the grapes for their
vinho verde
.
I first met Rafe when I boarded the freighter back in Norfolk. He eyed my bicycle as I wheeled it up the gangplank. It turned out that he was a serious bicycle rider, and had carried aboard his own, upscale, multigeared machine, plus all the associated equipage. Whenever he was in port long enough, he'd roll his bike ashore and speed around the countryside, logging sometimes as much as eighty miles before returning to his ship. I was no match for him, but when it was announced that we would not be sailing from Norfolk on the appointed date because of high winds, he invited me to go for a spin.