Earth, in its quiet persistence, tells a story

Nanna, known as Sin in name, god whose phases lit the flame, planting seeds and harvests ripe, cycles woven, time’s archetype.

A handsome youth, with crescent crown, wore the night, he wore the brown, fields in bloom, where life would thrive, every phase, his spirit alive. The crescent moon, a symbol bright, growth and hope, a beacon light, The bull, a creature strong and bold, In his embrace, prosperity unfolds.

As night unfolds, and shadows play, Nanna’s whispers guide the way, rhythms of the earth and sky, dance of life, the reason why. With each new phase, a tale is spun, waxing light or waning sun, weaves the threads of fate and grace, every heart, in every place. So let us honour, in our song, The Moon that’s been with us so long, in his light, we find our role, Nanna’s magic, the cosmic whole.

Early civilizations noticed the regularity of the day and night cycle but had no concept of Earth’s rotation. The idea of Earth’s rotation was first suggested by Aristarchus of Samos (~270 BCE), but it wasn’t widely accepted until much later.

Aristarchus of Samos was a pioneering figure in ancient Greek astronomy, often celebrated for his revolutionary ideas about the cosmos. Born around 310 BCE on the island of Samos, Aristarchus was deeply influenced by the rich intellectual climate of Hellenistic Greece, a period characterized by remarkable advancements in science, philosophy, and mathematics.

The Hellenistic era followed the conquests of Alexander the Great and was marked by the spread of Greek culture across the Mediterranean and into parts of Asia. This cultural diffusion fostered a fertile environment for philosophical and scientific inquiry. During this time, cities like Alexandria in Egypt became vibrant centers of learning, housing vast libraries and attracting scholars from various fields.

Samos, Aristarchus’s birthplace, was not just a tranquil island but a hub of intellectual thought. It was home to the famous mathematician Pythagoras, whose ideas about mathematics and cosmology influenced subsequent generations, including Aristarchus himself. The prevailing worldview at the time was geocentric, heavily influenced by thinkers like Aristotle and Ptolemy, who placed the Earth at the center of the universe. Aristarchus, however, dared to challenge this notion.

Aristarchus’s heliocentric model was radical, as it contradicted the prevailing beliefs of a geocentric universe. He argued for the Earth’s motion around the Sun based on observations of the Moon and the stars. He estimated the relative sizes of the Sun and Moon and calculated the distance of the Sun from the Earth, proposing that the Sun was far larger than the Earth, which provided a more logical foundation for his heliocentric model.

Aristarchus’s most significant work, On the Sizes and Distances of the Sun and Moon, detailed his calculations of the relative distances and sizes of these celestial bodies. He used a method involving the angles formed during lunar eclipses, though his exact measurements were not entirely accurate by modern standards. Nevertheless, his work demonstrated a scientific approach that emphasized observation and reasoning.

The mathematics behind his theories, while somewhat rudimentary compared to modern techniques, was advanced for his time. He estimated the Sun’s distance as being around 18 times greater than that of the Moon, a calculation that showcased his innovative thinking. However, the precision of his measurements suffered from limitations in observational technology, leading to an underestimation of the actual distances involved.

Despite the brilliance of his ideas, Aristarchus’s heliocentric theory did not gain traction in the academic circles of his time. The geocentric model continued to dominate Greek thought, primarily due to the philosophical writings of Aristotle and the mathematical formulations of Ptolemy. It wasn’t until the Renaissance that Aristarchus’s ideas would be resurrected and recognized for their groundbreaking nature.

The legacy of Aristarchus extends beyond his heliocentric model. His approach to scientific inquiry, reliance on observation, and willingness to question established norms paved the way for future astronomers and mathematicians. He is often regarded as a precursor to modern astronomy, an early champion of a scientific method that values empirical evidence and rational thought.

In the cradle of Samos, where the stars align, Lived Aristarchus, with a vision divine. In a world of shadows, he dared to proclaim, the Sun was the center, a bold cosmic claim.

With angles and shadows, he sought out the truth, the mathematics of nature, he found his great proof. But the tide of belief was a tempest to face, the world turned away from his cosmic embrace. Yet his legacy lingered, like stardust in air, In the hearts of the dreamers who dared to declare, That the universe spun in a way yet unseen, the vision of Aristarchus still shimmers and gleams.

For in every equation, in each thoughtful glance, find the spark of his daring romance—heavens above and the mysteries vast, reminder that knowledge can break through the past.

Nicolaus Copernicus (1543) revolutionized this idea by proposing that the Earth rotated on its axis and orbited the Sun, but his theory was mostly centered on orbit, not rotation rates.

Galileo Galilei (1600s) used telescopes to observe the motion of celestial bodies, supporting the concept of a rotating Earth.

Isaac Newton’s laws of motion and universal gravitation (1687) provided the theoretical foundation for understanding how rotational forces work. Newton’s laws suggested that the Earth’s rotation might be influenced by gravitational forces but did not go into specifics about how Earth’s rotation could change.

The Earth, in its quiet persistence, tells a story of shifts—slow, sometimes imperceptible, but always there, shaping the world beneath our feet. And yet, when people talk about these shifts, when they say something like ‘the Earth has “moved twice’,” they’re often reaching back for something monumental, something that resonates with the idea of a cataclysmic reset.

Maybe they’re thinking of the magnetic pole reversals, moments when the North and South swap like cosmic dance partners, invisible but powerful. These flips, these geomagnetic reversals, have happened over and over again—far more than twice—but two stand out in recent history. The Brunhes-Matuyama reversal, a true full flip, took place about 780,000 years ago, while the more fleeting Laschamp Event, a short-lived wobble, gripped the Earth some 42,000 years ago. They’re part of a much larger cycle, but there’s something about these moments that captures our collective imagination. It’s as if we’re wired to see these shifts not as small movements, but as pivotal moments when the very fabric of the planet could change.

Then there’s the idea of geological shifts, those whispers of the Earth’s crust slowly adjusting, a concept that has trickled into the minds of modern myth-makers. The Earth’s outer shell, they say, has shifted before, tilting in relation to its axis, like some grand rebalancing act. These changes are slow, stretched out over eons, barely noticeable in the blink of human time. And yet, some claim two such events, dramatic in their impact, have shaped everything—though the science doesn’t quite back those theories. Still, we cling to the idea that Earth could somehow shift in an instant, that there could be moments when the very ground beneath us changes, leaving us in a new world.

But maybe what they really mean when they talk about two great shifts is the climate—a far more tangible force that has reshaped the Earth’s history. The Pleistocene Ice Age, stretching over two and a half million years, marked one of the most profound shifts, its icy tendrils touching every corner of the globe. And when that ice began to retreat, about 11,000 years ago, it left a world forever changed. The end of the Ice Age wasn’t just a climatic shift; it was a shift in the course of human history, pushing humanity out of caves and into the dawn of civilization. And then came the Younger Dryas, a sudden, sharp drop in temperatures around 12,900 years ago—a cooling that threw everything into chaos once more, as if the Earth itself couldn’t quite decide what its future would be. Two shifts, perhaps, but not in the way people think.

Maybe, when people talk about the Earth moving, they’re reaching for something deeper, something less about science and more about the feeling that we’re at the mercy of forces far greater than ourselves. There are those fringe ideas, the ones that whisper of crustal displacement—a rapid shift of the Earth’s surface that could bring whole continents to their knees, throwing civilization into chaos. But the science doesn’t back this, not in the dramatic way it’s often imagined. It’s the stuff of myth, of the mind’s desire for an explanation, a reason behind the changes we see in the world. And maybe that’s all these stories of “two shifts” are—an attempt to make sense of a planet that’s always moving, always changing, whether we notice or not.

In truth, the Earth has shifted many times, in ways large and small. The magnetic poles have danced around one another, the crust has subtly flexed and rebounded, the climate has frozen and thawed in great cycles of death and rebirth. Two shifts? Maybe, but they’re part of a much larger, ongoing story—a story of a planet that’s never really still. And in that, there’s a kind of poetry. The Earth, even in its quietest moments, is always moving, always shifting, reminding us that nothing is ever truly fixed.

The phenomenon of Earth’s rotation, its subtle shifting rhythms, and the celestial forces that guide it have always been wrapped in myth and poetry, long before George Darwin dissected it with science. Ancient civilizations, though lacking the precise measurements of time’s gradual stretch, crafted myths around the cycles of day and night, the dance between Earth and Moon, and the forces beyond human control. These myths did more than describe the motions of the heavens—they explored the interplay of fate, the divine, and the mysterious balance that keeps the world turning.

The Moon as a Celestial Power

In many cultures, the Moon’s influence over Earth was seen as both nurturing and fearsome—a cosmic force that regulated time, tides, and life itself. The Greek goddess Selene, riding her chariot across the sky, was thought to govern the tides. She was seen as the keeper of time, marking the months, her phases controlling more than just the sea, but the fertility of the Earth and women. This idea—that the Moon’s pull was essential to the rhythms of life—was a poetic echo of what scientists like Darwin would later prove. The Moon, in all its mystery, was indeed controlling the oceans, shaping time in ways we couldn’t yet understand.

In Hindu mythology, the Moon, known as Chandra, is tied to the cycles of time and the ebb and flow of cosmic energy. Chandra is a beneficent god, but also a reminder of impermanence. The Moon waxes and wanes, its light coming and going, just as time itself ebbs and flows. This cyclic nature—so intrinsic to myth—carries a deeper meaning in the way that ancient cultures viewed the relationship between the cosmos and humanity. The Moon was not just a distant body; it was a divine force, responsible for both stability and change, for the rhythm of days, months, and tides.

In the Māori tradition of New Zealand, the movements of Earth, the separation of the heavens and the Earth, and the rotation of celestial bodies are woven into the story of Rangi (the sky father) and Papa (the earth mother). The story tells of their children forcing them apart to bring light into the world. The separation of sky and earth is symbolic of the creation of time, of light and dark, and the setting in motion of the celestial cycles that govern life. In these stories, the act of separation is what sets Earth on its course, a poetic rendering of cosmic forces.

In the Norse cosmology, we see a vision of the world’s cycles and the inevitability of change in the form of Ragnarök—the end of the world, when even the gods will perish. Before the final battle, the Earth will shake violently, and the Sun and Moon will be swallowed by wolves, bringing an end to time as we know it. These myths speak to the profound unease that comes with the idea of the end of cycles, the fear that time itself is fragile, breakable by forces we cannot control.

The concept of Earth’s wobble—its precession, as we now call it—was also mythologized. Ancient cultures were deeply aware of the shifting skies, and many incorporated this celestial wobble into their understanding of the universe’s fragility. The Inca saw the precession of the equinoxes, where the position of the stars seemed to drift over time, as part of a cosmic cycle controlled by Viracocha, the great creator deity who ordered the heavens. The gradual changes in the stars’ positions signaled shifts in the divine order, echoing the idea that Earth’s rhythms were not permanent but part of a grander, cosmic cycle.

In Islamic tradition, the Qur’an speaks of the “two risings and the two settings,” a poetic reference that some scholars interpret as acknowledging the precession of the equinoxes—where Earth’s axis shifts over millennia, subtly changing the position of sunrise and sunset over time. These shifts were seen as proof of divine order, a quiet signal that even the stars follow the path set for them by the Creator.

It is no wonder that poets throughout history have been drawn to the metaphor of the spinning Earth, the cycles of day and night, and the relentless march of time. Dante Alighieri, in The Divine Comedy, describes the cosmos as a carefully ordered system, with Earth at the center, reflecting the medieval belief that humanity was bound in the perfect order of divine time. His vision of the celestial spheres speaks to an ancient yearning for understanding, a longing to place the chaotic forces of time and rotation within a divine framework.

William Blake, with his visionary intensity, viewed the heavens and the Earth’s motion as both a symbol of human limitation and the potential for transcendence. In his Auguries of Innocence, he wrote, “To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wildflower…” Here, Blake touches on the idea that the grand cycles of the universe, including Earth’s own motion, are reflected in the smallest details of existence, a testament to the interconnectedness of all things.

Meanwhile, T.S. Eliot, in The Four Quartets, meditates on time’s nature, its circularity, and its profound impact on the human experience. He writes of time as “a still point of the turning world,” where moments of realization and transcendence rise above the cycles of motion that govern our physical world. Eliot’s work speaks to the human struggle to reconcile the constant motion of the Earth—and time itself—with the desire for stillness, meaning, and eternity.

While science has given us the tools to measure the forces that slow the Earth’s spin, the poets and myth-makers were already grappling with the deeper, existential implications of such cosmic motions. The Moon’s pull on the tides was not merely a physical phenomenon but a symbol of fate, the way the heavens move us, even as we try to resist. The slow lengthening of days, the wobble of the Earth, the shaking of the ground in moments of cataclysm—all were understood, in some way, as reminders of our place in a universe too vast to comprehend fully.

We have now moved beyond the myths to study the facts of Earth’s rotation with precision, using tools like atomic clocks and satellites to track its subtle changes. But in doing so, we have also returned to a kind of mythic wonder—acknowledging that the cycles of time and motion are far greater than any single story. From the tidal friction Darwin explained to the violent seismic shifts that alter Earth’s axis, we are still confronted with the truth that our world is not fixed. It spins, it wobbles, it slows, and speeds. And, like the poets and myth-makers before us, we are left to marvel at the forces that keep it all in motion.

The Earth, it seems, has never truly been still. Since the dawn of its creation, its rotation has been subtly—yet inexorably—altered by forces both visible and hidden, large and small. For all our human certainty, even the length of a day, something we treat as constant and immovable, is part of an intricate cosmic dance where time itself is elastic. The story of Earth’s rotation and how it has changed over the ages is not just a tale of science, but one of discovery, a process of slow, methodical peeling back of the veil, revealing that our assumptions have always been precarious.

In the 19th century, as astronomers like Edmond Halley began comparing ancient eclipse records, they started to notice something strange. The celestial mechanics we thought we had mastered were, in fact, shifting—discrepancies appeared, subtle but undeniable. It was George Darwin, with his tidal friction hypothesis, who took us beyond observation, providing a theoretical framework for this slow deceleration. Darwin looked to the Moon, ever present in our sky, a companion and a force. The Moon, through its gravitational pull, was subtly but surely applying a brake to Earth’s spin. The tides it generated in our oceans created friction as they ebbed and flowed, a cosmic tug-of-war that slowed Earth’s rotation ever so slightly. The days lengthen by milliseconds per century, but across geologic time, these moments add up. Earth’s day, once a rapid 22 hours, has stretched to the 24 we know today.

No ancient civilizations were contemplating the Earth’s rotational slowdown, but they were tracking the stars and making sense of time in ways that left echoes for modern science to decode. The story of Earth’s rotation didn’t emerge from the rituals of sun and star worship or the cycles of harvest—they were far too close to the rhythm to question its constancy. Instead, the real inquiry didn’t begin until men like George Darwin, son of Charles, began to see time and motion with the scrutiny that only mathematics could allow.

George Darwin’s idea, a legacy in itself, wasn’t about the mythic or the sacred—it was about the tides, the relentless push and pull of the Moon on Earth’s oceans. The Moon, casting its gaze across the water, drags the ocean with it, creating friction as the Earth rotates beneath it. This friction, Darwin realized, was acting like a brake, slowing Earth’s spin in imperceptible ways. The Earth, over the course of millions of years, was losing its momentum, ever so slightly. The tides were the key—not in the rise and fall of coastal life, but in this invisible war between Earth’s gravity and the Moon’s pull. The Moon was stealing energy from Earth, and the Earth was giving it willingly, as if locked in a dance it couldn’t escape.

The idea of a massive planet swinging by Earth and dragging our tides into chaos feels like the stuff of apocalyptic fiction, a plot twist worthy of cosmic horror. Intuitively, we think: wouldn’t such a planet be sucked in by Earth’s gravity? Wouldn’t it either collide with us or slingshot away before it could wreak havoc? The math, as always, seems too big to match what feels “right,” but intuition can betray us when the cosmos gets involved. So, let’s strip back the layers and dig into what’s real.

The story of Noah’s Flood, with its deluge covering the Earth, is a powerful myth that stretches across cultures, found in versions from the Epic of Gilgamesh to biblical texts. If we strip back the layers of divine intervention and look for a plausible natural explanation, the mind immediately leaps to celestial phenomena—could a passing planet or some cosmic event have been responsible for such a massive flood? After all, people have always sought answers in the heavens, where chaos and order play out on scales far beyond our comprehension.

The idea that a rogue planet could pass close enough to Earth to stir up tidal forces, causing catastrophic flooding on a biblical scale, is intriguing. But the hard reality of gravitational physics pushes back. For a massive object—something on the scale of a planet—to come close enough to Earth to disrupt the oceans in such a dramatic way would likely result in far more than just water rising. The gravitational pull from something like that would throw Earth’s entire balance into chaos.

Let’s say, hypothetically, some celestial body, maybe even a rogue planet, passed close enough to Earth to pull on the tides. The physics of such an event would indeed be extreme. The gravitational forces would create immense tidal bulges—water being pulled towards the object as it approached, creating what we’d recognize as enormous, possibly apocalyptic waves. The flooding wouldn’t just be biblical; it would be global, affecting coastlines in unprecedented ways. But here’s the rub—if a planet-sized object got that close to Earth without being captured by our gravity, or at least severely disrupting our own orbit, it would have to move at a speed and trajectory that makes a gentle pass-by highly unlikely.

The Noah flood myth likely originates from a much smaller, more localized event, despite its global-scale narrative. Some scholars suggest it could have been tied to real geological occurrences. For example, at the end of the last Ice Age, massive ice dams holding back meltwater from retreating glaciers burst, releasing vast amounts of water into low-lying areas. The Black Sea deluge hypothesis is one possible natural explanation, suggesting that rising sea levels from melting glaciers caused the Mediterranean to breach into the Black Sea basin around 7,000 years ago, flooding coastal settlements and leaving an enduring mark on human memory. This event, while enormous on a human scale, didn’t involve any planets pulling on the tides—just the relentless, inevitable forces of ice, water, and gravity at work.

For a celestial object to have triggered Noah’s flood, we’re back in the realm of speculation. Sure, ancient humans could have experienced massive floods and attributed them to the wrath of the gods or forces beyond their understanding, but the science of planetary interactions tells us something else. If a planet or large body passed close enough to Earth to cause that kind of destruction, we wouldn’t just be dealing with floods. We’d be talking about mass extinctions, orbital shifts, and gravitational chaos—events that leave more than just historical scars; they leave marks on the planet itself.

The idea of a rogue planet causing the flood of Noah, while dramatic and tantalizing, runs up against the reality that such an event would do far more than raise the oceans. It would change everything—Earth’s spin, its seasons, its stability. The delicate balance of the solar system, with its gravitational relationships between the Sun, Earth, and Moon, keeps those kinds of close encounters rare, if not impossible under most conditions. Earth, after all, is a finely tuned machine, spinning in a web of forces that, while chaotic at times, adhere to the rules of physics.

So, while the Noah’s flood myth resonates with the idea of a cosmic event, a rogue planet pulling the tides and creating a cataclysmic deluge seems unlikely. The more plausible culprit lies in the natural processes we already understand—melting ice, rising seas, and the gradual, often violent reshaping of the Earth’s surface over millennia. The story of Noah is powerful, but it’s unlikely to be the result of some wandering planet tipping the scales. Instead, it speaks to humanity’s deep relationship with water, with disaster, and with the unknown forces that shape our world—forces that, while sometimes seeming divine, are firmly rooted in the physics and geology of this planet we call home.

So with that being said First, the likelihood of another planet, rogue or otherwise, drifting into our corner of the solar system and coming close enough to affect our tides without being pulled into a full-on collision is slim. Objects of significant mass, like planets, tend to follow the rules of orbital dynamics—dictated by Newtonian gravity and Kepler’s laws. For a planet to get close enough to tug on our oceans the way the Moon does, but not too close that it either slams into us or gets flung off into space, would require a very precise set of conditions. A near miss at planetary scales might seem improbable, but it’s not impossible, and that’s where things get murky.

To pull on Earth’s tides in the dramatic way we’re imagining—creating those massive tidal bulges that could swallow coastal cities—you need a body with significant mass, but not so much mass that it distorts the entire system. The Moon’s gravity pulls our oceans into rhythmic motion, but the Moon is in stable orbit, perfectly poised to do so over millennia. Now, if something like Mars or Jupiter decided to pay us a close visit, the gravitational forces at play would be far more extreme, and the consequences, unpredictable.

But the idea of such a massive object getting close and not being captured by Earth’s gravity or catapulted away by its own momentum? That’s where the math fights back. For a passing planet to swing close enough to influence tides but avoid being drawn in by Earth’s gravity would require either an extraordinary speed, coming in fast enough to avoid capture but slow enough to create those tidal forces. Yet, that balance is so fine it starts to seem implausible. Gravity, after all, is not subtle when mass gets involved.

What we do know is that close encounters of this scale don’t just happen in a void—they happen within the delicate gravitational web of the solar system. The Sun’s gravity holds all its planets in place with precision. For something to disrupt that balance and careen close to Earth would either involve a massive perturbation of the entire system or some rogue body slipping through the Sun’s influence. Even then, the consequences would probably be far more catastrophic than a few monstrous tides.

So while the idea of another planet sliding in close enough to tug on our tides is theoretically possible, the forces involved would likely escalate into something much worse than water simply flooding the coastlines. We’d be talking about a massive gravitational interaction—one that could alter not just tides but Earth’s entire orbit, climate, and even the stability of the planet itself.

It’s important to remember, though, that while these ideas excite our imaginations, the universe has a way of keeping its chaos on a leash. The math—at least, the best math we have—suggests that such a close encounter is exceedingly rare. The solar system’s choreography is precise, a kind of cosmic ballet where near-misses happen, but not often, and not with the planets we know and love.

So no, it’s not likely we’ll get a close cosmic visitor just casually pulling our tides and then moving on. If something were to come that close, the gravity involved would be too disruptive, too chaotic. The forces are too strong for a simple pass-by without deeper consequences. But then again, as history has shown us, the universe likes to keep a few surprises up its sleeve.

And then there are the catastrophes—moments in time where Earth’s spin changes in abrupt, violent jerks. Think of the Sumatran earthquake in 2004. Not only did it wreak havoc on the people living along the Indian Ocean, but it also subtly altered the rotation of the Earth itself. It shifted Earth’s mass, shortening the length of a day by fractions of a second. The Japanese earthquake in 2011 did the same, changing the distribution of the planet’s mass and causing Earth to wobble just a little more.

These shifts, these moments of seismic energy, remind us that Earth’s rotation is not fixed. It is subject to the forces within, to the delicate balance of oceans and air, to the tremors beneath the crust. The day isn’t sacred; it is malleable, shaped by forces we can now measure, though never fully control.

But it was Darwin, centuries after the ancients, who began to see the shape of the system. It was his mind that started to unravel the invisible strings connecting the tides, the Moon, and the slow, inexorable lengthening of time on this spinning rock we call home.

The Moon, as it pulls, also recedes—by 3.8 centimeters every year—a slow-motion escape, taking with it a portion of Earth’s rotational energy. This gradual shift, imperceptible to those bound to daily rhythms, is now undeniable to those who study time with atomic precision. And it’s not just the Moon that exerts its influence. As the massive glaciers of the last Ice Age melted away, they lightened the load on Earth’s crust, which rebounded like a spring slowly uncoiling. This shift of mass caused tiny adjustments to Earth’s rotation, and those adjustments continue today. The ice recedes, the Earth adjusts, and the balance changes.

Then there are the violent forces—the earthquakes that rock the planet, shifting its mass in ways that subtly alter its spin. The great quakes of Alaska, of Tōhoku, of Sumatra, all jostled the planet, shortening the day by fractions of microseconds. These are events where the Earth itself, deep within, rearranges and the time it takes to spin, however infinitesimally, adjusts.

What began as a story of slow, steady change has, in recent years, taken a curious turn. Since the advent of atomic clocks, we’ve come to see not just the long-term slowing of the Earth, but curious fluctuations. The year 2020, perhaps as an omen, brought some of the shortest days ever recorded, the planet spinning a touch faster. Theories abound. Could it be the redistribution of mass from climate change—melting glaciers, shifting ocean currents, and atmospheric pressures? As humans alter the planet’s surface and the atmosphere, the Earth itself, it seems, adjusts.

Science has evolved. From Halley’s eclipse tables to VLBI radio telescopes measuring Earth’s wobble with millimeter precision, from lunar laser ranging that captures the Moon’s slow drift, to satellites that weigh the gravity of shifting water, we have gained new tools. Yet with every advance, we come to realize the system is far more complex, dynamic, and alive than we ever imagined. The simple rotation of the Earth, the ticking of days, hides a story of constant evolution, a delicate interplay of forces shaping our experience of time itself.