What if they actually started in the middle?

The 1761 transit of Venus and the comfort of not starting at the beginning

June 6th, 1761, was a day charged with existential promise.

On this day, scientists across the globe turned their gaze to the skies to watch 'Madame Venus' (yes, the planet) dance her way across the face of the Sun. Men like Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon (of Mason-Dixon line fame), Harvard professor John Winthrop, and several other Enlightenment all-stars had risked their lives traveling for months across land and sea to witness her eclipse—an astronomical event known as a 'transit of Venus'. At a time when their nations were at war, they united on this special day from Europe, North America, Russia, Africa, and various remote islands in the Indian and South Atlantic Oceans in search of the answer to a very important, and very human, question:

How far are we from the Sun?

To measure the distance from Earth to the Sun, these scientists had to take several measurements of the transit, from several distinct points on Earth, then combine them and calculate the difference. This difference (known as a solar parallax, if you're nerding out with me) held the key to estimating the distance, and knowing this distance would open up a whole new level of understanding of how our solar system works.

It was important. And it was unprecedented.

This effort was very much a first in the world of science and marked a critical mindset shift toward international cooperation. As one of my favorite writers Andrea Wulf summarizes in Chasing Venus: The Race to Measure the Heavens, these scientists "ignored religious, national and economic differences to unite in what was the first global scientific project."

But, what if this wasn't a beginning at all? What if it was actually… the middle?

I speak often about my practice of widening my perception and placing my decisions, circumstances, and experiences on a longer timeline. History provides such a fun sandbox for practicing this, and placing the 1761 transit of Venus on a longer timeline reveals this endeavor in medias res.

Because decades before that, Edmond Halley (of Halley's Comet fame) first figured out that the transit of Venus could be used to measure the distance from Earth to the Sun, and he called the next generation of scientists to do it. Venus transits are rare, and Halley wouldn't live to see the next one.

And centuries before that, scientists like Nicolaus Copernicus and Johannes Kepler worked out that it was the Sun at the center of our solar system in the first place, not the Earth.

And it goes on and on.

What's my point, beyond fan-girling about the Enlightenment and its rockstars and the night sky in general?

The other day, I was fretting about this newsletter and at a loss about where to start. For years, my writing has given voice to the important works and stories of others and has also brought me my livelihood. It has put me in the most tremendous conversations with the most extraordinary people, and it has put food on the table.

But when it comes to asserting my own voice, my own thoughts and musings, I have been feeling lost and hesitant and ready to give up before I even started.

But that's when my partner Aaron offered the best advice he could have given. When I admitted that I didn't know where to start, he said, "Just start in the middle somewhere. Your audience will catch up, in time."

I'm sure that on some level, those Enlightenment scientists knew they were embarking on a great beginning. They knew the attempt to measure the transit of Venus, together, was a first-in-kind project.

But I also would be willing to bet that, on some level, it felt like a middle.

And how comforting is that thought? When we come in at a mid-point, we place ourselves in that ever-greater context I speak of so often, and we are instant participants in something bigger. Maybe that something bigger is a lifelong personal quest for mastery; maybe it's simply taking our shot in a tradition like science, or writing, or music, or whatever. Maybe starting in the middle takes pressure off and helps us reorient to the web of things—the great fastening that links us together for this brief speck of time that we have.

That is, at least, what it feels like to me.

So, from the middle, I say hello, I'm Danielle LeCourt. This is Huomautus, and I'm really glad to have you here. 

Take care,

Danielle

P.S. 90% of the information on the transit of Venus in this post come from Wulf's book. You should read it—it's a real page turner, which is so special in a history book. Another of her books, The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt’s New World, is in my top 3 favorite books of all time and has been a tremendous influence on my life.