James Van Der Beek, Ancient Math, and the Defiant Logic of the Vernal Equinox

When James Van Der Beek passed away earlier this year, the teenage Dawson’s Creek fan still living inside me did what we often do as a memorial in this digital age: I scrolled. Among the tributes and clips, I came across a video he had posted mere weeks before his death. In it, he spoke with a quiet, logical wonder about the futility of celebrating “new beginnings” and making resolutions in the dead of winter, at a time when nature is dormant, in the Northern Hemisphere, at least. It is, after all, a bit bold to claim we are starting fresh while wearing three layers of wool and nursing a vitamin D deficiency.

He even went on to point out that if March, the month of the vernal/spring equinox, were the true start of the year, then the Latin roots of our months would finally make sense. September becomes the seventh month (sept), October the eighth (octo), November the ninth (novem), and December the tenth (decem). James didn’t just need a better calendar; he needed more Iranian friends. Or perhaps he had plenty who had already let him in on the oldest continuously celebrated holiday in history, Nowruz.

While most of the world follows a Gregorian calendar that resets in January, millions across the globe wait for the rebirth of spring. This year, at exactly 10:46 AM on March 20th, the sun crosses the celestial equator. That precise moment of the vernal equinox is Nowruz (New Day), the 3,500-year-old Persian New Year, and a tradition that predates most other calendars.

This precision is no accident. In the 11th century, the legendary Persian polymath and poet Omar Khayyam helped calculate the Jalali calendar. No offence to Pope Gregory XIII, but Khayyam’s is mathematically superior. While the Gregorian calendar drifts by a day every 3,226 years, the Persian calendar remains accurate for 141,000 years. Not exactly the kind of mathematical error that affects our daily lives, but certainly a satisfying bragging right. James’ epiphany makes sense: The math of the equinox is the most perfect human measurement of new beginnings. It is a logic shared by the world’s greatest ancient architects; the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Mayan temple of El Castillo at Chichén Itzá were both built to align perfectly with this exact solar moment.

It is a holiday drenched in secular roots and Zoroastrian traditions. But more than a date, Nowruz is an act of resistance. Throughout history, the various conquerors of Iran, from the Caliphates to the Mongols, to the current murderous mafia that is the Islamic Republic, all tried to strip this celebration away, much as they tried to erase the Persian language. They failed. You cannot decree the end of spring, and you cannot colonize the soul of a people who find their identity in the rebirth of the earth.

The celebration isn’t a single day; it’s a seasonal transition that begins with Chaharshanbe Suri (the fire festival), held on the eve of the last Wednesday before the equinox. We jump over bonfires, chanting “Zardi-ye man az to, sorkhi-ye to az man”; Take my yellow (sickness/pallor) and give me your red (health/vitality). It is a literal and metaphorical cleansing of the past year’s shadows before the light returns (and, for those of us in the diaspora, a logistical nightmare of trying to explain to the local fire department why we are leaping over a lit hibachi on a Tuesday night).

Chaharshanbe Suri (the fire festival)

Then comes the Haft-Sin (HAFT-seen), the centrepiece of this holiday. While the name states seven items (haft meaning seven and seen representing the ‘s’ sound), in reality, it is more like 7+. It is a table set with symbolic items, each representing a pillar of life:

• Sabzeh (sprouted greens): Rebirth.
• Samanu (sweet pudding): Strength and Power. If you only knew the churning manpower this dish requires, you’d understand why it represents strength.
• Senjed (dried oleaster): Love.
• Seer (garlic): Medicine and health.
• Seeb (apple): Beauty.
• Somāq (sumac): The colour of sunrise.
• Serkeh (vinegar): Age and patience.
• Sonbol (hyacinths): Arrival of spring.
• Sekkeh (coins): Wealth.

We often add a mirror for self-reflection, a goldfish for life (though in recent years, many of us have chosen to opt for a symbolic version to avoid the high-maintenance, and often tragic, logistics of keeping this adorable guest alive post festivities), and a book of poetry such as Hafez or Khayyam or one of wisdom, frequently the ***Shahnameh** (the epic Book of Kings). This book is why our culture still exists; after the Arab conquests, Ferdowsi spent over thirty years writing it to rescue the Persian language from erasure. That history lives in my own name, Azadeh (“free-spirited,” “free,” or “liberated”), a choice by my parents that immediately marks me as a post-1979 child: the year so many actual freedoms were lost. Seeing it in the Shahnameh* was the first time I ever saw it in print, in an official, historical context. Mind you, it would have been nice to know ahead of time that my appearance doesn’t happen until at least 600 pages into the epic. We keep it on our tables during this holiday to remind us that our culture survived the sword through the power of the word.

Haftsin

The cycle concludes thirteen days later with Sizdeh Bedar, a day where staying indoors is considered bad luck. Millions head to parks and mountains to literally and figuratively “throw away” the bad luck by releasing their Sabzeh into running water. It is the final knot in an old thread, a secular communion with the nature that James Van Der Beek correctly intuited was the logical place to begin again.

I believe James was right. The world is resting in January. It is only now, when the first buds break through, and the sun finally balances the dark, that a new year truly begins. To his fans, honour him today by making a resolution that actually aligns with the planet, without the pressure of a mid-winter deadline. To everyone across the world celebrating this rebirth, and to those just now discovering the logic of a new year guided by nature, Nowruz Pirooz.

my mini Haft-Sin