Ken loves explaining Newton's Law of Universal Gravitation. He talks about how the force (F) between two objects depends on their masses (m₁ and m₂) and the square of the distance (r²) between them. F is proportional to m₁m₂/r². The bigger the masses, the stronger the pull; the greater the distance, the weaker the force becomes – and quickly, because of that squared factor. He visualizes gravitational fields reaching across the vast emptiness of space, holding planets in orbit. I’ve started thinking about it in terms of family, especially my connection with my sister, Jenni, and her daughter, Sabria, all the way over in Tripoli, Libya.
Getting ready for a video call with Sabria feels like preparing for space travel. First, the time zone calculations – Tripoli is hours ahead, meaning late afternoon for me is evening for her, homework done, hopefully. I check the world clock app, confirming the nine-hour difference. Then, gathering the necessary equipment: laptop positioned for good lighting, checking the notoriously fickle Wi-Fi signal, maybe grabbing a new drawing Mom did or a picture of Kola doing something ridiculous to share visually across the miles. It feels like assembling a communication bridge across the 7,000-plus miles separating Sweetieport, Waldport from Tripoli – that immense 'r' that squares itself in the denominator of our connection equation.
And often, the vast distance makes itself felt. The call connects, Sabria’s bright face appears, and then… pixelation. The audio cuts out. There’s that frustrating half-second lag that makes conversation feel like awkward, overlapping sentences. "How was—" "—school today?" we might say simultaneously, then laugh, then silence as we wait for the other to speak. Sometimes a cultural reference needs explaining, a joke falls flat because the context is lost across continents. The connection flickers, threatens to drop entirely. The interference is real, the 'r²' factor making its presence known, weakening the signal despite our best efforts.
But then, there are moments where the other part of the equation takes over: the 'm₁m₂', the emotional mass. Last month, despite a crackling connection, Sabria managed to share her excitement about winning a school prize for her artwork. Her face, even through the pixelated screen, shone with pride. My own joy and pride surged back, a tangible force leaping across the distance. "Sabria, that's wonderful!" I exclaimed, my voice probably too loud for the microphone. "Tell me everything! What did you draw?" In that moment, the technical difficulties, the lag, the thousands of miles – they faded. Our shared excitement, our deep bond – the 'mass' of our connection – momentarily overwhelmed the weakening effect of distance.
We have our constants, too, the things that anchor our connection despite the distance. We talk about Mom, sharing funny anecdotes or small worries, a shared focal point of love. We recall childhood memories, inside jokes that still make us laugh across oceans and time zones. We rely on the regularity of our calls, the ritual itself creating a stable orbit. These shared histories, these consistent efforts, are like the gravitational constant 'G' in Newton's equation – the fundamental elements that ensure the attractive force remains, holding us together even when we're worlds apart.
It’s still hard sometimes. The distance is real. But our connection, our family gravity, persists. We’re already making tentative plans for me to visit next year, a way to drastically reduce the 'r' value and strengthen that force exponentially for a while. It’s a testament, I think, to the resilience of these bonds. Like gravity itself, the pull might weaken with distance, but it never truly disappears. It reaches across continents, across screens, across crackling audio connections. In those moments of clear connection, when Sabria laughs or shares a piece of her life, the distance collapses, the r² factor momentarily irrelevant. We're just family, held together by an invisible, powerful force that transcends geography, proving that the 'mass' of love can, indeed, keep you firmly in orbit, no matter how far apart you drift.