The cycle and the year

I was recent­ly asked how I per­ceived a year. It was a game told by a col­league who had enter­tained her fam­i­ly and friends. There were four or five of us who answered, and the answers were very var­ied. Some see the year as just box­es in a cal­en­dar ; oth­ers see it as a path, a hori­zon. My response was hon­est­ly cir­cum­spect : I don’t see it.

To the aston­ish­ment of my inter­locu­tors, I thought it best to spec­i­fy that I lived from day today. That time, for me, was the time I was liv­ing, and that I was try­ing more to rep­re­sent time as a cycle.

I am not an astrologer-poet at heart for noth­ing. We moved on to anoth­er answer than mine because it obvi­ous­ly didn’t make peo­ple laugh. If I don’t see the year as a real enti­ty to be defined, it is per­haps because I have long been immo­bi­lized by the sad­ness of the com­ing death. Nor am I sure that I have over­come this ini­tial pain.

The only refuge for me was to under­stand the cycles, watch this day crush the pre­vi­ous one, and see the germ of a tree the next day, which will also end up being cut down by lightning.

This is by no means pes­simistic. Wis­dom undoubt­ed­ly begins with a good dose of res­ig­na­tion that oblig­es us to savor the seed of a day that is con­tin­u­ous­ly renewed.

The year no longer makes sense when, for exam­ple, we under­stand that Sat­urn, Chronos in Greek, the fomenter of time, more or less accom­pa­nies the human cycle. Our species is aware of this dis­tant god. We are remind­ed of his real­i­ty as if life were a long walk under a rain of bricks, to para­phrase Bou­car Diouf.

Recent­ly, a friend lost her moth­er. In her birth chart, Sat­urn touched a sen­si­tive point, a bridge, a link, mean­ing a break, a step, among oth­er things.

Cycles are every­where, mixed, inter­twined, res­onat­ing to the quan­tum depths. The uni­verse vibrates by itself. Its pro­found care­less­ness towards our des­tiny is summed up by the rever­ber­a­tion of its existence.

What is the point of think­ing about the year ? Aren’t we made to live with the guid­ing fire of our pas­sions, of our cir­cles in the water ?