Meditation: Patiently We, Turning, Await

I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! Some day I wish to be only a yes-sayer.

The Gay Science, Nietzsche

In the Northern hemisphere, it always begins and ends with the leaves. It always begins with Spring and ends with Autumn. It matters not that in between the Two, they are a triumphant green, for whom the mighty Sun gladly guides along his ways, his eternal turning and returning; their coming to their going; their going to their coming. It matters not that outside the Two, they become into nothing, and that all the World waits patiently beneath the silent cold.

And these perceived beginnings and endings absorb into the wheel circling round, years written to spin upon rims, reminders that what will be has long ago always been, revolving round the sun, careless of the yearly number and the spaces that they’ve won. For on they roll, neither contending with each other, nor fighting inside themselves. They are just as they are, each passing through, whether they are or they are not noticed by I or you.

And so it is a blessing I suppose that we seem to stop Time’s journey with the scent of leaves who linger upon the earth, with the symphonies of red, and orange and yellow matched only by Springtime’s mirth. We translate all into the voice of the Poet or the song of the musical Seer. We remember that great Spectacle, the sight of Autumn scattering upon the ground, a Muse of Art to repeat the Summer’s sweltering crowds, a Passion play to melt all Winter’s frozen sounds.  What we remember makes us feel as if it will live forever. What we remember makes us feel we will live in it forever.

But I have seen Man desire the beginnings and fear the endings, to hope that Summer stays as fixed and frozen as Winter’s dying, and wanting Springtime’s hand to pull Autumn off his grounding.  But I have even more seen Man despise the Seasons as they flow through him and within him. Why can’t I remain the same? Why must I ever be becoming one into another? Why not Line instead of Wheel? Why not forever instead of timely me? Why not keeping this and that, instead of ever letting go? Why do I seem to be nothing, nothing true and chasing rainbows? Thoughts rattling questions like snakes inside a child’s head until they surrender into a pool of suffering and dread.

For in one hand, Man holds Desperation and the other, He holds What Man calls love, but it is a love that grows in the soil of His fear, and so perhaps it should be called just that, only Fear.  For day in and day out, He works until he dies, not with joy, but with the sorrows he conceals with entertainment, petty battles and holy lies.  And He willingly sacrifices all the primal energy of His Seasons, all of what is left of His dance around the Sun; all that is left of Will and Love already won: the birthright to his Bliss he himself, deftly swindled, has forsaken.

But still there is Hope in the songs, the songs that spell away from stinging thoughts to celebrations of His Sun.

Begin in the Northern hemisphere, it always begins and ends with the leaves. It always begins with Spring and ends with Autumn. It matters not that in between the Two, they are a triumphant green, for whom the mighty Sun gladly guides along his ways, his eternal turning and returning; their coming to their going; their going to their coming. It matters not that outside the Two, they become into nothing, and that all the World waits patiently beneath the silent cold. Fearless we await beneath this silent cold to begin and end finally once again.