The Cycle of Life

At this time of the year I am struck by the colours of spring. The lush greens of the grass and trees with new leaves and then the dustings of purple, yellow, pink, and white of wild flowers and of the blossoms. It is as if the world has been created anew and it is wonderous. Everything is in its youth or infancy in the cycle of the year. The vitality and the strength of the life force is there and is both plain to be seen but can also be felt. The days of course, are getting longer and more light-filled and the air is warmer. Spring has sprung.


As I think about the endless cycle of birth and death – the orouboros of life – the eternal return, I think about the stage I am in life. Assuming a 70-year life (and I am hoping for a good deal longer), I am in the first throes of October. If I am optimistic, then I am in September. My summer is over. My spring was sprung long ago. It is Autumn and the first chills of Winter can be sensed in the grey streaks in my hair and the lines on my face. The back of the hand skin test verifies this. It could be my Indian Summer. My allotted time is passing and one can even sometimes sense the sand grains slipping through the stretched part of the hour glass.


Maybe then this is why Spring seems so beautiful. It reminds one of the carefree days of our lives when there was never any thought of death or dying nor even of aging. There was just the tremendous potential to create a life path. There was energy and willing. There was enthusiasm and excitement. I feel it in the air now. It pushes you on a bit and gives me a source of renewed energy and vigor. Sure, its just a shadow of what was there in my own youth but none the less, it is there.


And so we create our lives moment by moment, led by the seasons and responding to the light. At each and every stage of our lives we are reminded ow what has been and what will be via the seasons and the patterns of the eternal return. At each moment, we still have the ability to change, to recreate and to become better than we ever were. Perhaps even until the last moments.

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