I've always known that my life is more of a circle than a straight line. It just took me awhile (sixty-one years) to embrace that condition instead of fighting it.
Agricultural societies invent circular calendars, emphasizing the continuity of the seasons. When did the calendar become a series of squares, a line reinventing itself every month - out with the old and in with the new?
I love the cycles of the moon and sun and stars in their courses, the tides a perfect mirror of every motion. I mourn the Saurian gloom that pollutes the sky and obliterates the Milky Way, and would even scribble out the moon.
Every season is perfect in its own way. This is the year I embrace winter, and death. Not my own death (although it approaches on cat feet), but the death of the one closest to the beginning of my life: my mother. I grieve that her light is hid from me now. I catch only glimpses through the obliteration of the grave; a photograph, a memory, a souvenir. They are no more her, than the darkness in the sky is the ancient shining path - yet she still is, and the path still shines, though not now for me.
Helga Dellinger Lange
September 2, 1923 - December 14, 2006