Anno Novo

The seasons change. Nature presses onward, but the change is not always a smooth and serene progression as we may like, a gradual blissful ambling from Summer to Fall and Winter, like a graceful aging. Life is instead punctuated by dramatic, often violent changes only after which a calm slowly sets in as homeostasis is renewed. These changes are permanent, the scars remain, but in time they become the very things they once marred. They melt into the character of the land, of the life altered.
And, as we are but elements of Nature, our lives are no different. We experience these events, whether miraculous or traumatic, and they shape who we are. They are the forks in the road; usually they are born of the decisions we make. They are of our own design. Our choices will echo through history, our own at least. Given this gravity and sense of permanence, it is no wonder that they are terrifying. Yet also, they are exhilarating. Despite the fear, perhaps even mortal terror, we must choose. We must press on, just as the Hands of Time and the change of seasons. Death becomes us, but not in the usual sense. Here, it is death of our old bodies as we transcend. If we choose wisely, we are like the caterpillar, we shed our skins and become something new, something beautiful. This is the metamorphosis. We will be changed, but, unlike the caterpillar, we can choose the form and the path of our changing.
The way of Life is not to stagnate, and no matter how content we are or how afraid we may be of what is to come, change will arrive. It may be as the cloaked Shade, rapping its bony, spectral finger upon our door. It will enter! We may as well invite it in, so that we may see just what it is we are so afraid of. We cannot know the future or the outcomes of our decisions for certain, but we can help to shape our destiny. Indeed, we do, the question is whether we realize it or not.
As for me, I know that I have reached the capacity of my present form. That I must shed this skin and rise anew is certain. This does not mean that I will be someone else. I will still exist, and I will still contain all those things that have made me who I am. I will be somewhere in between the completely cumulative person that we casually assume makes us who we are and that radical destruction that Foucault idealized between his epistemes. Obviously, this is not a clean break, but rather a sharp twist in direction. It is the mountain face rising upon the plateau of which lately I have walked.
Perhaps, as I am facing this sheer wall, this period of violent yet willful change, I am merely hoping to steel my nerve. Doubtless, this is true. But, as I prepare to stare this beast in his ghastly face, ghastly because unknown, I realize the truth and necessity in these words. Though my hands may tremble, and my heart race, I must be strong. I will forge ahead because I know that on the other side of this great journey, beyond challenge and adversity, lies a better world and a new sun. I have seen a glimpse of this new vista, and it is breathtaking. And, though I will be changed, I will always retain what I am right now. But, I will be of a higher dimension, a greater quality, and I will never cease to strive towards my dreams. This is not acquiescence, this is not a giving up. This is my will, and this is my choice. And, as change is a sort of death, (for what else can arise from this but a birth of new realms?), I may hope to echo Socrates, when he said "Now we go our separate ways, I to death and you to life. Which is better, no man can tell".