The surrendering dance of changing embers
How Nature, Art, and Legacy remind us to let go and pass the flame
It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that you are all my world. It is heroic to hug one’s sorrow and determine not to be consoled. But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my eyes. I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song. For time is short.
—Rabindranath Tagore, from chapter 46 of The Gardener
A thought prompted by my friend, Linette Rabsatt, compels me to write this.
We were talking about our shared hopes for change in leadership; she lives in the British Virgin Islands, and I live in Canada.
Despite the differences between our governments, we agreed that leaders in both places often seem more interested in being liked and having their egos stroked than making real progress.
Even as we hope for something new, familiar patterns creep in—cyclic and consistent—as reminders of the seasonal transience of change; the rhythmic cycle remains, like trading one coat for another depending on the weather, part of the comings and goings of seasons1 .
Autumn, however, is uniquely distinct in this.
The manner trees shed their leaves—steady as the tides—to sprout anew in the spring, withering uniformity’s crisp veil of opaqueness, to become renewed once more by a heat that slumbered, flowering the eventual return of hibernations song: the bittersweet ache, tenderly settled over—a reverberate pulse of both loss and reverence—as falling leaves quietly whisper endings stirred away by slipping time.
Even the dew at the tip of a leaf will tell you everything goes through change.
Wealth, beauty, youth, power, are natural remains consistently gifted only to stray birds, as the coup de grace/d'état, without rhyme or raison, has been pressed for centuries into the soil, trees, and seasons—the wordless sounds found in the deep litany of voiced kings and wars2.
All things that move and change hold their own significance, like the generous unfolding of morning into night, bringing the grounded solemnity that fills both the home and the world, where immense transformation arises in the quiet realization:
The world, I am certain, remembers more than I ever shall.
Pervading reality’s cadence
As I step upon this shifting earth, I feel bound to a larger wheel, caught in the inevitable turn of things, where change courses through all3.
A garden delighted by Adam’s creation, where a wheat field of crows watch the reaper wait: the tree of life, invocated in limitless continuity presented by linking earthly existence to the divine4.
Each dialect of change claims its own season, but autumn stands alone as a distinct power of endings, spoken softly to beginnings only as winter exhales; rivers bend anew, stones wear away, empires crumble to dust, yet, here I am, held by eternal spells, bound in both awe and defiance.
The moving canopy seen above and below, both show the stubborn tenacity of leaves clutching to their branches, unwilling to part from the life that bore them; yet, the mighty oak sheds its leaves without regret, a surrender to the inevitable seasons change.
So too must those with power, as history remakes itself, endlessly.
I see leaders, kings, even the icons of our age, fall as surely as autumn leaves—some turning with grace toward their season’s end, others resisting, brittle in their clinging.
The world endlessly reshapes itself upon the remnants of past empires, following no fixed path or destiny, but embracing impermanence as a testament to growth through adaptation5.
Held by optimism and hope, I hear the distant hum echoing things to come, as Proteus’ voice cries out, grounded in the ethical responsibility of the world as it is and as it could be6.
Seasons of Men
In Demeter's bruised dusk, leaves descend, Ghosted songs of fallen men. An oak, once crowned in burnished might, Now bows beneath Aion's heavy bite. Yet fierce voices bloom from Erebus, Green veins pulsing decay's lust: Where life claws its way through Styx, Light's dawn, the thin skin within Nyx.
The mythic chorus of autumn signals cyclic surrender to seasons change, as reminders symbolized in the renewal of light from darkness.
As dusk falls, and the oak bows, new life crosses the dawn, to rise as a subtle pulse in defiance, honoring past legacies power, before transcending to softened layers laid bare:
A lone leaf falls to the ground, In silence, it spins round and round. From decay springs the morn, Each life is reborn— In the circle where lost things are found.
The collective murmur of generations are felt in the sharpness of the wind, carving this world forward in a language that speaks to rivers or rain; inheritors of both memories ache and inventor’s fire, restless and insistent, calling the wild woods spring swell beneath fall’s brittle crust.
It’s a voice to honor Inanna’s transformation, rising in a brave new world, as change is never one thing alone, inculcated by innocuous convergence; it speaks different dialects, all woven by a single breath that moves the ever-changing constant7.
Rising youth’s legacy sung in verse
Youth’s fierce refrain carries the unstoppable rhythm of transformation, breaking ground stirred in forward momentum by history’s bearing.
Heavy burdens are forged by new paths on the road forever turning, where white roses bloom in January and June to defy time’s river of change, as the gentle resilience contemplates regenerations power: in endless variation, not all things bring an end8.
The path is made by walking, an urgency ran when I hear “el camino blanco está el mesón abierto al campo ensombrecido y al pedregal desierto9.”
In Denise Levertov’s A Tree Telling of Orpheus, an ever-renewing cycle becomes the ancient gentleness part of certainty, which needs not shout but only whisper its strength, moving through cracks in the stone by unseen forces to grow and reach10.
Popa’s Little Box awakens songs hewn nouveaux esprits en masse, tilled for the soil of youthful dreams, contained within histories memory designated for a future without direction—much like a humble leaf leaving a new shoot—remade gentler in a green sun, as dusk yields to the old years young11.
I watch the world rekindle itself, in sparks from a flame alive once more, from long before, as if it never sweltered or stifled, calm as the dawn rising.
And I, who walk amongst the leaves
Pausing beneath an oak, I touch its gnarled bark—unshaken and entrenched—rooted deeply though autumn’s shift, endured by change seen in the ache of the rosebud, bittersweet witnessing countless weathered storms.
I am no king, no ruler, yet I feel the same surrender all leaders must.
I feel the surrender of letting go, to humble the curving time which bends earth towards us, to find peace and prosperity, knowing I am but a page carved from a tree in a great book, swelling below the seasons long, slow breath within me.
I feel the stirring of every person who has walked this earth:
footprints on time’s sands, echoed by ripples in mountains and water—left by kingdom builders, soldiers, dreamers, and poets;
an essence preserved in the Akashic records, woven into the collective unconscious, embedded in human DNA and artifacts;
life’s growth that fades, to linger in the stars, beneath leaves that breath in ages and grass:
the onward flow of rivers, returning to the wheel’s turning, made from the raised tree.
I am part of them all, bound by the ceaseless hum of change as I surrender to it—like autumn yields to winter—beyond words felt in my spirit, inured to endure the great wheel’s turning, as the rivers in my veins pulse new courses.
Young voices carry hope, strengthened like firm oaks before the cogs of industry cut them down; a new leaf, unwavering in life’s cycle releases the earth, felt in simple gestures written in life, love, and power,
In this moment the whole story amidst the beauty is in flux, as the crux of it all lies content to be no small part, for this in how change endures.
Not as a single flame, but as embers passed from hand to hand, heart to heart, in an unbroken legacy of light.
The first dawn’s last leaf
Here, I feel the archaic beat beneath my feet, as though errored epochs rest laden in the land, and I am suspended within the muted, implicit tempo’s of metamorphosis.
Whether the apples of Cezanne, painted over and over again, or the “seasons of mists and mellow fruitlessness” of Keats’s, to Yeats’s ‘great gyre,’ widening endlessly to eternal shifts, the poets and painters have sensed it12.
Each generation rises and falls, transforming as naturally as leaves relinquishing their hold to winter’s chill, and I know that my role, however small, is part of a larger, ever-turning wheel.
In this, I see myself not as a monarch, nor even a leaf, but as a witness to the long line of human experience, knowing that I, too, must surrender as all things do.
Studying the patterns that nature sculpts over the centuries reminds me that even swirling sketches carve new channels in powerful rivers, enveloped in scribbled poems scraps, modest yet fierce against the vastness of time’s assertion, saying, “I, too, have something to leave.”
(Above, I’m mentioning Leonardo’s sketches of swirling water and Emily Dickinson’s envelope poems, like the Palins Indians’ sun dance, where chiefs renew the lands through endured trials (or trails).)
Power was never meant to be rigid; it is an heirloom, softened and shaped by many hands, in patience reverence of humble virtue.
As I release the leaf to fall gracefully to the soil, I feel the presence of those before me, woven into the hum beneath.
I am reminded—amid winter’s fading and spring’s rise—of Aristotle’s golden mean, where beauty lies not in holding on, but in letting go, finding my place within a legacy that needs no monuments but lives as quiet embers passed hand to hand, binding us all to the dawn, the earth, and one another.
How might your life change if you viewed your influence as part of an ongoing legacy—one that is continually reshaped and handed down, rather than something you alone must build or control?
The recurring cycle of leadership mirrors James March and Johan P. Olsen’s concept of institutional continuity, where established norms and roles—known as a “logic of appropriateness”—shape each leader within an enduring structure (March & Olsen, 1984).
Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Systems Theory similarly explains how individuals, like leaders in an organization, operate within stable, overarching systems that maintain consistency despite changes in immediate players (Bronfenbrenner, 1979).
Path dependency aligns with seasonal shifts that leave tree roots intact, much like initial decisions create self-reinforcing cycles for new leaders to inherit, providing stability across generations within structures persistent in grade-school routines, or bio-ecological systems: the paradox of continuity and change flows in the same river you can never step into twice.
Revolutions and invasions—the fall of the Roman and Byzantine Empires—illustrate that no power is immune to transformative redefinition; from barbarian incursions, Christianization of Rome, the Nika Riots, Islamic conquests, to the Fourth Crusade and Ottoman siege of Constantinople, the mightiest achievements are destined to pass—like the dew at the tip of a leaf.
In a single generation the French Revolution eroded the once-unquestioned authority of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, leaving behind a dramatic shift revealed in the impermanence of political, philosophical, and cultural traditions, like shards of broken pottery, ready to be gathered and reshaped into something entirely new (Kintsugi).
Beauty and power can vanish to ruin, as the aging authority of Shakespeare’s King and Shelley’s Ozymandias,—familiar loyalty and status become half-buried statues—otherwise, Helen of Troy’s beauty leads to ruin; life is a beautiful summer’s flowers, and death is leaves in autumn, whereby accepting these cyclic rhythms—knowing all things inevitably pass into Anicca—allows the full beauty of fleeting cherry blossoms (wabi-sabi).
The "wheel of life" — symbolizing birth, growth, decay, and rebirth — is a theme found across history, art, and mythology, illustrating humanity’s connection to cyclical existence.
In Egypt’s Nabta Playa (c. 5000 BCE), stone circles align with solstices, anchoring life to celestial rhythmic cycles of death and rebirth, similar to Stonehenge in England (c. 3000 BCE) and Newgrange in Ireland, where the winter solstice lights the tomb’s inner chamber. Further examples include the Mayan Long Count calendar and Aztec Sun Stone, both marking cyclical cosmic epochs, or the Sumerian King List (c. 2000 BCE), which catalogues dynasties’ rises and falls.
Life’s eternal portrait is cyclic rhythms, whether Minoan axes, or Celtic spirals; it’s the symbolized continuity of Demeter and Persephone, the personification of Janus, or the revelation of Ragnarok: the perpetual rebirth, contrasted between past and future, in the present.
(Additionally, I consider the depictions of the Ouroboros in Egyptian tombs and the Nile’s annual flood (tied to Ma’at) in similarity to the Hindu Wheel of Samsara and the concept of the Yugas in India, to emphasize cycles of rebirth.)
Here, I’m referencing Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights (late 15th century), Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam (1512), van Gogh’s seasonal landscapes Wheatfield with Crows (1890) and The Reaper (1889), juxtaposed to Klimt’s The Tree of Life (1905).
The Akkadian Empire under King Shar-Kali-Sharri (c. 2193 BCE) unified Mesopotamia but fractured under drought and invasions, paving the way for future powers like the Hittites, who themselves fell (c. 1190 BCE) due to invasions, leaving a weakened Near East.
The Nabataeans under King Rabbel II (106 CE) thrived in Petra through trade, but their annexation by Rome transformed the region, setting artistic and architectural precedents still seen across the Middle East.
In Africa, Queen Amanirenas of Meroë (c. 350 CE) resisted Roman expansion until Axum’s rise filled the void, just as Dhu Nuwas’s Himyarite Kingdom (c. 525 CE) was overtaken by Axum after religious conflict, impacting early Arabian culture.
Historical falls fuel the rise that reshapes what follows, illustrating history’s recorded wheel, where the ambition of one is often the foundations of another.
[For more information about the historical information presented above, see: The Cambridge Ancient History, Vol II; Robert F. Pennell’s Ancient Rome; Petrie’s History of Egypt]
The phrase, “held by optimism and hope, I hear the distant hum echoing things to come, as Proteus’ voice cries out, grounded in the ethical responsibility of the world as it is and as it could be,” conveys the ethos of hopeful transformation.
Proteus, the “Old Man of the Sea,” symbolizes transformation, adaptability, and elusive wisdom.
Known for his shape-shifting abilities, Proteus appears in Homer’s Odyssey, where Menelaus, with the help of Eidothea, captures him after a struggle during which Proteus assumes multiple forms, at which point Proteus reveals hidden truths.
Virgil’s Georgics extends this idea, showing Proteus as a figure of moral insight and responsibility when captured by Aristaeus, as Proteus reveals knowledge that could aid humanity.
Proteus’s legacy as the “protean” figure in found in biblical figures such as Jacob and Jonah; as one wrestles with an angel to gain a new identity (Genesis 32), the other undergoes a symbolic rebirth in the belly of a whale to gain renewed insight on life’s purpose (Book of Jonah).
These collectively capture the idea that change requires both adaptable resilience and open ethical foresight, embodied in the notions carried by shaping our world with vision and integrity.
Across various mythologies, beauty is personified through figures like Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of love, beauty, fertility, and war; Aphrodite and Venus, who embody physical allure and attraction; Hathor, who brings joy and balance; Freya and Lada, linked to nature’s rhythmic renewal; and Saraswati and Xi Shi, who represent intellectual beauty and cultural influence.
Each of these deities uniquely manifests beauty, yet they are united by a "single breath"—a life force symbolizing continuity and the cycle of change.
This "single breath" harmonizes the powers of attraction, nature’s fertility, and intellectual inspiration, illustrating beauty’s transformative influence on cultural legacies, reminding us that while beauty takes many forms, it remains a single, interconnected force throughout time.
The phrase “road forever turning” recalls Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken and Whitman’s Song of the open Road, where choices resonate throughout life’s path to celebrate a shared journey.
“White roses in June and January” are inspired by themes in T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land and Blake’s The Sick Rose, where despite desolation and decay, beauty endures the transcending renewal of time.
The “rivers of change” is a portrayal of Tennyson’s The Brook, nodding to the continuous force in Plato’s Cratylus (179d–183e), referring to Heraclitus’s panta rhei (πάντα ῥεῖ in Greek), Empedocles’s cosmic cycle of elements, Epicharmus’s humorous take on constant change, and Parmenides’s contrasting view of a single, unchanging reality: each are analogous to never stepping into the same river twice, as you and the river are never the same from moment to moment.
“Life itself shows change, but not everything shows endings,” is the Romantic notion of renewal in Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale and Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind, as nature’s renewal outlasts human morality, the song signaled by transformative rebirth.
Overall, they’re a collective reflection of continuity, transformation, and the resilience of beauty.
Antonio Machado’s words reference a road, “open to the shadowed field and the deserted rocky ground.”
Found in Á Orillas del Duero, part of his collection from Campos de Castilla.
Miklós Radnóti’s Postcards, written in moments of unimaginable strain, reminds me of the strength in seeds, breaking through frost to find new light, from the shadow of what came before.
Youth carries the inherent ache—like waves crashing in the dead of morning—of quiet defiance, bringing sharpness to revitalize what’s gone stale, becoming cleansed by renewing salt.
Youth’s transformative power recalls Vasko Popa’s Little Box, where a simple form expands to hold the world, then returns to its origin—mirroring Campbell’s cycles of memory, transformation, and rebirth, or T.S. Eliot in Little Gidding (part IV), when stating “the end is where we start from.”
This cadence of renewal flows through Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus, where life’s rhythm holds the promise of rebirth, in the same spirit as Federico García Lorca's Romance Sonámbul, as “la verde rama” imagery carries a continual journey, where each shoot pushes as part of a greater passage through time—new beginnings are forged from the roots of the past.
This sense of moving forward is found in Frost’s notion of the “road not taken,” where choice itself is a path-maker, a quiet yet resolute push toward growth and transformation, similar to Adrienne Rich’s Diving into the Wreck: renewal emerges through exploration and descent.
A steady reclamation of history’s weight fuels future creation, as each work honors a continuity converged in past and present endure in the strength rooted by change, an experience intertwined with regenerations resonance in the human longing for rebirth, within the bounds of memory and history.
Paul Cézanne, a pioneering French painter, famously painted apples repeatedly, viewing them as a subject through which he could explore perspective, color, and form, and his still-life compositions—especially those featuring apples—underscore a fascination with the subtle shifts in nature and perception, symbolizing foundational themes within art.
John Keats, in his poem To Autumn, refers to the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness," celebrating autumn as a time of ripeness and gentle decline, rich with the warmth and abundance that precede winter’s barrenness.
It evokes imagery embodied in the idea of life’s beauty within natural progression, presenting seasonal change as an inevitable and beautiful aspect of existence, similar to The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats.
As the "widening gyre" spins out of control, disconnection grows, and societal structures collapse; while the best are passive, the worst are driven by dangerous zeal.
This decay heralds a foreboding "Second Coming," not of salvation but of a mysterious, menacing force—a "rough beast" with a pitiless gaze, awakening from centuries of dormancy and moving ominously toward Bethlehem to be born, symbolizing a new and terrifying era.
Artists and poets throughout history have intuitively illustrated how life’s patterns are both inevitable and significant, as movements transition amid light and dark, life and death, recurring both intimately and celestial: its dimensions progression in the coursed conveyance within portrayed rhythms, revealing forces that bind humanity to ongoing cycles within the world.