As we prepare to open the logbook of the year, it offers a blank page waiting to record another circling of the seasons. We celebrate the departure of an elderly year, placing the thorny crown of time upon the brow of an upcoming, new and inexperienced innocent.
Another start, another year at its launching. But time itself has no beginning nor ending. Time and calendars are arbitrary measures that man seizes. High noon, where we live in Carolina translates into midnight in Calcutta; just as mid-winter again in Carolinas thinking translates to the peaking of summer in Australia.
No year can be complete within itself; it is a note in the endless song of time. That which man celebrates as a new year is neither the beginning nor the end.
Man once thought at solstice times that the sun paused high or low in the sky while the earth made its inexorable turn toward another season. But the heavens do not pause and time is never idle. Like the sprouting of a seed, asleep deep beneath the summers composting of leaves, each day will bring a slow stirring and awakening to the bugle of time.
As we offer our toast to the passing year, recall the ancient adage: In time take time while time does last, for there is no time when our times are past.