A Polyphonic Life

I’ve seen it all shift.
Autumn days. Forty-four years.
I no longer ask for certainty.

Does life really follow a pattern? A rhythm? A direction? From east to west, from sunrise to sunset, from the mountain to the sea. Yes, I’ve learned there’s an order to things. But I’ve also learned there's something invisible that pulls us toward the unexpected. I’ve always lived well with metamorphosis — with rupture, with kairos, with the moment that breaks the script.

Maybe that’s why people come to me. They believe I’ll know what to say. But I’ve known, since early on, that the scene always shifts. Mystery and crisis draw me in — they seem like fertile ground for reflection. Crisis contains the seed of another life, another world. And mystery invites connection — like a dream shared
with those who understand the weight of being human. They know nothing happens by chance — that life paths intersect for reasons far more precise than we imagine.

Often, I turn to friends who speak in the language of myth and stars — in echoes and correspondences. Because what lives in the depth of another body will always remain beyond your reach. Who can say what another person carries? What they feel? Who can name the force that moves them through the world?

I suggest you learn to listen to your beast. At first, it feels strange. But soon, you’ll draw close to others who know their beast, too. There is no other way for the creature inside to recover — to reclaim its rights, to rise in its own power.
Turn inward. Notice when something stirs. When something draws near. Don’t be afraid. It’s not a clash. It’s a dance. The most beautiful part of this journey is that everything becomes possible again when you rise from your own ashes.

So take it. Laugh out loud. Learn to move with your beast.
I hope one day you’ll understand there is only one story — a polyphonic thread woven withyour beast from all that pierces and shapes you.