On the Circularity of Life

«Pherecydes and his pupil had been walking since midday, conversing on many different subjects, when they decided to stop and rest. They lay back on the grass of a meadow atop a small hill, comforting themselves while contemplating the landscape.

They remained silent as the Sun traced a good part of its arc toward evening. A flock of sheep gradually approached them. Pherecydes, glancing sideways at his student, then asked:

— Have you noticed how sheep, when scattered, begin to gather in a circle around the shepherd? This flock before us has moved several times. Each time the shepherd sat in a different place, little by little the sheep formed a new circle around him.

— And what is remarkable about that? — the student asked.

— It is a demonstration that nature unfolds in circles.

— Explain it to me, master, so that I may reflect upon it.

Pherecydes leaned back onto the meadow once more and, gazing into the infinite, began to speak slowly, giving his words a poetic cadence as though delighting in hearing them himself.

— Both the cosmos and nature advance in circles—that is, by steps that return to the same place. The end resembles the beginning; they even become indistinguishable, just as it is impossible to say where a circle begins or ends. Observe, for instance, how men, upon reaching a very advanced age, become similar to children: in their tastes, their behavior, their vulnerability, and their carefree detachment from worldly affairs. Conversely, newborns resemble tiny old men—bald, wrinkled, withdrawn from the world, with consciousness entirely turned inward.

Observe also how those who feel themselves near death are driven by an irresistible impulse to return to the place where they were born.

Look at the seasons: a wheel that turns unceasingly through the ages, allowing the tree to shed its leaves only to clothe itself anew each spring. Contemplate the water that descends from the mountains, forming rivers until it reaches the sea. There, dense mists rise and transform into clouds; carried by the wind, they return to the mountains, where they fall as snow. After winter, the snow melts, forming rushing rivers that descend once more to the ocean, fulfilling an untiring ritual.

At this point, Pythagoras interrupted his teacher.

— Everything you say seems quite true to me, but strictly speaking, we are not describing a circle.

— How so? — asked Pherecydes, emerging from the trance induced by his own words.

Pythagoras insisted:

— Spring does indeed return after each winter, but it is not the same spring. For it to be a circle, it would have to return to the same place at the same time.

— You see, Pythagoras, how you still do not interpret metaphor correctly. Very well—if we speak with absolute precision, nature does not describe a circle, but rather a spiral. But is a spiral not circular? Please, my son, allow some flexibility in metaphorical images.

Pythagoras, as a good disciple, remained thoughtful, attempting to correct his error. This allowed Pherecydes to resume his discourse.

— The phenomena of nature describe circles, but so too do cosmic phenomena, for the planets and the Sun revolve along a circle traced by the zodiacal constellations. Each day, the celestial vault completes a rotation around the Earth. Every twelve years, Jupiter returns to the same point in the sky. Saturn requires twenty-eight years to reach the same star it once left behind. Mars needs two years to do the same.

As Pherecydes spoke, the afternoon advanced and swallows began to claim the sky. The master found the perfect occasion to recall an old poetic text he had written in his youth and adapt it to his reflections on the circularity of life.

— In April, the swallows return. In their comings and goings they trace rings whose circumference spans the distant South and our own latitudes—rings that bind one spring to the next. Yes, life delights in expanding along the sensual curves that form the invisible furrows of the universe. Everything seems to demand that every movement imply a departure that does not end until it returns to its point of origin.

The Sun was already preparing to withdraw into its subterranean dwelling. When they set off on their way back, the shepherd was moving away with his flock.

— They no longer form a circle around him — Pythagoras remarked ironically.

— But tomorrow they will return to the same meadow — Pherecydes replied, emphatically.

[...]

And it is an unquestionable fact that nothing, when observed from sufficient distance, moves in a straight line. What we take to be linear is merely a segment of an immense circle.

[...]»

From Pythagoras, the Son of Silence, Benigno Morilla