It’s a phrase we hear often, isn't it? "As the world turns." It’s tossed around in conversations, splashed across headlines, and sometimes, it feels like a gentle sigh, a resigned acknowledgment of life's relentless forward march. But what does it really mean? It’s more than just a clock ticking or seasons changing. It’s about the constant, often subtle, evolution of everything around us, and within us.
Think about it. The very idea of 'the Other,' as Leslie Ellen Jones points out, has always been tied to what's 'turning' away from the norm. Witches, for instance, were 'the Other' when they represented paganism in a Christian world, or spirituality in a materialist one. As societal norms shift, so does our understanding of what lies outside them. It’s a perpetual dance of definition and redefinition.
And then there's the deeply personal turning. Elif Shafak speaks of pain transforming into grief, then silence, and finally, a profound lonesomeness. It sounds bleak, doesn't it? But she offers a glimmer of hope, suggesting that in the deepest darkness, a 'third eye opens in the heart.' This isn't about seeing with physical eyes, but with inner knowledge, with love. It’s a reminder that even in our most profound moments of stillness, the world, and our experience of it, continues to turn, leading us to new valleys, new versions of ourselves.
Krishna Das talks about the 'practice of the Name' turning us towards the light, removing the dust from our eyes so we can see the world as it truly is, illuminated. This suggests that 'as the world turns' isn't just about external events, but also about our internal perception, our ability to see clearly amidst the flux.
Sometimes, the turning is dramatic, like the world 'might be about to end,' as Jessica Shirvington describes. Yet, even in such extreme moments, the human spirit finds anchors – a shared glance, a request for coffee, a moment of swooning. It’s a testament to how, even when the grand narrative of the world seems to be collapsing, the small, personal moments of connection and simple desires continue to turn.
John Green’s musings on dinosaurs, the 'thunderlizard' versus the 'deceptive lizard,' highlight how our understanding of things changes. What we once held as fact can be re-evaluated, re-named, and re-understood as the world of knowledge turns. It’s a playful, yet profound, illustration of how our perception of reality is not static.
Martin Amis touches on love, calling it 'nebulous' yet the 'only part of us that is solid, as the world turns upside down.' This is a powerful idea: that amidst chaos and upheaval, certain fundamental human experiences can provide an unwavering core. Love, in this sense, is a constant in a turning world.
Ernest Becker describes how we carve out a 'manageable world' for ourselves, often by uncritically accepting cultural programming. We break down the overwhelming reality into smaller pieces, much like a beaver building a dam. This is our way of navigating the turning world, creating a sense of stability by not confronting its entirety at once. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to exist within the 'imagined infallibility' of our constructed reality.
Even the act of writing, as Neal Stephenson depicts with the calligrapher's pen, can be a microcosm of this turning. The slow, deliberate movements, the back-and-forth, the building of speed and confidence – it mirrors the process of thought and creation, a small world turning on the page.
Brendan Halpin’s explanation of infinitesimals in calculus offers a scientific parallel. Those 'nearly-zero' quantities, seemingly insignificant, are crucial to understanding the world. It’s a reminder that even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant elements can be vital to the grander scheme, and that our own perceived insignificance doesn't equate to a lack of importance as the world turns.
And E.W. Howe’s observation that "As soon as the people fix one Shame of the World, another turns up" speaks to the persistent, cyclical nature of challenges. The world turns, and with it, new problems emerge, demanding our attention and our efforts.
Ultimately, 'as the world turns' is an invitation to embrace impermanence. It’s about recognizing that change is the only constant, that our understanding evolves, our emotions shift, and our reality is in perpetual motion. It’s not a passive observation, but an active engagement with the unfolding present, finding meaning not in stasis, but in the beautiful, sometimes messy, dance of transformation.
