Mais où sont les neiges d’antan! (Oh, where are the snows of yesteryear!)
– François Villon, Ballade des dames du temps jadis
We’re all a bit tired, aren’t we? Tired of the pandemic, tired of political deviants and extremists, tired of people not caring about the environment or really anything but themselves. Tired of things the way they are now. Tired that New Year’s Eve plans were scrapped because Christmas turned into a super spreader event, with half the vaccinated family getting COVID. You think maybe that booster will put you over the top and find your trail leg caught the hurdle.
Villon was a rogue. He spent time in prison, and spent time writing poetry. He’s a complicated footnote in history. This poem, reflecting on the great women of the past during his time, lives on centuries after he too passed like the snows of yesteryear. And the analogy reminds us we too must pass from this moment. Our time here is short and not meant to be devoid of suffering and the occasional inconvenience.
All we once knew has changed, all we know now will change again. Tomorrow, should we indulge in the folly of being there for it, will bring more change still. This is the way. Tired doesn’t matter. Billions of people had it worse than we do, right now, right here. Did you do a face plant on this hurdle? No? Then get over the next one. For the universe moves on with or without you. There’s no time for tired. We aren’t done with this race just yet.