Calendar

Calendar—such a simple word, yet it already holds too much. There is no human life that does not bend to it, no business that does not cling to it, no heart that does not one day crash against it. Calendars have become our vertical clocks, our boards of colored servitude. We no longer see the seasons, but time slots; no longer the harvests, but meetings.

The calendar has become the opposite of what it once was. No longer a mirror of the life to come, but a glass cage where we lock away what could happen. We write down intentions as if nailing planks to a leaky boat. The illusion is to believe that writing is doing; that planning is living; that filling is succeeding.

What modern man fears is not so much chaos as emptiness. That is why he schedules. He dreads what arises unexpectedly, because it forces him to be alive in the present. He prefers a Monday packed with appointments to a free morning, for that free morning would confront him with himself.

An overfilled calendar is often the sign of a scattered mind. The centered person, the true Artisan, the one who accomplishes without losing himself, plans only what must be planned; the rest, he leaves to rhythm. He does not fear the space between two tasks—he feeds on it. He knows that between useful moments, there is a sacred breath.