Changes

The old Greek sits on a rock, staring into the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, lost in thought.
At least, that’s what his posture suggests — deep reflection, the kind that shouldn’t be interrupted, because once you disturb reflection, it loses its very meaning. As he sits there in his meditative trance, his face suddenly lights up.
Just before that, he had felt a faint tingling at the back of his head — that familiar spark signaling the birth of a truly great idea. The thought was powerful, almost electric. He had to capture it somehow. But how?

Panic set in when he realized that paper wouldn’t be invented for another three hundred years. Still, somehow, this bearded fellow on his seaside rock managed to preserve that one sentence — that shimmering thought — for us to rediscover in the twenty-first century.
So, the origin story is settled. What about the sentence itself? It goes something like this:
“Nothing is as constant as change.”
It’s unclear how much the rhythm of the waves that day in 530 BC contributed to Heraclitus of Ephesus’ revelation, but the result was magnificent. This double-edged sentence — permanence and transformation — was love at first sight.
For me, as a teenager, it became a mantra. We were terribly slow thinkers but lightning-fast actors. In short: you can always rely on change.
Need proof?
A single glance in the mirror at six in the morning is enough to confirm it beyond doubt. I face my transformation with curiosity and — most of the time — with good humor. It wasn’t always that easy. When my face and body started to change, I wasn’t thrilled. Those folds — especially the ones around the belly — were mysterious newcomers.
And that first gray hair blinking back at me? Pure horror. But digesting my own evolution turned out to be no big deal. Perhaps that’s why I never developed a midlife crisis. My brothers did. I’m still waiting. Well — maybe it doesn’t have to happen.
Why do I accept the changes in my appearance so peacefully? Simple: I don’t want to get bored looking at myself.
Change itself is a constant dance of cycles — ever repeating, yet never identical. At first glance, these cycles seem like endless repetitions. But watch closely, and you’ll see — the difference lies in the details.
That’s why I love spring so much: green returns, life blooms anew, and transformation becomes visible.
Our present, and especially the generations to come, will have to confront change — and its constancy — more dramatically than ever before. Climate change is the ultimate test of our flexibility, our will to adapt.
I often stumble over the question of whether I should already adapt my life to the shifting times — or whether I should resist and live against the tide of change. I don’t particularly enjoy the shift from democratic to fascist or autocratic systems. I prefer the kind of change that grows within democracy — the transformation of shared humanity.
Yes, yes — the old Hippie philosophy again.
But I do love change in thinking. That’s called learning — or rethinking. No, it’s not cowardice or inconsistency. It’s fascination — that wonderful moment when you read or hear something that reframes your old perspective in a completely new light. That’s what we call a learning process.
It’s also what drives science — the willingness to question its own findings, over and over again. Science does this voluntarily, because it’s not a religion; it’s applied curiosity. And curiosity is, by nature, change-loving.
Of course, a little stability wouldn’t hurt either. A steady, human relationship — one that remains adaptable — is a beautiful paradox. Infatuation becomes love, love becomes trust, and trust remains love. Or something like that.
So, my dear old, long-departed Heraclitus — thank you for your brilliant thought there on your rock by the sea.
We could use more of those today.