Sisyphus in the New Year

How to look forward after 2020 melted our mountaintops?

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

I’ve made a habit of reading Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus essay on January 1st for the past five years or so. It’s about myth, absurdity, and suicide.

Usually, the change from one year to the next feels like Sisyphus’ pause at the top of the mountain, watching his boulder tumble back down, effort futile for eternity.

And so I take heart in Camus’ depiction of Sisyphus’ state of mind at the mountains’ peak: “He is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock… One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

I’d like to imagine that I’m stronger than my rock.

But this year, this new year doesn’t feel like the top of the mountain at all.

I haven’t been pushing a rock uphill. Rather, I’ve transmigrated into the rock. I can’t quite tell where I end and it begins, what direction we’re rolling or why.

There’s no space for mountaintops this year. Falling up feels about the same as falling down.

I suppose I’ll be less disoriented someday. And perspective will be possible again.

But for now, the bewilderment continues.