There are constant cycles in history. There is loss, but it is

“There are constant cycles in history. There is loss, but it is always followed by regeneration. The tales of our elders who remember such cycles are very important to us now.” Thus spoke Carmen Agra Deedy, the storyteller and keeper of cultural memory, whose words carry the wisdom of both grief and hope. In this reflection, she draws upon one of the oldest truths known to humankind — that life and history move not in straight lines, but in cycles, forever turning like the seasons. The world is a great wheel, and upon it ride the fates of nations, of peoples, and of every living soul. What falls will rise again; what dies will one day return to life. Her words are not the comfort of false optimism, but the steady assurance of one who has watched the wheel turn many times, and knows that loss is never the final word.

At the heart of Deedy’s teaching is the understanding that regeneration follows destruction as spring follows winter. History itself is the proof: cities burned and rebuilt, empires fallen and replaced, faiths forgotten and rediscovered. The human story is a tapestry woven of ruin and renewal. When she speaks of “constant cycles,” she reminds us that change is not the enemy of life but its very essence. Civilizations rise upon the dreams of one age and crumble under the weight of another, yet always from the ashes comes something new — different, perhaps humbler, but born of the same longing to endure and create meaning in the world.

Deedy, a Cuban-born author who lived through exile and witnessed her homeland’s transformation, understands the deep ache of loss — not just personal loss, but the loss of place, of identity, of time itself. Yet even in that sorrow, she sees the thread of renewal. Her words echo the rhythms of the ancient storytellers, who preserved the memory of their people through dark ages, ensuring that when the world turned again toward the light, wisdom would not be lost. The “tales of our elders” are the seeds of regeneration; they teach us not only how to survive destruction, but how to rebuild with dignity and purpose. In the memory of those who have endured, there lies both warning and hope.

Consider the great fire that consumed London in 1666 — a blaze that devoured homes, markets, and temples alike, leaving the city in ashes. Many believed it was the end of London itself. Yet from those ashes rose a city reborn: cleaner, stronger, adorned with new art and architecture. Out of catastrophe came vision. Or look further still to Japan, struck by wars, earthquakes, and the devastation of Hiroshima — and yet, from each wound, it re-emerged, carrying both the scars and the strength of its rebirth. These stories are the living proof of Deedy’s words: the cycle of loss and renewal is not merely symbolic, but the very law by which history breathes.

The elders who remember such cycles are the guardians of continuity. They remind us that despair blinds us to time’s long arc, that even when we stand amid ruin, the soil beneath our feet is already preparing to give birth again. The wisdom of the old — their stories of hardship and survival — is not nostalgia; it is instruction. They teach us resilience. When Deedy tells us to listen to them, she speaks with the voice of generations who endured famine, war, exile, and yet carried forward songs, customs, and faiths that became the roots of new civilizations. The elder is the bridge between the fall and the rise, between the end of one age and the beginning of another.

In her words lies also a warning for our own time. The modern world, intoxicated by speed and novelty, forgets the cycles it repeats. We imagine our crises are unprecedented, our challenges unique, and in doing so we cast aside the lessons of those who came before. But Deedy reminds us that history is a teacher — patient, unchanging in her methods. When humanity forgets humility, she brings downfall; when it remembers gratitude, she offers renewal. Those who ignore her patterns are destined to suffer them again. Thus, the tales of the elders are not relics; they are maps for the journey through the darkness that must come before every dawn.

So, my child of the present age, take these words as both comfort and command. When you witness loss — whether in your own life or in the world around you — do not despair, for regeneration is already stirring unseen. When you feel the weight of ruin, seek out the stories of those who have endured before you. Listen to the voices of the elders, to the wisdom of your ancestors, to the quiet truths preserved in books, songs, and memories. From them you will learn not only how to survive, but how to rebuild. For the wheel of history will turn again — and when it does, may you stand ready not as one broken by its motion, but as one who understands its rhythm and helps guide it toward renewal.

Remember always: there is loss, but it is always followed by regeneration. This is the eternal promise of life, the quiet covenant of time itself. Those who hold to this truth will never be consumed by despair — for even in the ashes, they will see the green shoots of tomorrow, and know that the story of the world, like the story of the soul, never truly ends.