Entropy. Last year, I read Laura Mersini-Houghton’s book “Before the Big Bang – The Origin of the Universe and What Lies Beyond It.” That’s how I found out that in 1970, British mathematician and physicist Roger Penrose calculated the probability that our Universe spontaneously came into existence as 1 in a googolplex (10^10^123). In essence, he concluded that the chances of our world having formed via a “Big Bang” were almost zero.

Penrose’s calculations were based on the 19th-century findings of Austrian physicist Ludwig Boltzmann, who studied the relationship between probability and the concept of entropy.

Entropy quantifies disorder: the more elements a system or an Universe contains, the higher its entropy (disorder). So, in order to have a higher probability of  that beginning to take place, our Universe would have had to start from an extremely ordered state—with very low entropy and very few elements. Another key discovery is that in relation to time, entropy can only increase. Researchers say that the arrow of time points toward disorder and expansion, always forward, never backwards. These were just abstract notions—until my last two art therapy sessions.

Saturn. Coincidentally or call it synchronicity, during the first art therapy session, I was asked to connect with the anger I had felt in the previous week, an emotion that was accompanied by a lump or a knot in my throat. Once I connected with that feeling, I was asked to draw it. Then I was asked to identify the familiar elements in the drawing and write what each one symbolized for me. I drew a circle, closed with two imperfectly overlapping lines. I associated the circle with Divinity, with duality. Later, I interpreted the imperfect overlap as the birth of the first human (from Divinity). What a projection! Then I drew an X inside the circle and wrote that I associate it with rejection, with being different, an outsider. I also associated it with a cross, saying that everything we experience horizontally must be released vertically. I thought of mapping concepts, how an X on a map means “I was here.” I thought of many things—except multiplication. Because my inner saboteur doesn’t multiply, it adds. Drop by drop, slowly, tomorrow, later, instead of much, now, here, and ease. After that, I drew another X outside the circle, in the upper right corner, and I wrote “Not enough” and “Sufficient.” I had been asked to draw—but a part of me chose to write. I was told I chose my comfort zone. But contrary to that opinion, I felt I had enabled my intuition. Not because there wasn’t a kernel of truth in the ease with which I turn to words, but because I rarely allow myself to stay in my comfort zone. In what world, but my own, can “sufficient” and “not enough” coexist?

That’s when the image of a jellyfish swimming flashed through my mind. The jellyfish is the most efficient swimmer in nature, moving against ocean currents. Its pulsing motion is like a dance—a sequence of contractions (“not enough”) and relaxations (“enough”) of its body. What’s important is that the jellyfish could never move forward without its ability to contract. Its propulsion force comes from contraction. It gains speed by contracting. Expansion comes from contraction—from inner tension, from the “not enough.” I already knew what my anger was hiding. It was hiding a lot of sadness. And the resource I used to cope with it was my creativity.

I was so absorbed in all these details that I didn’t even realize what my drawing resembled. I had drawn a planet. And, later on I found out, it was not just any planet—I had drawn Saturn. Yes, even before deciding to take a sabbatical year, I had drawn Saturn, with its rings—the prosecutor of the zodiac, the planet of wisdom and responsibility, the symbol of the father but also of karma. In Greek mythology, Saturn is identified with Chronos, the god of time and agriculture. And the term “sabbatical”—the last year in the 7-year agricultural cycle, when land is left to rest and people take time off—is closely tied to Saturn, proclaimed the god of the Jews. Coincidence? Or synchronicity?

Chiralina. I saw the spring equinox sunset from the car. We were on our way to visit my best friend, who was turning 36. It should have been a day for celebration—if she hadn’t buried her father in that very same week. She lost her mother during her first nodal return, and her father during the second. And our friendship survived both. I think about death, and about the parts of us that die with the people we love. Then I think of my father—and the pact we likely made before coming back here: “I will make you suffer so you can learn to love yourself.
Then I will forget who I am so that you can remember who you are.” That last thought filled me with gratitude—for the present moment, for the colors of the circle, for the quiet music playing, and for my boys, laughing wholeheartedly. I smiled too.

A stray thought sparked a dialogue with myself: Chiralina. Wait—as in Chira Chiralina? Because my father is Codin? What in the world of Panait Istrati does that even mean? I laugh to myself. Nothing. No one. Seconds pass. Aaaaaah— I got it! From Chiron—the wounded healer?
Chiron + Alina? As in my Chiron in Cancer? Hmm… interesting. Eckhart Tolle wasn’t wrong when he said stillness speaks. Five minutes later: Oh my God, I finally understand! Chiron is the symbol of the deepest wound. The wound in my left leg. We’re connected by the wound in the leg. How profound! Chiron was born a centaur (half man, half horse), and both his parents—the nymph Philyra and his father, Saturn/Cronos—reject and abandon him. He was raised by Apollo, who teaches him music, healing, and astrology. He was accidentally wounded by a poisoned arrow—in one of his legs. Though he can heal others, his own wound never closes. Even Rumi honors him in his verses:

Your doctor must have a broken leg to doctor.
Your defects are the ways that glory gets manifested.
Whoever sees clearly what’s diseased in himself
Begins to gallop on the Way
Don’t turn your head. Keep looking at the bandaged place.
That’s where the light enters you.

Order. A divine message never arrives alone. It sends multiple clues—to make sure you’ve understood, even if it knows you need time to fully grasp it. During an astrology workshop a few weeks earlier, I learned I had a missing leg in Taurus. I’d say it’s more like a missing leg in (cen)Taur(us). And the night before my last constellation session, I found another puzzle piece in Minerva’s book “Medical Astrology 2”: My natal Chiron is conjunct with the fixed star Alhena (from the Arabic al-Han’āh, phonetically Alhina)—a star associated with artistic expression but also with leg injuries (!!).

The next day, I set the intention to “play out my cardinal grand cross” (which included Chiron).
It was the last constellation of the day—and I realized I had received exactly what I’d wished for the moment the Wound stepped into the scene. I was chosen to play the alpha male—or Mars, symbol of my inner child, spontaneity, creativity, courage, but also anger.
A colleague with the same two first names represented the type of partner who does anything for the relationship but is never truly desired (what I associate with my Sun).
Another colleague played the ideal partner (Neptune). And the woman who played the Wound (Chiron and its wisdom) entered the scene almost by accident. Though I no longer believe in accidents. I won’t share the full details of what was played out—only a fragment in which the main character told the wound: “I don’t want to make the wound disappear. I want to make it a part of me.” Alina finally understood. It was written in the stars: Chiralina.

Therefore, I have always been a constellation, a place where sadness and creativity coexist. The dance of my inner jellyfish is guided by sadness and creativity. Beyond learned sadness lies innate creativity. And how could I remember who I am if not by forgetting what I was taught?

The essential is indeed invisible to the eye: Until it is understood, Order is perceived as Chaos.
Until its completion, Order is seen as Entropy.