Esteemed Reader of Our Magazine:
In the early days of Chronogram, when we were a crew of four working together in one room on the second floor of a renovated barn in New Paltz, we had an unusual neighbor in the apartment on the other side of the wall. Past 50, he was strong of build with a thick, flaming-red beard and hair. He had a deep look and strong handshake and carried himself with calm dignity despite a disconcerting Parkinsonian tremor that shook his hands, arms, head, and sometimes his whole body, the result of injuries sustained in a mugging, he reported—or perhaps overzealous practice of Kundalini yoga in his youth, he wasn't sure which.

The man kept odd hours—even more nocturnal than ours. I would often see his light still burning when I left the office at two or three in the morning. And then I would meet him again at eight a.m. in the cafe, ordering his customary quadruple espresso.

Our neighbor was a professional astrologer, though he in no ways fit the new-age stereotype. His business card advertised the Latin Astrologus (meaning both "mathematical astrologer" and "astronomer" in the original usage), and his cramped apartment was like a wizard's sanctuary. There was a drafting table with charts and maps, objects bearing Masonic seals and symbols of other origin (notably absent was a bed—apparently the man didn't sleep lying down). The place was filled from floor to ceiling with bookcases showing packed spines of dark and variously aged leather. He was a student of ancient teachings who translated and studied Arabic, Sanskrit, and Latin astrological works from the original texts. Even the astrological chart he employed looked different from the one prevalent among western astrologers.

Our neighbor was a self-described "predictive astrologer" that eschewed psychological or "intuitive" analysis. For him astrology was a science. He simply reported to his clients their predilections, aptitudes and weaknesses, and the chronological events of their lives.

Mostly out of curiosity I scheduled a visit with the Astrologus.

He spoke to me about the planets of my chart while he shuddered and shook, about the planetary influences that had stamped my being at the moment of birth, and then proceeded to tell me all the major events that had unfolded in the preceding years of my life. He included in his report a major surgery I underwent as an infant, my parents' divorce, a rock-climbing accident, important relationships, and the start of my business. Once he verified that what he told me was accurate, he mapped out the next 50 or so years of my life as though viewing them retrospectively. It was a very matter-of-fact chronological report.

I was not dumbfounded by the accuracy of the astrologer's report as I already believed there is an underlying pattern of time—an interwoven fabric of strands comprised by the trajectory of each person's life—that could be read by someone possessing such literacy. But then the premise of what he was telling me hit home: Everything that would happen is already set. Nothing could be changed.

Was this a prison of destiny? Was there nothing that I, or anyone, could do to alter the events of life? Was the same true for humanity in general? Was it truly impossible to "do" or "change" anything? If this was the case, the capacity for free will we smugly allege is a fallacy.

By the time the astrologer finished his account of my life I had lost track of the details. I was dizzily pondering the implications of his premise and I asked him to elucidate.

The question of free will is the most important philosophical inquiry for man, he explained. And the answer is a paradox. It is true that all events are predetermined (or in the larger, concurrent view of time, have already occurred). About these there is no choice. In this sense there is no possibility of "changing our lives." But there is something about which we do have choice. It is our consciousness. We can be more or less present; more or less of a witness; more or less observant of the thoughts that flow through the mind, the emotions of the heart, the actions of our bodies. We can be more or less aware of what we perceive through our senses.

When we are more present, he continued, we are able to derive more understanding, more wisdom, from the predetermined events of our lives. We may even be able to alter their content based on the choices corresponding to a higher level of awareness. Indeed, this is what Shakespeare meant, speaking through Hamlet: "To Be or not to Be." When we are present, awake, we are, and are able to choose. When we are less aware, asleep, we are not, and we are slaves of fate. To Be or not to Be. This is the "choice." This is the question.

—Jason Stern