Everything has two handles, one by which you can carry it, the other by which you cannot.
If your brother wrongs you, do not take it by that handle, the handle of his wrong, for you cannot carry it by that, but rather by the other handle—that he is a brother, brought up with you, and then you will take it by the handle that you can carry by.
—Epictetus, The Handbook, Chapter 43 (tr Matheson)
I have long joked that this means we must take things by the love handle, but the New Puritanism of our day apparently does not find that funny. So I assure you that I will not mention such an inappropriate joke.
I have spent too many years of my life consumed by pain, and I have been tempted to respond to all of it with despair or rage. I could also respond with love, which has the power to restore all things through myself, instead of seeking to destroy all things except myself.
Not a single one of us will escape this life untouched by suffering. Providence will dish out all sorts of different kinds and degrees, depending upon what we can, or should, manage to help us become better and wiser. But none of us will escape suffering.
I consider what has come my way, and what still might come my way, and I need ask myself only one question: what will I do with it, and from what end will I pick it up?
Common sense, and the beauty of Newtonian physics, has always taught me that it is easier to pull something than it is to push it. I was regularly told to lift with my legs, and not with my back. I have also learned the importance of getting the right grip on anything at all before attempting to move it. Now is there some sort of moral equivalent to these physical practices?
Yes, and it concerns finding what Epictetus would call the right handle. I must consider not just the physical energy of my actions, but also their moral energy. This centers entirely on the Stoic concept of what is within my power, as distinct from what is outside of my power.
If another does me wrong, that is not within my power. Now I can try to use all the force I want, but none of it will change the nature of his side of the action. I can’t lift it, budge it, leverage it, wedge it, push it, or pull it. His end will stay right where it is, until he changes the nature of his own choice.
What is within my power is the matter of lifting, budging, or leveraging my own side, and that is precisely the end, and the handle, that I can manage for myself.
Similarly, imagine that you have thrown something at me. I can’t stop you from throwing it, but I can decide if I catch it, dodge it, block it, or if I just let it hit me.
These are all, of course, weak and incomplete analogies, but they hopefully reflect the deeper reality about how I can carry anything that comes my way. What is done, will be done. What I do with what is done is entirely up to me.
This means I can only move what is mine to move, and I can only give what is mine to give. As soon as I dwell upon what has been done to me, I’m hopelessly lost. As soon as I consider what I can do for myself, my power has no limit. On the one end I am like a slave, on the other end I can be like a god.
I can indeed carry my life, on the condition that I know what is rightly mine to carry, and from which end I must carry it. If I dwell upon your own hatred, I become consumed by hatred myself. If I dwell upon my own love, I have done right by myself, and I might just have the ghost of a chance to convince you to love for yourself.
Written in 4/2014
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