Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.2

Let no act be done without a purpose, nor otherwise than according to the perfect principles of art.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4 (tr Long)

Now it may seem quite obvious to say that everything should be done with a purpose, or that everything should be done well. Surely we all have our reasons for acting as we do, and we all try to do our best?

Sometimes, however, we don’t appear to act for any real purpose at all, or at least not for one that can be clearly conceived or intelligently articulated. Our intentions may come only from surrender to instinct and desire, or we may embrace what seems to be easiest or most popular. We may act from thoughtless habit, or from the pressures outside of us, or from a hasty estimation of impressions.

Why did we do this or that? “I don’t know.” “Just because.” “I felt like it.” “Who cares?” We often associate these sorts of responses with younger people, though I have heard them just as often from those who are older. Those of us who should know better just sound more smug and clever when we speak this way.

Nor do we always strive to do things well. In fact, we quite often do as little as we can to scrape by. Indeed, having perhaps neglected to keep in mind a purpose, we also neglect to have our actions live up to any real goal or expectation.

The principles of art here are not just those of art in the narrow sense of the fine arts, but art in the broader Classical sense, techne, of using the powers of the mind to make or produce something that is or practical use and benefit. It is the skill of any fine craftsmanship. A man who makes something well will take pride in his production, because he knows what purpose it serves, and he knows what is needed to achieve that purpose. The means of his craft are always ordered toward a proper end.

Remove that aiming for a goal, and we remove our concern for how well we do the job. If we don’t care why we are doing something, we will hardly care about the quality of what we do.

The Stoic, I believe, will always keep in mind the ultimate purpose of everything that he does, in even the most commonplace tasks. Once he forgets this, his actions are unmoored and drifting without direction. How is the smallest deed assisting me to perfect my human nature, and how is this in turn serving the fullness of all Nature?

I often find myself frustrated with a chore, or burdened by doing something that seems pointless. It won’t make me rich, it isn’t making me feel good, and it certainly doesn’t get me any appreciation. Why bother doing it well, or even doing it at all?

When I feel that kind of resentment, I know I need to tune my thinking. I will make a deliberate decision to reorder my sense of purpose. I take a moment to remind myself that I am not here on this earth to make money, or to be gratified, or to win anyone’s respect. I am here on this earth to be happy by practicing wisdom, courage, temperance, and justice, and anything I do, however menial it may seem, can give me a chance to do all of these things. I am here for a reason, and everything I am faced with can share in that reason.

Practice can, of course, make this easier, but quite often, when I am distracted by false goods, I find myself having to start from square one. No matter. Like Hephaestus at his forge, the god of all craftsmen, I can strive to make something of the highest quality, in the knowledge that it improves me, and that it may assist others in improving themselves. That can be my purpose, and that can be my reward.

Written in 4/2005

Image: Peter Paul Rubens, Vulcan Forging the Thunderbolts of Jupiter (c. 1636)

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.1

That which rules within, when it is according to Nature, is so affected with respect to the events that happen, that it always easily adapts itself to that which is, and is presented to it.

For it requires no definite material, but it moves towards its purpose, under certain conditions however, and it makes a material for itself out of that which opposes it, as fire lays hold of what falls into it, by which a small light would have been extinguished. But when the fire is strong, it soon appropriates to itself the matter that is heaped on it, and consumes it, and rises higher by means of this very material.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4 (tr Long)

The Stoics, like so many other traditions from around the world, would use the image of fire as a representation of the activity of Divine Reason, which gives order and purpose to the motion and change in all different things. Human reason, in turn, is an emanation of this Divine Reason, a sort of spark, by analogy, that proceeds from the Fire that charges the Universe.

However we may wish to understand or imagine it, the ruling principle within us is not merely something acted upon, but something that is itself a source of action. It is my own power of judgment that makes it possible for me to direct how I live, through the manner in which I think. Things will happen around me, but I can adapt myself, as Marcus Aurelius says, to whatever may happen.

It is not even the particular content of events that matters, because, in a sense, any old events will do. Raise me up or lay me down, put me here or there, in a crowd or all by myself, for all of those situations can be put in the service of what is good through the exercise of the mind.

It may even be those things that seem to oppose me most fiercely that can also be the most useful in helping me to become more virtuous.

In what was probably the lowest moment of my life, I frantically reached out for guidance from someone I trusted. Unlike most everyone else, he did not tell me I should ignore my plight, or grow hardened to it, or run away from it, or pray it away. He did not tell I was being too sensitive, or not strong enough.

“Yes, I’d call that some of the worst kind of hurt. Now what are you going to do with it?”

I expressed my worry that this would make me heartless, that I would become the very thing that had knocked me down.

“Oh no, it won’t make you heartless, though you could choose for yourself to go that way. But I have a hunch you won’t follow that path. How are you going to turn hate into love? Can you transform it?”

I began to understand what he meant, but it took me many more years to even start living it.

To employ the analogy offered by Marcus Aurelius, fire can be said to meet with things that will try to smother it, but a fire that rages and burns hot, properly tended, can consume or alter most any substance. It will not merely destroy the things that stand against it, but it will reshape and employ them to increase its own strength. Fire breaks down what it confronts, reconstitutes what it has reacted with, and thereby burns even hotter and brighter.

As a being gifted with reason, with that Divine spark, it is within my power to face what I fear might extinguish me, and to transform those conditions into moral growth. A properly tended mind can do just that. What is wrong may be rebuilt into what is right, and what I thought were bad things can then make me better. Then, in my own small way, I may participate in what is Divine.

Written in 4/2005

Marcus Aurelius. Meditations 3.16

Body, soul, intelligence: to the body belong sensations, to the soul appetites, to the intelligence principles.

  

To receive the impressions of forms by means of appearances belongs even to animals.

To be pulled by the strings of desire belongs both to wild beasts and to men who have made themselves into women, and to a Phalaris and a Nero.

And to have the intelligence that guides to the things which appear suitable belongs also to those who do not believe in the gods, and who betray their country, and do their impure deeds when they have shut the doors.

If then everything else is common to all that I have mentioned, there remains that which is peculiar to the good man, to be pleased and content with what happens, and with the thread which is spun for him, and not to defile the divinity which is planted in his breast, nor disturb it by a crowd of images, but to preserve it tranquil, following it obediently as a god, neither saying anything contrary to the truth, nor doing anything contrary to justice.

And if all men refuse to believe that he lives a simple, modest, and contented life, he is neither angry with any of them, nor does he deviate from the way which leads to the end of life, to which a man ought to come pure, tranquil, ready to depart, and without any compulsion perfectly reconciled to his lot.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

Man shares in the powers of sensing and desiring with the nature of other animals, but it is the addition of the power of reason that is distinct to human nature. Even then, it is not the presence of the intellect alone that makes us good men. I may choose to abuse my understanding in the pursuit of vice, just as I may choose to use my understanding well in the pursuit of virtue.

As a rational animal, it will be my judgment, and not only my instinctive desires, that move my actions. If, however, I judge it to be right and good to be arrogant, to turn on my friends, or to surrender to lust, I have surely judged, but I have not judged according to Nature. The power to think is a gift that can be nurtured or squandered.

When I consider the properties common to any good man, I always return to the fact that he does not demand that the world do anything extraordinary for him, but he is always ready to do extraordinary things himself. He worries far less about his rights, about what is owed to him, and far more about his responsibilities, about what he himself owes to others. He gladly comes to terms with what is beyond his power, and takes a firm hold of what is within his power.

When Marcus Aurelius speaks of being content with the thread that is spun for us, I think immediately of the image of the three Fates, the Moirai, who in turn spin the thread of life, measure its proper length, and then cut it at the right time. This may appear frightening, because it seems to take so much away from us, but it can also be an opportunity, because it can help us to make the most of what is given, whatever circumstances of life Nature provides.

My character will hardly be challenged when all the conditions of life are in accord with my preferences, when I am healthy, rich, or respected. My character is put to the test when what happens to me may be contrary to my desire or expectation. It is then that I can choose to rule myself, instead of trying to rule the world. It is then that I can show respect in the face of disdain, justice in the face of greed, or kindness in the face of anger.

I am not a good man when the Fates are spinning, measuring, and cutting only as I would wish them to. I can be a good man when I am reconciled to whatever outcome they have chosen.

Written in 3/2005

Image: Johann Gottfried Schadow, The Three Moirai, from the grave of Count Alexander von der Mark (1790)

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.15

They know not how many things are signified by the words stealing, sowing, buying, keeping quiet, seeing what ought to be done.

For this is not effected by the eyes, but by another kind of vision.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

As with so many terms, especially those that concern our human actions, we speak of “seeing” both literally and figuratively. I will say that I see something with my eyes, and I will also say that I see it in my mind. Similarly, I will hear the words from someone’s mouth, and I will hear him when I understand what he is thinking. I will sense the object in my hand, and I will sense its meaning. I will get a package in the mail, and I will get something when I have figured it out.

If I say that I love strawberry ice cream, and that I love my wife, or if I say that I want to go to sleep, and that I want to be happy, I am using a word on two different levels. In one way, I am speaking of a desire within my body, and in another, I am speaking of a decision within my mind and will. These are reflections (see, there’s another one of those words) of two distinct but necessarily related aspects of our humanity.

Now Stoic physics generally argued that everything was “matter”, though I have always suggested that the Stoics understood matter in a much broader sense than we do. The unity of being in Stoicism, of a single Universe in which all things are emanations, avoids the difficulties of treating “matter” and “spirit” as two distinct or separate realms. Yet to say that the Universe is all matter is not to say that it is all sensible matter, but it also admits of intelligent matter, which is mind. There is lower matter that is moved, and higher matter that causes motion.

My reflection is becoming a bit too much like one of those annoying classes I have taught too often, and for that I apologize. I simply wish to propose that the materialism of our age is fixated only with the lower degree of matter, of that which concerns a sensible body. The Stoics, I think, saw something else behind it all. They knew that mind directed, ordered, and gave purpose to sensible bodies.

This is the other kind of vision that I believe Marcus Aurelius speak about. It is not seeing with the eye, but comprehending with the intellect. Perhaps I have been reading philosophy for far too long, or perhaps I am simply an odd fellow, but when I look at so many people around me, it often seems as if they are bodies without heads. It is indeed a grotesque image, but a fitting one nonetheless.

What Vedanta Hindu philosophy called “gross matter”, as distinct from “subtle matter”, is all we seem to care about, and we define our lives by the desires of our gross bodies. The mind has been all but removed from the picture.

We want pleasure, so we reduce love to a mere sexual act. We want possessions, so we reduce ownership to a mere collection of things outside of us. We want respect, so we reduce character to a mere reception of status and esteem.

Virtue, the act of choosing to live with excellence, is hard to find, and has been pushed aside, along with dignity, integrity, and conscience. Gratification replaces morality, and getting replaces giving.

A human being is no longer a who, a creature gifted with insight and freedom, but a what, a bag of instincts and nerves. Living is no longer about thriving in joy, but surviving in conflict. Engage others by insulting and demeaning them, and never consider that engagement is possible with care and kindness.

I have heard those stories about chickens running around with their heads cut off. I hardly think them ridiculous. I see it very often when I go to work, shop at a store, get on the Internet, or try to renew my license at the DMV.

Yet I will still always find the beauty of men and women who see not only with their eyes, but also see with their minds. They see what ought to be done with the vision of reason, and they understand that other people are not objects, but subjects. A man is made of lumps of flesh, that can be bought and sold as a commodity, but he also has a divine spark that makes him priceless.

Some people look at stealing, sowing, buying, keeping quiet, or seeing what ought to be done in terms of a utility of the passions. They see life as a balance ledger of profits and losses for their convenience. Other people look at these same things in terms of right and wrong. They see life as a limitless giving of the self.

Seeing can indeed mean very different things. 

Written in 7/2011

Image: Joshua Reynolds, Self-portrait (c.1748) 

Boethius, The Consolation 1.4

. . . When she saw that the Muses of Poetry were present by my couch giving words to my lamenting, she was stirred a while; her eyes flashed fiercely, and she said:

“Who has suffered these seducing mummers to approach this sick man? Never do they support those in sorrow by any healing remedies, but rather do they ever foster the sorrow by poisonous sweets. These are they who stifle the fruit-bearing harvest of reason with the barren briars of the passions.

“They free not the minds of men from disease, but accustom them to it. I would think it less grievous if your allurements drew away from me some uninitiated man, as happens in the vulgar herd. In such a one my labors would not be harmed, but this man has been nourished in the lore of the Eleatics and the Academics. To him you have reached? Away with you, Sirens, seductive unto destruction! Leave him to my Muses to be cared for and to be healed.”

Their band, thus berated, cast a saddened glance upon the ground, confessing their shame in blushes, and passed forth dismally over the threshold.

For my part, my eyes were dimmed with tears, and I could not discern who was this woman of such commanding power. I was amazed, and turning my eyes to the ground I began in silence to await what she should do.

Then she approached nearer and sat down upon the end of my couch. She looked into my face heavy with grief and cast down by sorrow to the ground, and then she raised her complaint over the trouble of my mind in these words: . . .

— from Book 1, Prose 1

As dangerous as completely ignoring our feelings is also dwelling on them too heavily. It is never feelings themselves that are the problem, but what I may choose to do with those feelings, and how I will act to help them make me better.

The Muses of Poetry are not encouraging Boethius to move forward, but are allowing him to languish in place, and he is sinking under his own weight.

How many medicines have I taken that have hardly been cures at all, but have ultimately made the agony worse? They only compounded the suffering by messing about with the appearances and symptoms, and neglecting the root causes.

I once faced the worst bout of the flu I had ever come across, and I knew that my body needed rest and nourishment to fight the infection, and to rebuild its strength.

Yet I foolishly took some pills that repressed my fever, numbed my pain, and turned my thinking into mush, because I was so sure I had to be at work. Yes, what I did for pennies apparently mattered more than my health. I then had to spend twice as much time later doing the reasonable thing by embracing a proper recovery.

As it is with the body, so it is with the soul. It isn’t just a matter of rearranging, blocking, or wallowing in my passions. Reason can show me how to make it right, by going to the source, and making it right there.

My own first response to the coming of the Black Dog was to wash him away in drink. When I only woke up with even more despair, I tried to simply ignore him. Lying to myself didn’t change the reality of it, of course, and I then tried to wish him away with all sorts of diversions and ways of busying myself. It was much like spending my time repainting a house infested by termites.

What could possibly be left? Conventional medicine offered various drugs and therapy, but these had very little lasting effect. I began to recognize that the feelings were not going anywhere. Yet what could my own thinking, my own most powerful tool, begin to do with the presence of those feelings?

The first thing I ever really noticed about this passage, once I began to read it not as an intellectual exercise but as an opportunity for healing, was the way Boethius described how both he and the Muses can stare at nothing but the ground beneath them in silence.

I related to that immediately, since I had started doing much the same when I lost my anchor in the affection of another person. It had been an illusion I had created for myself, but it had seemed there on one day, and suddenly it was gone on the next.

It was quite literal, not just figurative. My eyes began to be lowered, because I was afraid to see anyone else or to meet a passing gaze, and I spoke very little, because I was afraid of being bitten in response. There was a cringing shame behind all of it.

I felt sorry for myself. No one sat down next to me, though I really just needed to sit down with myself, and have a really good heart-to-heart. 

Written in 4/2105

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.14

No longer wander at hazard, for neither will you read your own memoirs, nor the acts of the ancient Romans and Greeks, and the selections from books which you were reserving for your old age.

Hasten then to the end that you have before you, and throwing away idle hopes, come to your own aid, if you care at all for yourself, while it is in your power.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

“That’s all right, no worries. I know it’s important, but I’ll get to it later.”

Few words have gotten me into deeper trouble. If I truly know something to be important, I will do it now, and not put something else in its place. It will only be as important to me as it stands in the priority of my own thoughts and actions.

Such a priority is certainly one about the time that is given to me, but it is also about the depth of the concern I have within that time. Whether or not there will be an opportunity down the road, I should strive to act with virtue now. A word may express an intention, but an action binds that word with true commitment.

I have foolishly told myself how much I may love and cherish someone, for example, and been content only with those thoughts in my head, planning vaguely to act on them someday. It is certainly too late for me when time, which never offers any guarantee other than the immediate now, finally runs out, but it is also already too selfish of me, at any time, to withhold anything that Nature asks me to give. If I care for someone, I must do what is in my power to assist him in his own struggles, and if I am sorry for the wrong I have done, I must do what is in my power to make it right.

Now. Not later.

In college, I smugly made myself a list of all the “Great Books” I had to read to be properly educated. I was so busy making the list that I often neglected to start reading them, and when I did read them, I was usually far more worried about giving the impression of a decent life than the real living of a decent life. College was great at teaching me the fine art of clever appearances.

I had always assumed that everyone eventually “got wise” to life, but I have seen that this is hardly the case. The weight of procrastination and poor habits has never made it any easier for me to be a good man.

Marcus Aurelius speaks of the “idle hopes”, what I have often experienced as the vain expectation that circumstances will somehow end up going a certain way, and then I can go about fixing everything I might have broken. I have found that a very silly end to aim for. It is sadly all about what happens, not about what I choose to make happen. As a creature with a body, I am acted upon, but as a creature with life and reason, I can also act for myself.

It is the interplay of these two active and passive principles that drives all the motions of Nature, and it’s time I played my own small part. Stoic physics and Stoic ethics go together.

I had a wonderful student, a few years back, who would often come to me just to unwind and bounce ideas back and forth, and I noticed that she often spoke of her relationship with her parents as “doomed”. Now I hope I was wise enough not to try and run her life for her, which would, of course, defeat the whole purpose of living, but I tried to respectfully suggest that nothing was ever doomed unless we allowed it be so.

“But you don’t understand, because I can never make them happy! They always want me to do something I can’t do, or expect something I can’t give them!”

I most certainly did understand. I have seen in my own life that I can never make others happy, but I have also seen that this does not doom my love for them. It is within my power to give that love, but not within my power to expect it in return. It is my duty to act, and not my duty to make others act. Perhaps the conditions will not work out as I may have preferred, but I do not consider that something doomed.

I have come to my own aid if I have done right, and Providence willing, I may even help someone else come to his own aid and get it right for himself. None of it is about what may or may not happen, or whether my memoirs are worth reading. There is no putting it off for some other time. I can practice the virtues right here and now, and trust Providence to take care of the rest. 

Written in 3/2005

Image: Some of those "Great Books" we like to say we will someday read. . . 

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.13

As physicians always have their instruments and knives ready for cases that suddenly require their skill, so you should have principles ready for the understanding of things divine and human, and for doing everything, even the smallest, with a recollection of the bond which unites the divine and human to one another.

For neither will you do anything well that pertains to man without at the same time having a reference to things divine, nor the contrary.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

We naturally expect the artist or craftsman to be familiar with the tools of his trade, and we assume that he is trained in their use through constant practice. His tools become like an extension of himself. He will know what needs to be done, and what he will need at hand in order to get it done.

We would further expect this to be especially true for a physician, who must diagnose and treat ailments of the body at a moment’s notice, and at the most unexpected times, so he will always try to have his tool of the trades available. I could hardly expect my mechanic to fix my car if I were to show up at his door in the middle of the night, but I would never hesitate to ask my doctor to fix what ails me at any time of the day.

We should rightly be impressed at the training and skill that go into any trade, but especially with those where so much can be at stake so suddenly.

I now think of how much more is at stake, at every moment of our lives, when we make those ultimate decisions about what is true or false, right or wrong. Even the greatest medical skills will be useless if they are not ordered toward the service of the human good. So what are those even more crucial tools we need to pursue our highest meaning and purpose?

Many of us seem to go into the field woefully unequipped. We may have prepared ourselves for years in our professions, in the mastery of the means, but we have paid little attention to the vocation of Nature, to the achievement of the end.

I once had a moment of extreme frustration, resolved only with the application of the most profuse Stoic calm, when I was being repeatedly criticized by someone for wasting so much of my time on philosophy. Politics was the way to go, I was told, the practical arena where things got done, not some ivory tower filled with useless ideas and values.

Instead of feeling angry or hurt, I needed only to remember that we differed on the question of whether ends are superior to means, whether what we lived for should determine the merit of all of the rest of our living.

I will be the first to insist that life should be eminently practical, but I do not assume this excludes questions of meaning and purpose. I work from the premise that the life well lived must of necessity include these questions, because it is precisely what gives direction to every action.

To use a common Classical image, the best seaman, skilled in all the trimming of sails, will be useless without the art of navigation. A politician uninformed by a conscience would be quite similar. He may have all the tools of management and organization, but it will be his moral tools that determine if he employs his professional skills for justice or for tyranny, for service or for slaughter. 

I recognize that the tools I need at hand at all times are those that will allow me to consider myself, and everything that is around me, in relation to such guiding principles. I must try to understand the relationship of the whole and the part, of the unchanging and the changing, of the absolute and the relative, of what is divine and what is human.

Within myself, it is my mind that shares more fully in what is divine, and my body that shares more fully in things of the earth. To know myself is then to know how each aspect must play its part, not in exclusion of one another, but in harmony with one another.

Put another way, it isn’t about the forest or the trees, but about the forest through each one of those trees. The relationship goes both ways, from the top down and from the bottom up. As Marcus Aurelius had previously said, I will understand something more fully when I grasp how all of Nature works together, both the higher and the lower.

I don’t think I could ever have made a good physician, not only because I have a squeamish tendency, but also because I’m hardly clever enough to understand the principles or manage the tools. I maintain hope, however, that I can still muddle my way through becoming a good man, and gain some competence with the use of the tools I need to do so. 

Written in 3/2005

Image: Roman surgical instruments, found at Pompeii

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.12

If you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, but keeping your divine part pure, as if you should be bound to give it back immediately; if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to Nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound which you utter, you will live happy.

And there is no man who is able to prevent this.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

I barely know anymore what I can say about this passage, because it is now one of my dearest friends, and one of my greatest comforts. It is hard to describe or praise something that is so close. I refer to it most every day, and I no longer need to look it up, because every word of it is firmly fixed in my memory.

I used to arrogantly look down on people who fell back on the recitation of prayers and sayings, or those who glorified and enshrined the words of others from the past. It seemed so lifeless, and it seemed too much like a show of appearances, a reverence that only served to praise the self by striking a pose.

I still believe that this is true for far too many of us, but I can begin to discern the difference between the man who postures and the man who bows. Some people will abuse sacred words of wisdom to draw attention to themselves. Others respect sacred words of wisdom in order to serve what is true and good. By their fruits shall you know them.

When I feel overwhelmed by my feelings, or overtaken by my circumstances, I turn to a quicker version of what Marcus Aurelius says, to my own briefer summation:

If I keep my divine part pure, I will live happy. No one can prevent this.

Words have power, though not in and of themselves, since they are but signs. They are, in the narrow sense, scratches on paper and sounds in the air. They have power on account of what they signify, from the reality that they point toward. They are the tools that can help me to get the job of thinking done.

Still, an attention on the word alone can assist me in completing the task, as something that provides a framework and calms the spirit. There is a certain peace that comes from recitation and repetition, as it focuses a sort of thinking free of diversion. Even if I am not fully conscious of it at the moment, the word reminds me of what is worthy.

I may not have the time or luxury to go through all of the reasoning right there and then, when life has suddenly hit me with a ton of bricks. The word can trigger a memory, the memory can trigger a habit, and the habit can set me on the right path before I even know what I have done. Habits allow us to react without hesitation, and they can be quite good, as well as quite bad.

My silly amended version of Marcus Aurelius has helped me far more than I can explain. I may face something that is downright wrong, I may confront ignorance or malice, or I may feel flattened by the weight of uncontrollable events.

I take a deep breath, I close my eyes for just a moment, and I try to care little for what happens to be occurring outside of me. I repeat those words to myself, however many times is necessary, and I engage again.

This has rarely failed me. I usually fail myself when I neglect to do it.

I believe that the second part of the phrase is just as important as the first part. Not only am I my own master, but there is also no way that anyone can take that from me, as much as he can take anything else. 

Written in 3/2005

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.11

To the aids that have been mentioned let this one still be added. Make for yourself a definition or description of the thing which is presented to you, so as to see distinctly what kind of a thing it is in its substance, in its nudity, in its complete entirety, and tell yourself its proper name, and the names of the things of which it has been compounded, and into which it will be resolved.

For nothing is so productive of elevation of mind as to be able to examine methodically and truly every object which is presented to you in life, and always to look at things so as to see at the same time what kind of Universe this is, and what kind of use everything performs in it, and what value everything has with reference to the whole, and what with reference to man, who is a citizen of the highest city, of which all other cities are like families; what each thing is, and of what it is composed, and how long it is the nature of this thing to endure which now makes an impression on me, and what virtue I have need of with respect to it, such as gentleness, manliness, truth, fidelity, simplicity, contentment, and the rest.

Wherefore, on every occasion a man should say: this comes from God, and this is according to the apportionment and spinning of the thread of destiny, and such-like coincidence and chance; and this is from one of the same stock, and a kinsman and partner, one who knows not, however, what is according to his nature.

But I know. For this reason I behave towards him according to the natural law of fellowship with benevolence and justice. At the same time, however, in things indifferent I attempt to ascertain the value of each.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

It may seem superfluous, perhaps even a bit condescending, to ask that we be sure to know what things are. This reminds me of those moments when my parents were patiently giving me directions on how to complete a task, and I would stand there rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth, because I was certain that I didn’t need to be told again.

But I did need to be told again, because I hadn’t been listening, and I hadn’t done it right the last time.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I quite often haven’t a clue what something really is. I will only give attention to the impression, to the way it happens to feel to me right there and then, and I will respond to it only with desire or aversion. I will end up considering an object, or a place, or a person, hardly as something else at all, but just as a feeling that is pleasant or unpleasant, useful or useless, interesting or boring. It then enters into or passes out of my awareness only when it excites my passions, and I only see the aspects that appear relevant to my wants.

To know something is not only to see it relative to my perspective, but also to see it for what it is in its own identity, what it is composed of, where it has come from, and where it is going. Perhaps most importantly, it is to see that thing in its relationship with other things around it, and how its own specific purpose is bound and connected to the purpose of the whole.

This is suddenly not so easy a task, and it indicates to me that the process of coming to understand my world and myself is concurrent with the very act of living itself. It will only end when my experience has exhausted all the aspects of the pattern, or when my experience has returned back into the pattern, whichever may come first.

I do not know if it is a sign of progress or a sign of becoming slightly unhinged, but whenever I have the leisure of patient observations and reflection, I will often find myself looking at something from different angles, perspectives, shades of color, and strands of connections. My imagination sometimes takes on the qualities of an M.C. Escher print, but it is surely no accident that this passage from Marcus Aurelius also comes to mind whenever I do so.

To strive to know in this way has become most helpful for me when I try to consider another person. I try to go beyond simply the aspect of who that person seems to me, to who that person is for himself, for others, for Nature itself, as a vehicle of Providence, as a creature of God. I remember that no person is meaningless or disposable, and it is from this conviction that I can claim kinship with him. It is not necessary that he recognize it for me to recognize it. 

Written in 2/2005

Image: M.C. Escher, Three Worlds (1955) 

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 3.10

Throwing away then all things, hold to these only which are few; and besides bear in mind that every man lives only this present time, which is an indivisible point, and that all the rest of his life is either past or it is uncertain.

Short then is the time which every man lives, and small the nook of the earth where he lives; and short too the longest posthumous fame, and even this only continued by a succession of poor human beings, who will very soon die, and who know not even themselves, much less him who died long ago.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3 (tr Long)

When I first began to take an interest in Stoicism, many years ago, I would often find myself frustrated with the repeated insistence that most everything I thought meant something really meant nothing at all. My possessions were vanities, my honor was fleeting, and my life itself was brief and uncertain.

What I did not immediately recognize was that making less of such things was intended to help me find something else that could mean so much more. Instead of defining myself by how everything acted upon me, or by what had happened or could happen, I needed only to define myself by how I acted, right here and now.

Less is indeed more, in that I need very little to be happy. I need only myself, in whatever circumstances may come and go. I am well advised to leave behind anything that is an unnecessary diversion.

I remember one of those moments when it all clicked, when someone was telling me that I should feel proud that I would be remembered for doing this or that. It came to me that it was an illusion to think that reputation could last, and that it hardly mattered if it did. What would it help me if someone knew a few hazy things about me some day, if I didn’t even fully know myself in the brief time I was alive?

Fame can give me no satisfaction now, because it is all about what other people are thinking, and it will certainly give me no satisfaction later, because I will soon be gone. It passes into shadowy images and dusty footnotes, and is soon completely forgotten.

I recall a professor, who was a close family friend, honored and praised to high heaven upon his retirement, and when he passed away a few years later, very few seemed to know who he was anymore. A few pieces of art that were in his home are now in mine, and I treasure them because they came from him, but before too long that strand of memory will also come to an end, and they will be just pieces of canvas.

Thoughts such as these might have saddened me before, but I find increasing comfort in them now. This isn’t because they take something away, but because they reveal something beautiful. They allow me to nurture only my own character, with no worry for any ornaments or trappings.

Over the years, I have learned to travel light whenever I take any sort of journey. I carry only the bare minimum, and I improvise the rest. I can then zip here and there unburdened, while I see others struggling with their luggage and growing frustrated with finding room for all their accessories. Instead of taking photographs of everything I encounter, or buying souvenirs at every corner, I simply enjoy the act of being wherever I am.

To throw away what is unnecessary is not just about things, of course, but about an attitude of living, of finding joy in what is truly my own, and being freed from all of the rest. 

Written in 2/2005

Image: Julius von Leypold, Wanderer in the Storm (1835)

Boethius, The Consolation 1.3

While I was pondering thus in silence, and using my pen to set down so tearful a complaint, there appeared standing over my head a woman's form, whose countenance was full of majesty, whose eyes shone as with fire and in power of insight that surpassed the eyes of men, whose color was full of life, whose strength was yet intact though she was so full of years that none would ever think that she was subject to such age as ours.

One could but doubt her varying stature, for at one moment she repressed it to the common measure of a man, at another she seemed to touch with her crown the very heavens. And when she had raised higher her head, it pierced even the sky and baffled the sight of those who would look upon it.

Her clothing was wrought of the finest thread by subtle workmanship brought to an indivisible piece. This had she woven with her own hands, as I afterwards did learn by her own showing. Their beauty was somewhat dimmed by the dullness of long neglect, as is seen in the smoke-grimed masks of our ancestors.

On the border below was enwoven the symbol Π (Pi), on that above was to be read a Θ (Theta). And between the two letters there could be marked degrees, by which, as by the rungs of a ladder, ascent might be made from the lower principle to the higher. Yet the hands of rough men had torn this garment and snatched such morsels as they could from there.

In her right hand she carried books, in her left was a scepter brandished. . . .

— from Book 1, Prose 1

The idea that philosophy can be a cure for the ills of this life, and that her appearance can bring relief from our everyday fear and pain, may seem quite odd to our modern sensibilities. Philosophy would appear to refer either to some very vague and general approach to any subject, or it is that very specific subject that academics pursue in their ivory towers. It’s a clever term to insert into business and marketing proposals, or a career pursued by fancy intellectuals. Philosophy hardly saves lives, does it?

Yet that is precisely why Lady Philosophy comes to Boethius now. She may not choose to save his body from death, but she intends to save his soul from despair. I came to see in my own life that this was the sort of philosophy I needed, and perhaps why I have always had trouble making myself understood to those who used the word differently.

I have read many wonderful accounts of what Lady Philosophy’s appearance signifies, and how all the aspects of the description point to different historical and thematic concepts. I can add only what her qualities have come to mean to me over the years.

Philosophy is, of course, not an exclusive domain for men or women, but exists as something essentially human. Yet philosophy is here depicted as feminine. The Ancients had understood something we often overlook, that an equality of gender is not the same thing as an identity of gender. A man may lead, but his instinct will often be to confront and protect. A woman may also lead, with no less strength, but her instinct will often be to comfort and nurture. Boethius does not need the power of a father right now, but the understanding of a mother.

Her insight appears greater than anything human, and she seems both very old, yet with all the vibrancy of youth. Perhaps this is because philosophy is certainly about human things, but transcends such things to also include the order of all things, and their relationship to what is absolute. It is about the human mind rising to what is greater than itself. Truth, furthermore, which is eternal and unchanging, is neither young nor old.

She seems smaller and larger at different times, human at one point, divine at another. It is to this intersection of what is mortal and immortal, changing and unchanging, finite and infinite that we must dedicate our attention.

She is clothed in a beautiful robe, and it is seamless, crafted from only one piece, just as wisdom is never divided, but always one. She had made the fabric herself, as is appropriate for philosophy, where man can employ his own powers of reason to come to understand truth for himself. Lady Philosophy will soon show Boethius how to become a weaver of wisdom.

Yet the robe is somewhat dull and worn, surely not just because it was made so long ago, but because generations of mankind have failed to maintain it and give it due attention. It is much like that section of a library with all the most insightful books, yet they are covered in dust, and no one wishes to read them. We are much more interested in the shallow trends of the day, than the profound wisdom of the ages.

The letters Pi and Theta represent practice and theory respectively, and they are joined together by the steps we can all take from the immanence of particular experience to the transcendence of universal contemplation.

Why is the fabric also torn? Small minds rip a piece from here or there, and they think they possess the whole truth. It is as if they gather the stray crumbs from under the table, and believe themselves to be enjoying the whole banquet. They are interested in their own glory, not the glory of all truth.

She holds books containing wisdom, and her scepter indicates the true power this wisdom grants her. This is the Philosophy Boethius needs right now, one that can bring order to chaos, and meaning to confusion. 

Written in 3/2015

Image: Lady Philosophy in her robes, from a manuscript of The Consolation of Philosophy (c. 1230)