. . . “Wherefore it is your looks,
rather than the aspect of this place that disturb me. It is not the walls of
your library, decked with ivory and glass, that I need, but rather the resting place
in your heart, wherein I have not stored books, but I have of old put that
which gives value to books, a store of thoughts from books of mine.
“As to your services to the common
good, you have spoken truly, though but scantily, if you consider your manifold
exertions. Of all that you have been charged with, either truthfully or
falsely, you have but recorded what is well known.
“As for the crimes and wicked lies of
the informers, you have rightly thought fit to touch but shortly on them, for
they are better and more fruitfully made common in the mouth of the crowd that
discusses all matters.
“You have loudly and strongly upbraided
the unjust ingratitude of the Senate.
“You have grieved over the charges made
against myself, and shed tears over the insult to my fair fame.
“Your last outburst of wrath was
against Fortune, when you complained that she paid no fair rewards according to
deserts.
“Finally, you have prayed with the
passionate Muse that the same peace and order, that are seen in the heavens,
might also rule the earth.
“But you are overwhelmed by this
variety of mutinous passions: grief, rage, and gloom tear your mind asunder,
and so in this present mood stronger measures cannot yet come nigh to heal you.
“Let
us, therefore, use gentler means, and since, just as matter in the body hardens
into a swelling, so have these disquieting influences. Let these means soften
by kindly handling the unhealthy spot, until it will bear a sharper remedy.”
—from
Book 1, Prose 5
Boethius
is terribly concerned about where he is, and not who he is. He thinks he has
been exiled from something by forces beyond his control, but he has only exiled
himself from the blessings of thinking and living for himself. He is still
sitting in his own library, though under house arrest. It seems to be quite a
fancy library, at that. All those books, the ones he has so cherished, still
surround him, even as they are offering him no real comfort.
I
remember how often I faced the sort of loss and despair I thought I could never
overcome, and I thrashed about, cried, or just wanted to crawl into a hole. The
books they always told me would make my life better were right within my reach.
I didn’t reach for those books, since it is never about the printed page itself.
Writing and speech are the medium, but love and truth are the message; no
amount of writings could help me if I was not willing to open up my heart and
mind.
Lady
Philosophy asks me, as she asks Boethius, to look over all the complaints that
have been made. Notice how everything of concern to us is about what happens to
us, about all the things outside of us. We point to the accusers, to the
informers, to those in the Senate, or in any body that has power, those people
we feel have been so bold as to have their way with us. We blame bad luck, and
then we go so far as to ask God to change it all, to make it all right, which
implies that He was getting it all wrong before.
The
books of wisdom, all the great texts of philosophy, won’t help, because the
attitude we even began with is all wrong. There is that moment when I recognize
that what I assumed was my worthlessness was nothing more than the most brazen
arrogance. Why am I assuming the world owes me justice, when justice for me can
only come from what I give of myself?
This is
why Lady Philosophy must begin very gently, and very slowly, in offering her
remedies. I have allowed my passions to overcome my reason. I am hurt, and I am
angry, and so I am no longer thinking about what is true and good. I am letting
my feelings toss me around, between fear and hope, or surrender and resistance.
A member
of a Twelve Step program I help run came to me recently, completely despondent.
He had been working his recovery for almost two years, but had still not found
any employment to help him make ends meet. Another member decided to take it
out on him, and told him that his inability to find a job was due to his inner
weakness. The fellow was deeply worried that he would slip, or even relapse,
because of those words.
I
understood completely. The other member, pardon my French, was being an ass. He
was venting his own frustrations at someone who didn’t deserve it. Yet at the
same time, I suggested that allowing the behavior of others to rule us was the
very reason we were helpless in the face of this or that circumstance of our
lives.
Let the
other man be an ass, I suggested, and help him with your own kindness if you
can, or pray for him if that is right for you. But don’t allow you own efforts
to make yourself better be in any way hampered by the attempts of others to
make you worse. This is a chance to improve, not to be trodden down.
As I
said those words, I realized that this advice was just as much for me as it was
for him. I should worry about my own unhealthy spots, not those of the people
around me. The world isn’t my problem. I am my problem.
Written in 7/2015
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