Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.48

Always remember the saying of Heraclitus, that the death of earth is to become water, and the death of water is to become air, and the death of air is to become fire, and conversely.

And think too of him who forgets where the way leads, and that men quarrel with that with which they are most constantly in communion, the reason which governs the Universe, and the things which they meet with daily seem to them strange.

And consider that we ought not to act and speak as if we were asleep, for even in sleep we seem to act and speak, and that we ought not, like children who learn from their parents, simply act and speak as we have been taught.

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

I have always been a rather reflective person, though clearly not always reflective in the best way. Merely dwelling on impressions, or aimlessly pondering about speculations, or obsessing about how I might want something to be, is hardly the same thing as seeking to understand myself and my place in the world.

We may take the distinction between the Classical four elements in different ways, as literally or as figuratively as we like, but the principle behind what Heraclitus expresses remains the same. Any change of state is always into something else, from old to new, the matter within one form being rebuilt in a new form. In this way, all transformation serves an ordered purpose within the balance of the whole. As trite as it may at first sound, endings are always new beginnings.

This is true not just in some grand cosmic scheme, but also in the most immediate and humble aspects of daily life. I have forgotten where the way leads, as Marcus Aurelius says, when I no longer listen to reason, and I no longer recognize the balance and pattern of coming to be and passing away. Each and every event is like that, because everything that happens plays a necessary part.

My own reflection should never just consider how it feels to me at the moment. I should look behind the appearance to how my relationship with other things and with other people allows for the possibility of improvement and growth. Any new happening, however unconnected it may at first seem, is another expression of that constant unfolding.

Nothing is really ever completely new or strange, just the same harmony played in a variation.

I have, in fact, thought of this in terms of the analogy of music quite often. An orchestra may play a new piece with a different order and sequence of notes, yet it remains an orchestra. Players come and go, yet it remains an orchestra. Each musician may be doing something very different at various times, even as each musician is contributing to the same goal of expressing beauty.

We all follow a grand score, so to speak, though our place is never intended to be one of blind conformity. I was often told to never play my own musical part mindlessly. Instead, I should try to understand why those specific notes mattered, how the way they were played made a difference, and in what way they related to what everyone else was playing.

If I start thinking about ensemble music, or about life itself, in such a manner, I am playing my part with active awareness. I am no longer just doing what I’m told, as if I were asleep. My participation, informed by free understanding, now makes me a conscious and active agent, not a passive piece of fate. 

Written in 2/2006

Image: The Vienna Philharmonic, playing the traditional New Year's Concert.