Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 6.50

He who loves fame, considers another man's activity to be his own good.

And he who loves pleasure, considers his own sensations.

But he who has understanding, considers his own acts to be his own good.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 6 (tr Long)

This was one of the first Stoic passages I was ever exposed to. I only wish I had taken that wisdom to heart early on, instead of fighting against it for all of those years.

I attended a middle school where I finally learned something about math, science, and language. It was a parochial Catholic school, quite different from the rich and trendy public school, in supposedly the best side of town, I’d been at for seven years. It was also quite a bit rougher around the edges. I wasn’t quite prepared for the change.

I’d get pushed around for being different in elementary school. Now, I had the living crap beat out of me for looking at someone the wrong way. There were days, at the tender age of thirteen and fourteen, where I just wanted to die. I loved my teachers, and all that they explained to me, something I’d never experienced before, but a trip to the bathroom usually involved a humiliation or a beating.

There was a young priest who was our chaplain, a truly kind and decent fellow. He would come into our school once a week to offer a brief talk, and to give us an opportunity to have him hear our confessions. I would take that opportunity each and every time, not because I was a good Catholic, but because I wanted someone to listen to me, to understand me.

I would explain to him, time and time again, about how I felt worthless, and about how others seemed to take pleasure in putting me down. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong!” I’d say to him. “They’re all worried about being popular and having their fun. Why am I so bad?”

He would sigh, and he would smile, and I knew that it didn’t come from dismissal or condescension. It came from genuine sympathy and understanding. “What makes your life good?” he would ask.

I would tell him all about my hopes and dreams, about wanting to make a difference, about being someone who mattered, about being that fellow who changes the world.

"Now do you want to be liked, and do you want to get drunk and high with those other kids? Because you won’t make a difference, at least not for anything good, if you go that way."

I would nod and agree, but the pain didn’t go away. I once assumed I had wasted my time by speaking to a priest. What did he know?

He knew quite a bit, of course. I came back to school on a Monday morning, wearing my tie, because wearing a tie apparently made me better. I opened my desk, and found a note from the priest:

You may not know it, and you may not accept it, but you are a child of God. You are special. Don’t lose hope. Find hope in the right things.

His own words were followed by the passage from Marcus Aurelius quoted above, beautifully written by hand, with deep care and attention. It seemed like calligraphy. He had clearly spent time in writing it, and it was now the time for me to spend time in understanding it.

Do you love being popular? Good for you. Your life now depends upon others.

Do you love being gratified? Good for you. Your life now depends upon the objects of your desires.

Do you love the merit of your own thoughts and actions?  Now that’s really what’s good for you. Now you have learned to be a human being, not a player or a tool.  

I still have that wonderful note. It sits on my bookshelf, right behind me, whenever I make my feeble attempts to think or to write. 

Written in 7/2007