Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.25

Nature, which governs the whole, will soon change all things that you see, and out of their substance will make other things, and again other things from the substance of them, in order that the world may be ever new.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

“Feed the fish.”

Few phrases have had as many meanings in my experience than this. Sometimes it just means exactly what it says. Some use it as an expression about getting so sick on a boat that you need to vomit over the side. Others use it as a clever way to talk about getting stoned.

Most often, I’ve heard it as a representation of death. That was used in some of the mob movies, and in the part of the country where I grew up. “You wanna feed the fish?” A common variation involved “sleeping with the fishes”. It was never a courteous invitation to sprinkle some flakes in a goldfish bowl. It was a threat. It was much like asking if you wanted to wear a pair of concrete boots.

Even then, I have heard that old Boston phrase, with that exact same morbid meaning, used in two completely different contexts.

A man I knew, only slightly more unstable than I was at the time, once slammed down his empty pint glass and confidently said, “Time for me to feed the fish!” I assumed he was using it in yet another way, taking a trip to the restroom. No, he walked out the front door of the pub, quite calmly, and made his way to the pier at the end of the block. We followed and stared, quite confused. Then he simply jumped into the water.

Another fellow, far braver than I, jumped in right after him, and dragged him back. He had intended to take his own life, right then and there. Years later, I sat with him one day, no booze or misery to be found between us, and he told me quite clearly that he had wanted to die that night.

He had used the phrase as an expression of complete despair.

A different man I knew, far better than I was at the time, was serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. He was old, and he was sick, and my boss and I had gone to see him in the prison hospital. I hardly knew the man closely, but I had always been impressed by his honesty and commitment. He would openly admit his mistakes, and he accepted that they had forever taken away the freedom of his body.

As we walked out the door that day, I simply waved at him, like the complete goofball that I am, not knowing what else to do. He smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and calmly said, “I’ll say hello to the fishes for you!” I knew exactly what he meant, and the intention was completely different than that of my friend at the bar.

He had used the phrase as an expression of complete acceptance and joy.

Sometimes we give up, because we can’t bear the way things are. Sometimes we stand strong, because we know that nothing happens in vain.

If I think only of myself alone, I may indeed despair. Why bother, if all I get is more of the hurt? If I think of myself with and through all other people and all other things, a vital piece within the whole, I may yet find acceptance and joy. Why be so miserable, if there is still something worthy to love, and something that gives purpose?

Will I pass away? Yes, I am doing so already as we speak, and so are you, whoever you may be. Yes, it will be the end of me in one sense, but the beginning of me in quite another sense. The new comes from the old. Everything is rebuilt. At the very least, someone has to feed the fish. That is hardly a meaningless thing to do.

Written in 11/2007