. . . “And do you think that this
should be reckoned among the least benefits of this rough, unkind, and terrible
ill fortune, that she has discovered to you the minds of your faithful friends?
“Fortune
has distinguished for you your sure and your doubtful friends; her departure
has taken away her friends and left you yours. At what price could you have
bought this benefit if you had been untouched and, as you thought, fortunate?
“Cease
then to seek the wealth you have lost. You have found your friends, and they
are the most precious of all riches.”
—from
Book 2, Prose 8
Offering
an example of how misfortune can actually help us to become better, Lady
Philosophy asks Boethius to consider how desperate circumstances can encourage
understanding of the true nature of friendship. Few things seem dearer to us,
and also more painful to us, than our relationships with the people we would
like to consider our friends.
This
passage resonates with me quite deeply. I was never really a fellow who wanted
to be in the spotlight, loved by the many, but I always felt a need to find just
a few people I could love and trust. I made many mistakes in this regard.
In
school, people would often say they were your friends when it was socially
convenient. At work, people would often say they were your friends when it was
professionally convenient. On the most personal level, people would often say they
were your friends when it was emotionally convenient.
And I
would fall for it, time and time again. I followed all the wrong sorts of
people, and so I made myself the wrong sort of person. I was impressed by
charm, or influence, or simply if someone made me feel good. And then I
wondered why it all ended up hurting so much.
I would
reach out to others, and then I suddenly found myself burned. I once quite
foolishly even committed all of myself to someone, not quite knowing what I was
getting into, but thinking that if I made that great leap, only good would
follow. It didn’t. I ended up alone.
I would
then impulsively blame others, and I would lash out about how unfair it all
was. Yet the blame for my agony was never with others, whatever wrong they may
or may not have done for themselves. The blame for my agony came from me.
It took
quite a bit of time, and quite a bit more struggling with myself, but I
eventually saw that I misunderstood the nature of love, at all levels, and to
all degrees. I expected to be given comfort, confidence, and support. It is
quite wonderful to receive this, but that, I realized, is not what it means to
be a friend. To be a friend is to provide
comfort, confidence, and support. I had it backwards.
Now it
is entirely possible that I might have learned this in any number of ways, but
I found it telling that I happened to learn it not by experiencing healthy
forms of friendship, but by experiencing sick forms of friendship. It was
actually the absence of what was good that pointed me to the presence of what
was good. Being disposed of by others helped me to respect others, and being
deceived by others helped me to be honest with others.
As
painful as it may be, worldly disappointments in life can sometimes teach us
far more than our worldly successes in life. I imagine what could have become
of me if I had not eventually seen how I was so easily cast aside. I might well
have continued under the illusion that crooked people thought I mattered. If I
had continued being useful, and therefore being comfortably numb, I might never
have learned.
Misfortune
will tell you exactly who your real friends are, and, more importantly, it will
also tell you exactly who you are.
Written in 9/2015
IMAGE: Pablo Picasso, Friendship (1908)
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