Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.12

When you rise from sleep with reluctance, remember that it is according to your constitution and according to human nature to perform social acts, but sleeping is common also to irrational animals. But that which is according to each individual's nature is also more peculiarly its own, and more suitable to its nature, and indeed also more agreeable.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 8 (tr Long)

I was raised with a certain no-nonsense Old World discipline, and so as a child it never really occurred to me that the evening wasn’t the time for going to sleep, and that the morning wasn’t the time for rising. If we didn’t like it, we were politely but firmly reminded to do as we were told. If we pushed the point, we were treated to stories about the hardships during the war, and how grateful we should be for what we had.

As I grew older, therefore, I was a bit surprised to see so many of my friends staying up for much of the night, and sleeping for much of the day. I also wondered why so many of them seemed so irritable and unsociable during the few daylight hours they were actually conscious, and then only became approachable with the aid of alcohol as the night went on.

And, for a time, having let myself be beaten by disappointment and resentment, I began doing much the same. I would get done whatever I had to do, but I would avoid being in the world, showing any sort of real caring, if I could manage to avoid it. Sleeping half the day seemed a way of numbing myself, of not even being conscious that I should be a human being, living and acting together with others. And the more I curled up and shut my eyes, the crankier I became.

It took reflection on who I was to start breaking out of that cycle. I knew that I was more than a plant, and more even than an animal, and that I was hardly living up to what I should be. Mere force of will, however, was never enough, and setting myself great goals was never enough either, because I was thinking only about the big picture, and neglecting all the details. So I would commit myself to humble and achievable tasks, all of them reminders of what it meant to be human. No one else might notice them, but I would.

I would be certain to make it to the local store in the morning to have a brief chat with a fellow who smoked a stinky cheap cigar. If I dawdled, I would miss him, and he’d berate me the next day. I would get to the library when it opened, and greet the nice lady who unlocked the door. When I taught my first class, I would be sure to be cheerful with my sleepy students, instead of glaring at them with annoyance.

None of it was earth-shattering, and none of it was terribly noble, but it got me up in the morning, because I knew that such small acts of being decent and sociable were the key to recovering a sense of involvement. It didn’t always work as I intended, but it set me on the right track.

Being awake, literally or figuratively, can sometimes feel uncomfortable, but at least there is always something I can do to be better, instead of doing nothing at all. 

Written in 2/2008