Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.26

Lucilla saw Verus die, and then Lucilla died. Secunda saw Maximus die, and then Secunda died. Epitynchanus saw Diotimus die, and then Epitynchanus died. Antoninus saw Faustina die, and then Antoninus died.

Such is everything. Celer saw Hadrianus die, and then Celer died. And those sharp-witted men, either seers or men inflated with pride, where are they—for instance the sharp-witted men, Charax and Demetrius the Platonist, and Eudaemon, and any one else like them?

All ephemeral, dead long ago. Some indeed have not been remembered even for a short time, and others have become the heroes of fables, and again others have disappeared even from fables.

Remember this, then, that this little compound, yourself, must either be dissolved, or your poor breath must be extinguished, or be removed and placed elsewhere.

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

I hardly have a decent memory for names and dates, but as a lover of history, and having taught it for a good many years, I usually tend to remember who the players are. And what better players are there, than the ones who populated the soap opera that is Roman history?

So I was a little embarrassed when I first read this passage, because I couldn’t immediately identify all the names that Marcus Aurelius lists. Verus surely refers to Marcus’ co-emperor, Lucius Verus, and Lucilla was Lucius’ wife. I assumed Maximus is Claudius Maximus, one of Marcus’ teachers, but there is apparently some debate about that, and it could apparently refer to a completely different fellow.

I was clueless about Diotimus and Epitynchanus, and while I’m sure Antoninus is Antoninus Pius, Marcus’ father, is the Hadrianus here referring to the former emperor, and is Celer a consul from that period?  Who are Charax, Demetrius, or Eudaemon? I felt like I was asleep for an important class, or skipped over some crucial texts.

But maybe that’s the whole point. Even for a history geek, names come and go, fame rises and falls, and what was once remembered is so quickly forgotten. Ask average Americans how far back they can go naming presidents, and you may be surprised that most can’t even give a list for their own lifetimes.

The last time I was on my old college campus, where I studied and taught for well over a decade, I was deeply saddened, not only because it made me think about painful things from my own past I didn’t want to think about, but also because I saw how quickly everything passes away. You think it will all last forever, but then it’s gone before you blink, and you see a new crowd suffering under the same illusions.

Even my favorite teachers and colleagues who had still stuck around, who had once been as young and vibrant as I had once been, were now slowing down, and were approaching retirement.

I tried to track down an old librarian who had always been so kind to me, and who had worked there for almost her entire adult life, yet no one at the library even recognized her name. I could walk into the cafeteria, or an old classroom, and no one knew me, or greeted me, or paid me any attention whatsoever.

And I find it takes a certain degree of wisdom and fortitude to not only accept this, but to freely embrace it.

I suggest that this is because we are inclined to cling to all the wrong things, and to neglect all the right ones. A broad and healthy perspective on life should reveal that all the coming and going is just the backdrop for something much more important.

What has happened is now gone, and what will happen is completely unknown, but what can be done here and now, in the most humble yet committed way, is where to find happiness and joy.

I think I should worry less about what will come, or dwell on what has already come, and make right what I can make right immediately, with all due haste and urgency.

To whom must I say, “I am sorry?"

To whom must I say, “Thank you?”

To whom must I say, “I love you?"

What should I be doing to practice justice and kindness, before the chance is gone? That can be a good measure of life. I can’t take it with me. 

Written in 12/2015

IMAGE: Antoninus Pius