Imagine
every man who is grieved at anything or discontented to be like a pig that is
sacrificed and kicks and screams. . . .
—Marcus
Aurelius, Meditations, Book 10.28 (tr
Long)
I should hardly blame the pig for
squealing when he feels pain, for that is in his nature. I should rather blame
myself for squealing when I don’t get my way in the world, for that is contrary
to my nature.
Most everything I see and hear
around me will insist that happiness come from my situation, and that I should
therefore use my own power to control that situation. So I will roll around
contentedly when I am given what I want, and I will kick and scream when I am
not given what I want. I have unwittingly chosen to make myself a victim of
circumstance. I am confusing happiness with convenience.
How have I once again overlooked
that most basic insight, that happiness proceeds from what I do, not from what
is done to me? As always, it hinges on distinguishing where my power lies, in
ruling myself or in ruling events.
My dissatisfaction, my complaints,
and my stubborn demands to be treated in a certain way are like temper
tantrums. As with the pig, the child does not fully understand, but I have no
excuse for not understanding.
The tantrum never really changes how
something is going to happen; if anything, I am only making it more difficult
and painful for me. The tantrum also reveals an arrogance within myself, the
insistence on my own preference for other things, which in turn also reflects a
weakness within myself, a dependence upon those other things.
How ironic that I want to be the
master of my conditions, and that is precisely what makes me the slave to my
conditions!
I can manage to make quite a show
out of all my resentment, indignation, and protest. I even begin to think that
the louder and more passionately I scream, the more noble and worthy I have
become, and that the strength of my character is in the depth of my outrage.
Then I only have to think of the squealing pig, and the illusion is lifted.
Some find the squealing pig amusing,
but I will also find the image quite sad. What gets to me is not that he is
going to meet his fate, but that he somehow feels he can squirm his way out of
it.
But am I not actually describing
myself? It isn’t sad that things must happen, but it is sad that I cannot come
to freely accept that things must happen.
Written in 3/2009
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