Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.2

You will set little value on pleasing song and dancing and the athletic games, if you will distribute the melody of the voice into its several sounds, and ask yourself as to each, if you are mastered by this.

 For you will be prevented by shame from confessing it, and in the matter of dancing, if at each movement and attitude you will do the same, and the like also in the matter of the athletic games.

In all things, then, except virtue and the acts of virtue, remember to apply yourself to their several parts, and by this division to come to value them little. And apply this rule also to your whole life.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 11.2 (tr Long)

I have no time limit on making myself look the fool, because as much as it may hurt, it always helps me to be humble. I am wary, however, of embarrassing others, but in this case I suspect that enough time has passed for anyone to notice.

My father was quite a follower of the medieval and renaissance music scene in Boston, and he was quite an accomplished musician himself. As a child, I always seemed to be around artsy people playing wonderful old instruments; to this day the sight and sound of a recorder, lute, or viola da gamba will send chills down my spine.

It was surely no accident that when I went to college, I was consumed by all things from that era. I would take class after class about Icelandic sagas, Anglo-Saxon literature, Arthurian Romances, and as much Chaucer and Dante as I could manage. Of course it would never get me a job, but it sure nurtured my soul.

One day, my father took me to a concert at Harvard by a small group that was performing medieval Provencal songs. Now you may find that quite boring, but I found it quite exciting. The only problem was that as soon as the music started, I was no longer listening to the music.

You see, there was this soprano who was singing with the group, and she looked to me like an angel who had fallen from heaven. I had been reading about medieval maidens for so long, wise, virtuous, and strong of temperament, and now there seemed to be one standing right before me.

As all good performers do, she would catch the eyes of the audience, but when she caught mine, those of an ungainly and geeky boy, I was sure I would die of longing. She was what I thought all of the romances described: tall, slender, pale, tumbling hair, fiery eyes, delicate lips. In the timeless words of Bambi, I was twitterpated.

I am now no longer afraid to admit that I made excuses to see this group many more times, and mainly to see her. I didn’t care that she was married to the fellow next to her playing the lute, and it obviously never occurred to me to act on any of it. She was completely out of my league, and it was all in my own head. Isn’t that, after all, what chivalric love is all about? The jewel you may never possess?

Time passes, and one thinks that the silly old longings of our innocent past just fade away. Sometimes they hilariously turn up again. I was personally introduced to her many years later, and though time had changed her, and had also changed me, I stood there like a love-struck puppy, unable to say a word. What an awkward moment.

She smiled, and laughed in a kindly way, probably quite aware of my terrible predicament; she was French after, all, and they understand such things.

“You have the thoughtful look of your father,” she said as she gently shook my hand. Dammit! Twitterpated again!

To this day, I use the whole experience as yet another way to help me make sense of my own foolishness, my own shallowness, and my own illusions. I am sure she was a wonderful woman, but my fantasy had nothing to do with her. It was an image of the whole that called to me, not the reality of the parts. I should never confuse a vague dream, a barrage of appealing images, with discerning things as they are in and of themselves.

Am I entranced by a song? Consider each voice, and each part, and each note, and then I am no longer so entranced.

Am I seduced by a dance? Observe each dancer, and each step, and each gesture, and then I am no longer so seduced.

Am I impressed by a show of strength? Watch each play, and each thrust, and each grab, and I am no longer so impressed.

Break it all down, and it doesn’t seem quite so big. See every piece, and it isn’t so intimidating. Look at all the parts, as common and base as they are, and it isn’t so overwhelming.

Remove all of these diversions, and I am left seeing only people much like myself, no more beautiful or ugly. Seeing only other people, all other trappings cast aside, I recognize that it is only virtue that makes them better, and vice that makes them worse. The confusing muddle of impressions must be refined, reduced from the vague to the precise.

Written in 4/2009