Reflections

Primary Sources

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 2.6


There are other special forms of this disease without number, but it has but one effect, that of making people dissatisfied with themselves. This arises from a distemperature of mind and from desires that one is afraid to express or unable to fulfill, when men either dare not attempt as much as they wish to do, or fail in their efforts and depend entirely upon hope.

Such people are always fickle and changeable, which is a necessary consequence of living in a state of suspense. They take any way to arrive at their ends, and teach and force themselves to use both dishonorable and difficult means to do so, so that when their toil has been in vain they are made wretched by the disgrace of failure, and do not regret having longed for what was wrong, but having longed for it in vain.

They then begin to feel sorry for what they have done, and afraid to begin again, and their mind falls by degrees into a state of endless vacillation, because they can neither command nor obey their passions, of hesitation, because their life cannot properly develop itself, and of decay, as the mind becomes stupefied by disappointments.

I have heard all sorts of philosophers, psychologists, priests, mystics, politicians, self-help gurus, and talk-show hosts telling us what it is that makes us so uneasy in this life. Still, I return to this brief account, time and time again, because it cuts through all the clutter, and it describes so accurately the anxiety that can eat away at us all.

I imagine there isn’t a single person on the face of this earth who has not, at some time and in some way, faced this sort of disappointment and restlessness. It may be more or less severe, and we may be better or worse at hiding it, but it always lurks under the surface. We become unhappy with ourselves, and unhappy with the world, by not quite knowing what we should want, or how to go about getting it.

We question ourselves, are dragged down by our doubts, and feel as if our efforts always fall short. What else could be left, if we have no idea where to turn? Is there some magic elixir, to be found just around the corner, which will take away all the uncertainty?

For lack of better term, I call it being fidgety inside. I grew up in a house that had a yard full of squirrels, regularly causing mischief by digging their little holes in my mother’s plantings. They were fascinating to watch, however, because they seemed the most nervous of creatures. They would dart about from one place to another, with no discernible pattern, and were spooked by the slightest motion or sound. They charged in one direction, stopped for a moment to look shocked and surprised, and then ran back the way they came. If the wind blew a certain way, their tails would twitch, and they started barking.

Have you felt that way about your own life on any given day, more often than you are willing to admit? Yes, I thought so.

When I find myself discouraged about my very purpose for living, I will behave very much like one of those squirrels. I will go this way and then that way, become distracted by bumps and shadows, and try absolutely anything to just make it through the day. Clueless about what will get the job done, I will follow any path at all, only to be frustrated when it leads me nowhere.

I choose all the wrong means to get me to where I think I need to go, and then I am disappointed when they don’t work out. I don’t feel bad, however, because I decided on the wrong things to begin with, but only because I didn’t get them the way I wanted them.

“Wait, lying, and stealing, and backbiting, and wallowing in indulgence haven’t made me happy? Maybe if I tried them in a different order?” Good grief!

Not even being sure of who I am, I surrender myself to my flighty desires and changing circumstances, afraid to admit this to myself, and afraid someone else might notice that I have no idea what I’m doing. A man wasn’t made to run a rat race, or be trapped on a hamster wheel, or live like a fidgety squirrel. 

Written in 5/2011 

No comments:

Post a Comment