To others who were in poor health
as the result of overindulgence and high living, exile has been a source of
strength because they were forced to live a more manly life.
We even know of some who were
cured of chronic ailments in exile, as for instance, in our day Spartiacus, the
Lacedaemonian, who suffered long from a weak chest and for this reason was
often ill from high living, but when he stopped living a life of luxury, he
ceased to be ill.
They say that others addicted to
high living have got rid of gout, although they were previously completely
bed-ridden by the disease—people whom exile compelled to become accustomed to living
more simply and by this very thing were brought back to health.
Thus it appears that by treating
them better than they treat themselves, exile helps rather than hinders health
both of body and of spirit.
The Stoic will never claim that the health of the
body is an end in itself, though when guided by virtue it may certainly be a
means for happiness, and it can be a mark of character when it proceeds from
the health of the soul.
Sometimes a change of surroundings, so jarring in other
ways, can breathe new life into tired and worn flesh and bones, not just
because the air might be crisper or the sun brighter, but because right
thinking will encourage right living.
Removed from the ritual of bad habits, torn away
from all the old temptations, and given an opportunity to build new routines,
the heart and mind have a chance to reset themselves. It can be quite amazing
how deeply the body can heal along with the soul.
I would regularly scoff at all that advice about
health flowing from the inside out, or what the self-help gurus call the power
of positive thinking, until I saw it at work within myself.
Clinging in my mind to certain places and certain
faces, I would focus only on the dark and painful aspects of my world. I was shutting
down my capacity to judge soundly or to love joyfully, and my physical health
would shut down right along with it.
Now people might scold you about eating poorly, or drinking
to excess, or laying around in bed all day, but they sometimes forget that such
behavior reflects a sickness in the soul. It will only change for good with a
radical change in attitude, by building up a new sense of meaning and value.
Hiding my bottle of whiskey won’t make me sober,
but it just might wake me up long enough to make me rethink the trouble of
finding it again.
So too, a break from all the ordinary things may well
reveal something quite extraordinary, something I had never really considered
before. The place doesn’t make the man, of course, though the man can certainly
make use of a new place to make something new of himself.
Like the examples Musonius offers, the challenge to
live in a new situation might just wipe the slate clean, allowing the
seemingly impossible to suddenly become possible.
The need for hard work might awaken a spark of
fortitude in me, a willingness to make an effort to get something done in the
face of all my worries. It might then also toughen up my atrophied muscles, or make
my lungs breathe freely again, or finally give some color to that pasty skin.
Give me the urgency of making my way, and my new
priorities might awaken a bit of prudence in me, a commitment to the simple
over the complex. It might then also clear away all the poisons I have been
consuming, put a sparkle back in my eyes, and rid me of the crippling distractions
that have made my head pound.
Remove the convenience of luxuries, and it might awaken
a sense of temperance in me, a willingness to master my gluttony and laziness. It
might then also free me from that quite unnecessary paunch, the constant
exhaustion, and those nagging aches and pains.
It will do me good, for both soul and body, if only
I take it as a friendly push forward, not as a slap in the face.
Written in 12/2016
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