These things I used to repeat to
myself and I say them to you now. If you are wise, you will not consider that
exile is a thing to be dreaded, since others bear it easily, but that evil is to
be dreaded. It makes wretched every man in whom it is present.
And neither of the two necessary
alternatives is a just cause for repining. For either you were banished justly
or unjustly.
If justly, how can it be right or
fitting to feel aggrieved at just punishment?
If unjustly, the evil involved is
not ours, but falls upon those who banished us—if in fact you agree that doing
a wrong (as they have done) is the most hateful thing in the world, while
suffering a wrong (as has been our fate) in the eyes of the gods and of just
men is held a ground not for hate but for help.
What I
have come to call “making a Stoic turn” is a fundamental shift of priorities,
far more transformative than changing a career, or finding new friends, or
moving to a new town. It involves a complete rebuilding of the self, from the
bottom up, based upon living with Nature instead of following mere convention,
caring for what I do more than what is done to me, and defining myself by the
goods of the soul over the goods of the body.
I will
only understand what Musonius tells me if I look at my life from this
perspective. Others will surely find me ridiculous, but I will have found for
myself a source of unassailable happiness, confident that while anything around
me can change or be taken away, I will still possess power over my own
character.
Musonius
would remind himself that he should fear evil within his own soul far more than
any form of exile, and I hope I am in good company when I cling to this same
principle, each and every day.
Another rule
I keep ready to hand, one that has helped me more often than I can count, is to
directly confront my eagerness to complain. When I do not enjoy a situation, I
will feel frustration, and when I am angry, I am inclined to cast blame.
“If only
this had not happened, or if only that person had acted differently, my life
would be so much better!” Careful. If I am brutally honest with myself, I will
remember that I am the only one who determines how I choose to live, and so I
am the only one who is responsible for my happiness.
Keeping
this in mind, all the incrimination can pass away. Either it is something I
can fix for myself, so I should get down to it, or it is something I
can do nothing about, so my resentment affects only my own serenity.
Say that
I have been exiled or cast aside, and I am tempted to point the finger for my perceived
loss. There are really only two options for the situation I find myself in, and
neither one justifies anxiety or despair. I can’t help but smile at how
Stoicism always puts me in win-win situations, if only I take the time and
effort to understand myself correctly.
First, I
may have done wrong myself, in which case I should rightly pay a just retribution
for my errors, and take up the opportunity to redeem myself. If it is a punishment
for my sins, let me use exile as a means for undoing what I have done. A
penalty is only unbearable when I do not embrace my need to return what I owe.
Second, another
may have done wrong to me, in which case the weight does not rest upon me. I
can still find in my struggle the chance to become more just myself, even as
someone else may have treated me unjustly, and so I may transform his vice
into my own virtue. Who is truly hurt? I have lost my fortune, but he has lost
his character.
I admittedly
have obscure and eccentric interests when it comes to narratives, but I am
drawn to them not because they are unknown, but because I think they contain
wisdom that should be more widely known.
One of
these is the legend of Bladud, a prince in ancient Britain who was set to
inherit the crown from his father. He contracted leprosy, however, and was
exiled from the kingdom, reduced to becoming a swineherd in the wilderness,
separated from all he had previously known.
He
noticed that his pigs would roll about in the mud by some hot springs, and that
this seemed to cure any ailments they had. He bathed in the water himself, only
to find that that his leprosy had disappeared. Later, after assuming the throne,
he established the city of Bath on the site of the springs, in gratitude for
his healing, and for the health of his people.
Yes, it
has the happy ending, where the hero’s rights are in this case restored, but
what always struck me about the story is the way exile gave the young Bladud
not only the opportunity to heal his body, but also to improve his soul, to use
his experience to be of service to others.
If Bladud
could become a better man by spending some time with pigs in the mud, so can
any one of us. Blessings and curses are not in events themselves, but in our
estimation of events.
Written in 12/2016
IMAGE:Benjamin West, Bladud in Exile (1807)
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