Let
all your work, therefore, have some purpose, and keep some object in view.
These
restless people are not made restless by labor, but are driven out of their
minds by mistaken ideas, for even they do not put themselves in motion without
any hope: they are excited by the outward appearance of something, and their
crazy minds cannot see its futility.
An action
is quite literally pointless without direction; my values are completely meaningless
without a reverent sense of the whole.
The
chicken runs about, even as it has no head. I grasp for so many things, even as
I have no clue about whether they are good or bad for me.
I am sometimes
told that I should just follow my feelings in all of my decisions, and yet any or
every decision at all, by definition, must first follow from judgment, not from
the rule of any or every passion.
It isn’t
that the emotions are right or wrong in themselves; it is rather that the value
of those emotions only becomes clear through understanding.
It isn’t
work that is bringing me down; it is rather that the work is wasted on frivolous
things.
It isn’t
that I don’t have a goal; it is rather that I am enamored of deceptively incomplete
and false goals.
So when I
complain about how busy I am, or when I am intimidated by how busy other people
are, my thinking is rather off the mark. If I reflect back upon all the highs
and lows of my life, I will recognize that I will spare no effort for what I perceive
to be priceless, and I will waste no effort on what I perceive to be worthless.
Work isn’t
the problem at all, as much as I may gripe about it. My agony proceeds from
working for peanuts instead of principles. Where am I placing my priorities?
It looks
pretty, and so I want it. It feels appealing, and so I pursue it. I think that
pleasure, or fame, or money, will fulfill me, and I cry alone at home when they
do nothing for me. Has it occurred to me that most everyone else is crying too,
but happens to be better at putting on a pretty face?
Even the
most foolish people have an end in mind, a truth I can very easily confirm from
my own experience. They rush here and there, just as I have done, reaching for
shadows.
Labor is
a joy when it produces what is necessary for a happy life, and there is never
any regret in spending all of myself for what is right. Labor is a form of torture
when it is misdirected toward what is extraneous.
The more
I grumble, the more I despair, and the more I surrender, the more I should have
a hint that I am on the wrong path. Where is my nature within Nature?
Written in 12/2011
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