Letter 1: On saving time
Greetings from Seneca to his friend Lucilius.
Continue to act thus, my dear Lucilius—set yourself free for your own sake; gather and save your time, which till lately has been forced from you, or filched away, or has merely slipped from your hands.
Make yourself believe the truth of my words—that certain moments are torn from us, that some are gently removed, and that others glide beyond our reach. The most disgraceful kind of loss, however, is that due to carelessness.
Furthermore, if you will pay close heed to the problem, you will find that the largest portion of our life passes while we are doing ill, a goodly share while we are doing nothing, and the whole while we are doing that which is not to the purpose.
What man can you show me who places any value on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is dying daily? For we are mistaken when we look forward to death; the major portion of death has already passed. Whatever years lie behind us are in death's hands.
We have so many clever and pithy sayings about time, how it is like a river, how it heals all wounds, how it waits for no man, that I am always wary of trying to speak about it. For some reason I have a distinct childhood memory of my grandmother watching a soap opera that opened with a melodramatic phrase: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” I desperately wish to avoid sounding like that.
I also find myself quite frustrated when people smugly remind me not to waste my time, not because time isn’t precious, but because of what they want me to be doing with it. “Time is money!” they say, and I can think of no greater waste of the moments I have left to me than acquiring more shiny trinkets.
We may understand that our time is limited, that it is gone before we know it, and that we shouldn’t squander what little is given to us, but such insights will be useless without a more fundamental sense of human purpose. How should I be spending my time? If I think that living well is found in fortune instead of merit, gratification instead of love, consumption instead of virtue, then I have indeed truly wasted my time.
I have no real say in how much time is ultimately given to me, and quite often circumstances will snatch away what little is available, a minute here, an hour there, and suddenly it seems like years and years have been lost. Fortune has a sneaky way of doing that, and the only real response can be patience and acceptance.
Yet what I can control is what I will do with the time that remains my own, and I’m afraid I can only cringe at how much of my life I have thrown away for the sake of vanities. I can’t blame other people, and I can’t curse fate, because all of that foolish busywork, that obsession with diversions, came straight from my own judgments.
The grappling for attention. The chasing after empty pleasures. The rush to hoard more and more gold. Racing about, always occupied with tasks that only circle back on themselves. Appearing impressive and posing for the camera. Bickering and squabbling with both my friends and my enemies, no longer capable of distinguishing between them. Filling the emptiness in my heart and mind with clutter.
If I am honest with myself, I will notice that, on any given day, almost all of my efforts were directed at completely pointless exercises. There was one thing, and one thing only, I should have made my priority: the exercise of my character. I am most fully human when I can be thoughtful and caring, so that should be the primary occupation of my day. As they say, “You had just one job!”
Greetings from Seneca to his friend Lucilius.
Continue to act thus, my dear Lucilius—set yourself free for your own sake; gather and save your time, which till lately has been forced from you, or filched away, or has merely slipped from your hands.
Make yourself believe the truth of my words—that certain moments are torn from us, that some are gently removed, and that others glide beyond our reach. The most disgraceful kind of loss, however, is that due to carelessness.
Furthermore, if you will pay close heed to the problem, you will find that the largest portion of our life passes while we are doing ill, a goodly share while we are doing nothing, and the whole while we are doing that which is not to the purpose.
What man can you show me who places any value on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is dying daily? For we are mistaken when we look forward to death; the major portion of death has already passed. Whatever years lie behind us are in death's hands.
We have so many clever and pithy sayings about time, how it is like a river, how it heals all wounds, how it waits for no man, that I am always wary of trying to speak about it. For some reason I have a distinct childhood memory of my grandmother watching a soap opera that opened with a melodramatic phrase: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” I desperately wish to avoid sounding like that.
I also find myself quite frustrated when people smugly remind me not to waste my time, not because time isn’t precious, but because of what they want me to be doing with it. “Time is money!” they say, and I can think of no greater waste of the moments I have left to me than acquiring more shiny trinkets.
We may understand that our time is limited, that it is gone before we know it, and that we shouldn’t squander what little is given to us, but such insights will be useless without a more fundamental sense of human purpose. How should I be spending my time? If I think that living well is found in fortune instead of merit, gratification instead of love, consumption instead of virtue, then I have indeed truly wasted my time.
I have no real say in how much time is ultimately given to me, and quite often circumstances will snatch away what little is available, a minute here, an hour there, and suddenly it seems like years and years have been lost. Fortune has a sneaky way of doing that, and the only real response can be patience and acceptance.
Yet what I can control is what I will do with the time that remains my own, and I’m afraid I can only cringe at how much of my life I have thrown away for the sake of vanities. I can’t blame other people, and I can’t curse fate, because all of that foolish busywork, that obsession with diversions, came straight from my own judgments.
The grappling for attention. The chasing after empty pleasures. The rush to hoard more and more gold. Racing about, always occupied with tasks that only circle back on themselves. Appearing impressive and posing for the camera. Bickering and squabbling with both my friends and my enemies, no longer capable of distinguishing between them. Filling the emptiness in my heart and mind with clutter.
If I am honest with myself, I will notice that, on any given day, almost all of my efforts were directed at completely pointless exercises. There was one thing, and one thing only, I should have made my priority: the exercise of my character. I am most fully human when I can be thoughtful and caring, so that should be the primary occupation of my day. As they say, “You had just one job!”
A fundamental change in my soul will be necessary to appreciate the value of time, to find joy in any moment, to see others as an opportunity to practice love, not as a means to win me any profit. Dying somewhere down the line isn’t the problem; throwing away the gift I have right now is the problem.
Written in 5/2000
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