Musonius Rufus, Fragments 40

But most of all the work of Nature is this: to make desire and the impulse to act fit closely with the perception of that which is seemly and useful.

 

When things are inherently made to work together, they can’t do much of worth on their own. I have a nice antique Sasieni pipe bowl, but it is of little use to me missing its stem. I knew a fellow who continually brought a single cross-country ski with him every time he moved over the years, and it inevitably just sat in a series of closets. 

 

Or, as I once discovered much to my annoyance on a lonely back road, there is no way to ride a bicycle with one pedal broken off. 

 

When the human person is in a state of harmony and balance, the will and the intellect must be, as they say, “in sync” with one another. Within us is the innate wanting for something good, as well as the capacity to recognize what is good. In unison, there follows a life of meaning and purpose; in separation, there will be only conflict and frustration. 

 

I will be completely unable to do what is right if I don’t first know what is right, just as all the awareness of profound truths is wasted if it is not applied to my concrete choices. 

 

Few things can be more tragic than a heart that wants to love, but it isn’t on speaking terms with a mind that understands what it means to love. 

 

Imagine if I need a certain kind of mushroom to cure what ails me, and even though I come across dozens of different varieties as I wander through the forest, I don’t know what this particular one is supposed to look like. 

 

The old Thomist in me thinks of the will as an efficient cause, that “pushes” me forward, and the intellect as a final cause, that “pulls” me in the right direction. When they cooperate, I’m going somewhere, but when they are at odds, I’m just going in circles.