Seneca, Moral Letters 9.8

 People may say: "But what sort of existence will the wise man have, if he be left friendless when thrown into prison, or when stranded in some foreign nation, or when delayed on a long voyage, or when cast upon a lonely shore?" 

 

His life will be like that of Jupiter, who, amid the dissolution of the world, when the gods are confounded together and Nature rests for a space from her work, can retire into himself and give himself over to his own thoughts. 

 

In some such way as this the sage will act; he will retreat into himself, and live with himself.

 

At first, this sounds like some completely abstract and hypothetical scenario. 

 

And then, quite suddenly, you might find yourself right in the middle of it. 

 

Though I can speak only for myself, my suspicion is that all of us, at some point, will be burdened with feeling completely alone and unloved. It is not just possible, or even likely, but darn close to inevitable. 

 

I call my version, with a bit of humorous affection, the Wilderness Years. Winston, you are not forgotten. I do sense another variation of it coming on lately, and so I steel myself with a deeper sense of inner meaning and purpose. 

 

Prison or exile take on many different forms. As I think back now, I realize that I spent most of my early life alone, occupied primarily with finding ways not to be alone, to the point that I still have a twisted nostalgia about being ignored. That kind of self-pity is deeply unhealthy. 

 

In my later life, I found a dearest companion, someone who loved me for my own sake. Did that somehow “fix” my problems? The romantic will drop his jaw in shock, but no, it in no way fixed any of my problems. Nothing from the outside fixes anything about the inside; a man can ultimately only fix himself. 

 

Did she help me? Of course she did, and I will always owe her an immeasurable debt of gratitude. What still troubles me is that I regularly failed to help her as much as I could, and that gets to the crux of what is necessary to help myself, by the very means of helping another. 

 

It conflicts with all of my selfish desires, and yet I become better, and thereby happier, when I give of my love without conditions. Perhaps, for however little I have to offer, I can do more of that, beginning today. 

 

I am not God, but I can still become more godlike. I am no Jupiter or Zeus, but I can still learn some lessons from them. What am I to do, at those moments where there is only me?

 

Be happy with me, since my happiness comes out of me. I am both my own best friend, and my own worst enemy. If I am not content with myself, I have been barking up the wrong tree. 

Written in 5/2012