I reasoned with myself, that the man who took it yielded to some plausible feeling. What do I conclude? Tomorrow, I say, you will find one of earthenware.
The truth is, a man loses only what he has.
“I have lost my cloak.” Yes, for you had one.
People, places, and things will constantly come and go, and when I have appreciated them for what they are, respecting them on their own terms, I can always think of them fondly, even long after they have passed.
But when I begin to think of them as “mine”, and I dwell upon my dominion over anything beyond my own mind and will, I inevitably get myself into trouble. Acceptance is replaced by resentment, and gratitude gives way to envy.
Most people I know will wrap themselves up in the prestige of their careers, the prominence of their friends, or the pomp of their property, such that the dignity of their lives is determined by the splendor of their situation. It does not occur to them how little this has to do with their own merits, and how much the whole affair is a reliance upon the whims of others. The mansion is built like a house of cards.
Someone has stolen my lamp? It was just a thing, and another will come along in due course. It won’t need to be fancy, it will just need to cast some light for the time it remains within my reach.
It is no different with cars, houses, and bank accounts. They might be helpful tools, but only as long as I do not grow attached to them. Recalling that they are briefly lent, I will not have to fret when they are taken away. I still retain myself, and so there is no need for outrage and despair.
I repeat to myself: “It wasn’t mine.”
Back in the second grade, I found a creepy-looking toy spider on our sidewalk, which I promptly brought to school with me to show off to my classmates. From this silly beginning grew an elaborate and winding tale, where friendships were strained, confidences were broken, and the offending piece of rubber was repeatedly snatched by stealth from desk drawers and bookbags. I could document the drama for pages and pages.
A whole group of us ended up in the principal’s office, because everyone wanted to be the proud “owner” of the little spider. It was eventually handed back to me, though I was hardly innocent in the matter, since I now strutted about like a peacock with my precious property, and all I had done to deserve it was to pick it up off the ground, where surely some other child had lost it, and was probably upset by its absence.
Many years later, I came across that pesky arachnid in an old box, and I found no joy in it at all, knowing how it represented the anger that accompanies greed. I threw it to my cat, who plays with it to this day, and has now bitten off most of the legs.
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