Seneca, Moral Letters 22.8

A man has caught the message of wisdom, if he can die as free from care as he was at birth; but as it is, we are all aflutter at the approach of the dreaded end. Our courage fails us, our cheeks blanch; our tears fall, though they are unavailing. But what is baser than to fret at the very threshold of peace?

 

The reason, however, is, that we are stripped of all our goods, we have jettisoned our cargo of life and are in distress; for no part of it has been packed in the hold; it has all been heaved overboard and has drifted away. 

 

Men do not care how nobly they live, but only how long, although it is within the reach of every man to live nobly, but within no man's power to live long. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 22

 

Having been born free, why would I wish to die as a slave? And yet that is precisely what will happen if I choose to procced with half measures. It won’t even take some wicked tyrant to push me around or to lock me up; I will have done it to myself, by settling for second best, by compromising what is greater for what is lesser. 

 

It does take courage to follow through, but not the sort of beastly bravado we regularly confuse with conviction. A gentle soul can be so strong in understanding and in love that, in one of those wonderful twists of life, he becomes immune to the bitterness and the hatred of the bully. Muscles are useful things to have, while virtue is an indispensable thing to have; true power is not where we might at first think it to be. 

 

Death will dispose of everything the ruffian holds dear, so of course he is terrified of his extinction; his apparent control over others must not only persist, it must always increase. In contrast, the decent man is happy to excel for himself, however brief the span, and content with his own thoughts and deeds, however quickly they might end. 

 

The urge to always want more is tamed by the serenity of embracing the moment. Nothing can be added to what is already complete at any given time. 

 

When I ask myself who I am, how much of my answer refers to conditions that have no bearing on my essence? A name? A place? A job? A salary? A title? Those to whom I pander? Those who pander to me? All secondary. 

 

The baggage perversely becomes more important than the bearer, and the outer appearance is mistaken for the inner reality. As Seneca says, when the ship goes down, I’ll need to leave the petty cargo behind, in order to save what is most precious. 

 

At a point in my life where the world around me seemed to be crashing down, I caught myself complaining that I had lost everything. Not at all—I retained the only thing that counted, and the quantity of the “stuff” wouldn’t change the quality of living, just as a longer life is not necessary for a better life. 

 

Let the base riches sink to the bottom of the sea; I can only float when there is no excess weight to drag me down. 

—Reflection written in 9/2012