Sayings of Publilius Syrus 61

Conquest over one's self, in the hour of victory, is a double triumph. 

Wisdom from the Bhagavad Gita 47

Arjuna said:

Prakriti (Nature/Matter) and Purusha (Spirit), also the Kshetra (Field of the Body) and the knower of the Kshetra, knowledge, and that which ought to be known—these, O Keshava, I desire to learn. 

The Blessed Lord said:

1. This body, O son of Kunti, is called Kshetra, and he who knows it is called Kshetrajna by those who know of them, Kshetra and Kshetrajna. 

2. Me do you also know, O descendant of Bharata, to be Kshetrajna in all Kshetras. The knowledge of Kshetra and Kshetrajna is considered by Me to be the knowledge. 

3. What the Kshetra is, what its properties are, what are its modifications, what effects arise from what causes, and also who He is and what His powers are, that hear from Me in brief. 

4. This truth has been sung by Rishis in many ways, in various distinctive chants, in passages indicative of Brahman, full of reasoning, and convincing. 

5-6. The great Elements, Egoism, Intellect, as also the Unmanifested (Mulâ Prakriti), the ten senses and the one mind, and the five objects of the senses; desire, hatred, pleasure, pain, the, aggregate, intelligence, fortitude—the Kshetra has been thus briefly described with its modifications. 

7. Humility, unpretentiousness, non-injury, forbearance, uprightness, service to the teacher, purity, steadiness, self-control; 

8. The renunciation of sense-objects, and also absence of egoism; reflection on the evils of birth, death, old age, sickness and pain; 

9. Non-attachment, non-identification of self with son, wife, home, and the rest, and constant even-mindedness in the occurrence of the desirable and the un-undesirable; 

10. Unswerving devotion to Me by the Yoga of non-separation, resort to sequestered places, distaste for the society of men; 

11. Constant application to spiritual knowledge, understanding of the end of true knowledge: this is declared to be knowledge, and what is opposed to it is ignorance.

—Bhagavad Gita, 13:1-11 

Seneca, Moral Letters 26.2

"But," you say, "it is the greatest possible disadvantage to be worn out and to die off, or rather, if I may speak literally, to melt away! For we are not suddenly smitten and laid low; we are worn away, and every day reduces our powers to a certain extent."

 

But is there any better end to it all than to glide off to one's proper haven, when Nature slips the cable? Not that there is anything painful in a shock and a sudden departure from existence; it is merely because this other way of departure is easy—a gradual withdrawal. 

 

I, at any rate, as if the test were at hand and the day were come which is to pronounce its decision concerning all the years of my life, watch over myself and commune thus with myself:

 

"The showing which we have made up to the present time, in word or deed, counts for nothing. All this is but a trifling and deceitful pledge of our spirit, and is wrapped in much charlatanism. I shall leave it to Death to determine what progress I have made. 

 

“Therefore with no faint heart I am making ready for the day when, putting aside all stage artifice and actor's rouge, I am to pass judgment upon myself—whether I am merely declaiming brave sentiments, or whether I really feel them; whether all the bold threats I have uttered against fortune are a pretense and a farce.

 

“Put aside the opinion of the world; it is always wavering and always takes both sides. Put aside the studies which you have pursued throughout your life; Death will deliver the final judgment in your case. 

 

“This is what I mean: your debates and learned talks, your maxims gathered from the teachings of the wise, your cultured conversation—all these afford no proof of the real strength of your soul. Even the most timid man can deliver a bold speech. What you have done in the past will be manifest only at the time when you draw your last breath. I accept the terms; I do not shrink from the decision."

 

This is what I say to myself, but I would have you think that I have said it to you also. You are younger; but what does that matter? There is no fixed count of our years. You do not know where death awaits you; so be ready for it everywhere. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 26 

 

Dying may seem to be a terrible thing, yet it will only feel like a threat if I have neglected to use my time well. Dying slowly but surely may seem even worse, yet it will only trouble me if I fail to accept how there can be no comings without goings, and why Nature may well be doing us a favor by allowing us a chance to move on gradually. 

 

Where a boundary has been set, I could demand for it to be extended, or I could be inspired to make the most of what I have been given. For me, it has always highlighted the difference between being selfish and lazy or being grateful and resolute. 

 

It isn’t really within my power to determine the moment or the means of my end, though it is completely within my power to prepare myself for its coming. Indeed, that very act of preparation can become a fine opportunity for an increase of character, as a rising up to meet a challenge. 

 

While many would consider the waning years as a curse, Seneca chooses to take them as a blessing. Where a man makes the effort to observe what is coming his way, he can then learn how to strengthen himself. Where he closes his eyes to the inevitable, he stumbles around without a purpose. 

 

That powerful Latin phrase, Memento mori, “Remember that you must die”, can here present a calling to life, not a renunciation of it. In the last few years, I’ve seen the hipsters brandishing those words on their jewelry and tattoos, and I can only hope they are not abusing the expression for the sake of cynical derision, or as an excuse to sell an edgy image. 

 

Seneca reflects on how the prospect of death permits him to put his entire life into perspective, where the things that appeared so important are now revealed as being insignificant, and the things that were overlooked as incidental have now become essential. The fleeting gratifications, the groveling after wealth, and the obsession with winning the approval of others give way to a brutally honest estimation of the dignity within the soul. 

 

If I add up all the time I have devoted to jumping through hoops and putting on airs, I rightly feel ashamed. If I examine how often I have manipulated a certain impression, and how little I have attended to the substance, I am suddenly eager to make it right, before it is too late. 

 

To be sure that it will end, now makes it critical for me to get my house in order. Let me resist the illusion that I can put off becoming a decent man until later, since all I am certain of is this occasion here and now. 

 

When I foolishly assume that wisdom and virtue are only an old man’s occupation, I have forgotten how death always stands over my shoulder, and so I have delayed my happiness for far too long. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Laszlo Mednyanszky, Old Man's Death (1890) 

The Trees Have Eyes

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 7

And one day when Plato had invited to his house friends coming from Dionysius, Diogenes trampled upon his carpets and said, "I trample upon Plato's vainglory." 

Plato's reply was, "How much pride you expose to view, Diogenes, by seeming not to be proud." 

Others tell us that what Diogenes said was, "I trample upon the pride of Plato," who retorted, "Yes, Diogenes, with pride of another sort."

Sotion, however, in his fourth book makes the Cynic address this remark to Plato himself. 

Diogenes once asked him for wine, and after that also for some dried figs; and Plato sent him a whole jar full. 

Then the other said, "If someone asks you how many two and two are, will you answer, twenty? So, it seems, you neither give as you are asked nor answer as you are questioned." 

Thus he scoffed at him as one who talked without end. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.26 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 47

And there are other shades of difference in propositions and grades of transition from true to false—and conversions of their terms—which we now go on to describe broadly. 

An argument, according to the followers of Crinis, consists of a major premise, a minor premise, and a conclusion, such as for example this: 

"If it is day, it is light; but it is day, therefore it is light." 

Here the sentence "If it is day, it is light" is the major premise, the clause "it is day" is the minor premise, and "therefore it is light" is the conclusion. 

A mood is a sort of outline of an argument, like the following: 

"If the first, then the second; but the first is, therefore the second is." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.76 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 157

Common men talk bagfuls of religion, but act not a grain of it, while the wise man speaks little, but his whole life is a religion acted out. 

Fractals 27

Seneca, Moral Letters 26.1

Letter 26: On old age and death 

 

I was just lately telling you that I was within sight of old age. I am now afraid that I have left old age behind me. For some other word would now apply to my years, or at any rate to my body; since old age means a time of life that is weary rather than crushed. You may rate me in the worn-out class—of those who are nearing the end.

 

Nevertheless, I offer thanks to myself, with you as witness; for I feel that age has done no damage to my mind, though I feel its effects on my constitution. Only my vices, and the outward aids to these vices, have reached senility; my mind is strong and rejoices that it has but slight connection with the body. It has laid aside the greater part of its load. It is alert; it takes issue with me on the subject of old age; it declares that old age is its time of bloom.

 

Let me take it at its word, and let it make the most of the advantages it possesses. The mind bids me do some thinking and consider how much of this peace of spirit and moderation of character I owe to wisdom and how much to my time of life; it bids me distinguish carefully what I cannot do and what I do not want to do. . . . For why should one complain or regard it as a disadvantage, if powers which ought to come to an end have failed? 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 26 

 

Though my students certainly don’t think so, I am still fairly young, and any understanding I might gain about old age will have to come from carefully observing my elders, or from finding something in their experience that mirrors my own. 

 

Whether young or old, however, all of us must learn to be at peace with our mortality, for a life crippled by a fear of the end can never really have a beginning. 

 

I have long had people tell me I am an “old soul”, and I must admit I didn’t exactly know what the term meant, so I took it as some sort of insult. It isn’t necessarily a compliment either, of course, since carrying around more awareness than is normal for your years can be both a blessing and a curse. Nevertheless, there can be a great benefit to facing the “big questions” about life as early as possible. 

 

There is something bittersweet about any passing, and there is something especially transformative about acknowledging that there is a proper limit to our time, and in accepting why Nature rightly imposed this rule, not as a restriction, but as a liberation. If the part has been played well, there need be no sadness when the curtain falls.

 

There are those times when you know it is wrapping up, that it won’t come back, and there can be complete joy in such a perception. I imagine this is how Seneca must be feeling as his body winds down, and his mind enters into a new stage of consciousness. 

 

I especially appreciate it when Seneca indicates how a bodily weakness can actually be an aid in overcoming vice. When I am horribly sick, the thought of my usual weaknesses, such as the urge to drink or to smoke, have no appeal to me at all. In my best Martha Stewart, “It’s a good thing.” 

 

I likewise notice the remarkable way the mind can become sharper and more focused in the presence of physical hardships. My own thoughts were never as clear as when I lay in bed with a severe case of food poisoning; I could barely lift my arm, and yet I discovered a lucidity of reflection I still miss to this day. 

 

Is that, perhaps, what it might feel like to be so worn out, as Seneca describes? I suppose I will soon find out. 

 

The Stoic may seem morbid to someone looking in from the outside, but from the inside the embrace of impermanence is a celebration, not an act of despair. Nothing has ever made me wake up to reality as much as being reminded that I am not indestructible. 

 

Where I am limited in what this bag of flesh and bones can accomplish, I find an opportunity for a reassessment of my values. Where Nature takes one thing away, she offers another chance for moral growth. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Anthony Van Dyck, Study of an Old Man with a White Beard (c. 1620)

The Finding of the Laocoon

Hubert Robert, The Finding of the Laocoon (1773)

 

The Old Temple

Hubert Robert, The Old Temple (1788)

The Colosseum in Rome

Hubert Robert, The Colosseum in Rome (c. 1780)

Stoic Snippets 145

The perfection of moral character consists in this, in passing every day as the last, and in being neither violently excited, nor torpid, nor playing the hypocrite. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.69 

IMAGE: The last ever Calvin and Hobbes comic strip, 12/31/1995

Michael Leunig 35

 

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 9

But, the accuser answers, the two men who wrought the greatest evils to the state at any time—to wit, Critias and Alcibiades—were both companions of Socrates—Critias the oligarch, and Alcibiades the democrat. 

Where would you find a more arrant thief, savage, and murderer than the one? Where such a portent of insolence, incontinence, and high-handedness as the other? 

For my part, in so far as these two wrought evil to the state, I have no desire to appear as the apologist of either. I confine myself to explaining what this intimacy of theirs with Socrates really was. 

Never were two more ambitious citizens seen at Athens. Ambition was in their blood. If they were to have their will, all power was to be in their hands; their fame was to eclipse all other. 

Of Socrates they knew—first that he lived an absolutely independent life on the scantiest means; next that he was self-disciplined to the last degree in respect of pleasures; lastly that he was so formidable in debate that there was no antagonist he could not twist round his little finger. 

Such being their views, and such the character of the pair, which is the more probable: that they sought the society of Socrates because they felt the fascination of his life, and were attracted by the bearing of the man? Or because they thought, if only we are leagued with him we shall become adepts in statecraft and unrivaled in the arts of speech and action? 

For my part I believe that if the choice from Heaven had been given them to live such a life as they saw Socrates living to its close, or to die, they would both have chosen death. 

Their acts are a conclusive witness to their characters. They no sooner felt themselves to be the masters of those they came in contact with than they sprang aside from Socrates and plunged into that whirl of politics but for which they might never have sought his society. 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.2 

IMAGE: Francois-Andre Vincent, Alcibiades Being Taught by Socrates (1776)

Dhammapada 210, 211

Let no man ever look for what is pleasant, or what is unpleasant. Not to see what is pleasant is pain, and it is pain to see what is unpleasant. 

Let, therefore, no man love anything; loss of the beloved is evil. Those who love nothing and hate nothing, have no fetters. 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.45

M. But what occasion is there to animadvert on the opinions of individuals, when we may observe whole nations to fall into all sorts of errors? 

 

The Egyptians embalm their dead, and keep them in their houses; the Persians dress them over with wax, and then bury them, that they may preserve their bodies as long as possible. It is customary with the Magi to bury none of their order, unless they have been first torn by wild beasts. In Hyrcania, the people maintain dogs for the public use; the nobles have their own—and we know that they have a good breed of dogs; but everyone, according to his ability, provides himself with some, in order to be torn by them; and they hold that to be the best kind of interment. 

 

Chrysippus, who is curious in all kinds of historical facts, has collected many other things of this kind; but some of them are so offensive as not to admit of being related. 

 

All that has been said of burying is not worth our regard with respect to ourselves, though it is not to be neglected as to our friends, provided we are thoroughly aware that the dead are insensible. 

 

But the living, indeed, should consider what is due to custom and opinion; only they should at the same time consider that the dead are in no way interested in it. But death truly is then met with the greatest tranquility when the dying man can comfort himself with his own praise. 

 

No one dies too soon who has finished the course of perfect virtue. I myself have known many occasions when I have seemed in danger of immediate death; oh! how I wish it had come to me! For I have gained nothing by the delay. I had gone over and over again the duties of life; nothing remained but to contend with fortune. 

 

If reason, then, cannot sufficiently fortify us to enable us to feel a contempt for death, at all events let our past life prove that we have lived long enough, and even longer than was necessary; for notwithstanding the deprivation of sense, the dead are not without that good which peculiarly belongs to them, namely, the praise and glory which they have acquired, even though they are not sensible of it. 

 

For although there be nothing in glory to make it desirable, yet it follows virtue as its shadow; and the genuine judgment of the multitude on good men, if ever they form any, is more to their own praise than of any real advantage to the dead. 

 

Yet I cannot say, however it may be received, that Lycurgus and Solon have no glory from their laws, and from the political constitution which they established in their country; or that Themistocles and Epaminondas have not glory from their martial virtue. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.45

 

I was fortunate to grow up near a museum with a fine collection of Egyptian antiquities, and yet during my many visits I struggled to grasp why the preservation of the body was so important to their society. Why, I wondered, would they continue to attribute such significance to what was surely just a corpse? 

 

Later, I learned about the Asian practice of sky burials, and I was quite shocked by the idea that the body was left deliberately exposed, to be consumed by the elements and wild animals. Why, I wondered, would they have such little respect for the remains of their loved ones? 

 

The source of my confusion was not in the practices of these cultures, which were simply stressing different aspects of the human condition, but rather in my own uncertainty about where I should find the dignity of this life. 

 

However a body ended up, whether it was treated with the most delicate care or left outdoors to decay, I was focusing too much on the fate of the flesh and bones. Now what was I going to do with the time that comes before death? 

 

Celebrate a life by mummifying the remains, or point to its transience by casting them aside, but first and foremost embrace the virtues while the blood still flows. 

 

When people dismiss what they consider to be primitive customs, I consider how we have our own distinct forms of honoring the dead, and in a few centuries people may be equally puzzled by our odd funerary rituals. 

 

Cicero is applying some much-needed common sense to our attitudes about dying, reminding us how the way we treat the departed has much more to do with a peace of mind for the living than it does with the fate of those who have passed on. If death is indeed the end of awareness in this life, whatever else that might entail on any grander scale, the deceased can have no real preference about the pieces left behind. 

 

I have never liked funerals, and as a teenager I once stubbornly refused to attend yet another one; I was tired of the gloom. My father rarely raised his voice to me, but when he did, I knew it was time to take heed. 

 

“Of course you won’t break her heart if you’re not there, since she’s in a better place now. But are you going to treat her parents, and her brother, and all her friends like garbage? Offer some compassion for other people’s loss instead of wallowing in your own misery.” 

 

As a Jesuit might say it, he wasn’t wrong. 

 

If what happens to my insensible body can no longer affect me, then let me attend to living well while such an opportunity remains open to me. Knowing that I cannot be troubled by death after it has come to pass draws the attention back to the excellence of my conscious thoughts and deeds. 

 

Where there was a committed effort to act with understanding and love, that will have been enough, such that no life is too short if it has been guided by sound principles. Indeed, there are times when a proper indifference towards death helps us to see how living longer is hardly necessary, perhaps even a stumbling block. 

 

But will others remember me? Perhaps they will, in which case my work can leave something of worth for them. Perhaps they will not, though it won’t matter too much for me if I am now content with the content of my character. 

 

What a wonderful concept: glory is like a shadow of virtue, only a weak impression left behind from the solid substance of a righteous existence. 

—Reflection written in 6/1996 

The Wisdom of Solomon 13:1-9

[1] For all men who were ignorant of God were foolish by nature;
and they were unable from the good things that
are seen to know him who exists,
nor did they recognize the craftsman while
paying heed to his works;
[2] but they supposed that either fire or wind or swift air,
or the circle of the stars, or turbulent water,
or the luminaries of heaven were the gods that rule the world.
[3] If through delight in the beauty of these things
men assumed them to be gods,
let them know how much better than these is their Lord,
for the author of beauty created them.
[4] And if men were amazed at their power and working,
let them perceive from them
how much more powerful is he who formed them.
[5] For from the greatness and beauty of created things
comes a corresponding perception of their Creator.
[6] Yet these men are little to be blamed,
for perhaps they go astray
while seeking God and desiring to find him.
[7] For as they live among his works they keep searching,
and they trust in what they see, because the
things that are seen are beautiful.
[8] Yet again, not even they are to be excused;
[9] for if they had the power to know so much
that they could investigate the world,
how did they fail to find sooner the Lord of these things? 

IMAGE: Lucas Cranach, The Creation (1534) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 60

Aid rendered the wrongdoer, makes you the greater sinner. 

Epictetus, Discourses 1.21.1

Chapter 21: To those who wish to be admired. 

 

When a man has his proper station in life, he does not hanker after what is beyond him. 

 

What is it, man, that you wish to have? 

 

“I am content if I am in accord with Nature in what I will to get and will to avoid, if I follow Nature in impulse to act and to refrain from action, in purpose, and design, and assent.” 

 

Why then do you walk about as if you had swallowed a poker? 

 

“I would fain that they who meet me should admire me, and cry aloud, ‘What a great philosopher!’” 

 

Who are these by whom you wish to be admired? Are not these the men whom you generally describe as mad? 

 

What do you want then? Do you want to be admired by madmen? 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.21 

 

I have often made the mistake of trusting the wrong people, and so I am now especially committed to getting a better sense of the workings within someone’s character.

 

I obviously cannot read their minds, but I can certainly learn a few things about their values by observing the consistency of their actions, whether the words and the deeds really match. 

 

This must be done with great care, for it is easy to form a hasty judgment, and impressions have a way of being quite slippery. Nevertheless, with a patient and attentive eye, I can see a bit more about what makes them tick. 

 

In many cases, as long as I keep my own presumptions in check, a general picture can emerge. The difficulty is usually in either my own bias or in my failure to look behind the initial appearance—the essence only reveals itself by looking in from as wide a range of angles as possible. 

 

I have discovered the hard way why the Stoics are so wary of hypocrisy, since anyone concerned first and foremost with the increase of the virtues understands why it is necessary to be only one man, not to shiftily play at being many. 

 

Sometimes the old phrases are the best: No one can serve two masters. Where one thing is the priority, everything else must be a relative and subservient preference. 

 

Many years of trying to be a faithful Roman Catholic have given me a nose for sniffing out the players. If they tell me to obey the teachings of the Church, and then they go about fondling the boys and girls when they think no one else is looking, I’m fairly sure they are not to be trusted. 

 

Many years of working in academia have given me a bitter taste from being surrounded by the performances of the pretenders. Though they say they are lovers of truth, their manipulations expose them as lovers of pride. I’m fairly sure they are not worthy of being called teachers at all. 

 

There are certain terms from my adolescence in the 1980’s that I wish had never stuck around, like “awesome” or “homeboy”, but I do wish another had never left our vocabulary. One of the worst insults we had in my circles was to call someone a “poser”, or if we were feeling especially refined, a “poseur”. 

 

It gets right to the heart of the matter. If, after sound deliberation, you think it to be right, I would encourage you to go ahead and do it. 

 

But if you are thinking of putting up a smokescreen of propriety while groveling in the filth you secretly favor, I would respectfully ask you to grow a pair. At the very least, show some integrity. 

 

Can I dedicate myself to philosophy on the one hand, and then also long for fame and fortune on the other? While I may prefer pleasure to pain, or luxury to poverty, my preferences cannot be my ultimate measures. 

 

Once you tell me I can have it both ways, that I can have my cake and eat it too, I now know as much about you as I need to know. I wish you well, but we cannot stand together at this time. I would be glad if you got back to me later, after you’ve thought it over. 

 

Putting on airs? Pandering to the crowd? No, thank you. I would rather love Nature hunched over in a ditch than lust for glory with a pole stuck up my rear. 

—Reflection written in 2/2001 

The Art of Peace 85

When attacked, unify the upper, middle, and lower parts of your body. 

Enter, turn, and blend with your opponent, front and back, right and left. 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 156

It is easy to utter "do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti," by mouth, but not so easy to sing or to play them on any instrument. 

So it is easy to talk religion, but it is difficult to act religion. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 25.3

Meantime, you are engaged in making of yourself the sort of person in whose company you would not dare to sin. When this aim has been accomplished and you begin to hold yourself in some esteem, I shall gradually allow you to do what Epicurus, in another passage, suggests: 

 

"The time when you should most of all withdraw into yourself is when you are forced to be in a crowd." 

 

You ought to make yourself of a different stamp from the multitude. Therefore, while it is not yet safe to withdraw into solitude, seek out certain individuals; for everyone is better off in the company of somebody or other—no matter who—than in his own company alone. 

 

"The time when you should most of all withdraw into yourself is when you are forced to be in a crowd." Yes, provided that you are a good, tranquil, and self-restrained man; otherwise, you had better withdraw into a crowd in order to get away from yourself. Alone, you are too close to a rascal. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 25 

Stoicism holds as a basic principle that our happiness is not in what happens to us, but rather in what we do. I have written out those words countless times, and I must constantly remind myself of their importance as I make my way through the challenges of the day. 

 

How odd that I should need to be prodded into an awareness of something so fundamental, and yet it tells me how confused our social assumptions have become, how easily we submit to being defined by nothing more than our circumstances. 

 

It is because he knows how he must become his own master that the Stoic values self-sufficiency, the ability to thrive on his own terms. Such a self-sufficiency, however, is not to be confused with any sort of isolation, and it can be a rookie mistake to seek relief by merely renouncing the world. 

 

While the experienced sage may be able to maintain the same character either alone or in a crowd, a neophyte like myself isn’t quite yet ready to fly solo. I still need assistance in getting my bearings, the example of those who have their act together, a sense that I belong together with others who are finding success at improving their virtues. 

 

The self-sufficiency comes from the workings on the inside, whatever the conditions on the outside; ignoring or fleeing from anything on the outside misses the point. If I am craving solitude for its own sake, that’s hardly a healthy method of coping. 

 

Genuine reform makes its way slowly but surely, and just as the beginner at running should not attempt a full marathon, so the Stoic initiate can’t immediately head off to the hills. When Epicurus advises us to withdraw into ourselves in the presence of crowd, this first requires a mind and a heart accomplished in sound judgment and supported by solid habits. 

 

I’m not going to kid myself by insisting I am ready to venture out unaccompanied, when so many insecurities have me shaking in my boots. If I come across a decent companion, let us walk together for a while, providing comfort and reassurance to one another. 

 

Creatures defined by consciousness are, after all, made to cooperate with one another, and even when they are able go it alone, they continue to work for the same common good. For all the miles or all the years of separation, their natural kinship remains. 

 

Where I have not already fixed myself, I am inviting catastrophe by relying exclusively on my own competence. Lao Tzu rode his ox beyond the frontiers of the known world, though I cannot claim to be a Lao Tzu. Similarly, Lucilius should not feel slighted when Seneca warns him about leaving the nest too soon. 

 

If I wish to become good, let me begin by surrounding myself with good people. One day I may no longer need them, but that does not mean I will no longer love them. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012