Letter 52: On choosing our teachers
What is this force, Lucilius, that drags us in one direction when we are aiming in another, urging us on to the exact place from which we long to withdraw?
What is it that wrestles with our spirit, and does not allow us to desire anything once for all?
We veer from plan to plan. None of our wishes is free, none is unqualified, none is lasting.
"But it is the fool," you say, "who is inconsistent; nothing suits him for long."
But how or when can we tear ourselves away from this folly? No man by himself has sufficient strength to rise above it; he needs a helping hand, and someone to extricate him.
What is this force, Lucilius, that drags us in one direction when we are aiming in another, urging us on to the exact place from which we long to withdraw?
What is it that wrestles with our spirit, and does not allow us to desire anything once for all?
We veer from plan to plan. None of our wishes is free, none is unqualified, none is lasting.
"But it is the fool," you say, "who is inconsistent; nothing suits him for long."
But how or when can we tear ourselves away from this folly? No man by himself has sufficient strength to rise above it; he needs a helping hand, and someone to extricate him.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 52
Of all the aspects of life that baffle me, few are as frustrating as the tendency of the human will to lag behind the direction of the mind. It almost seems as if different parts of me are in opposition, and as much as I may intend to do one thing, I still find myself falling short in the execution.
Some will insist that this is because our nature is intrinsically flawed, and while I appreciate the humility in such a view, I can’t help but notice how those very same people then conveniently have a magical cure to sell me. Is there perhaps a way I could strengthen my own resolve, a method by which I might make my actions more in tune with my convictions?
I now have extensive experience in the fine art of herding cats, which has taught me incredible patience, and I once also learned the hard way that a donkey will only move when you give it a good reason to move, which suggests I need to somehow get into the head of the donkey. Is that a start?
It at least reminds me how the problem is not in the structure of the whole, but about whether the pieces are working together in harmony. If the flesh is weak, while the spirit is willing, how do I get that pesky flesh back in line? I can certainly punish the body, and yet am I certain the mind is truly doing all that is required?
This is the age-old philosophical question of moral incontinence, even as I can’t use that term in a classroom without then hearing the inevitable giggling. With Plato, I can say that we only choose what we think is best, though with Aristotle I must observe that our choices are not always in line with our thinking.
Clearly, like a stubborn teenager, proclaiming that I know is not the same as actually knowing, and my ignorance is still getting in the way. The trick needs to be in closing the gap, in making my awareness so complete as to offer only one irresistible choice. The more fully I understand, the easier it becomes to decide. Show the donkey a carrot, and he will soon be your friend.
And just as the animal does his best work when guided by a trainer, so my own character will benefit from the example of a teacher. There’s no use in calling an intemperate man an idiot, because I am then also condemning myself. For those times when I am sorely confused about how to proceed, I should turn to the man who has already proven his worth. He can help me to help myself.
Of all the aspects of life that baffle me, few are as frustrating as the tendency of the human will to lag behind the direction of the mind. It almost seems as if different parts of me are in opposition, and as much as I may intend to do one thing, I still find myself falling short in the execution.
Some will insist that this is because our nature is intrinsically flawed, and while I appreciate the humility in such a view, I can’t help but notice how those very same people then conveniently have a magical cure to sell me. Is there perhaps a way I could strengthen my own resolve, a method by which I might make my actions more in tune with my convictions?
I now have extensive experience in the fine art of herding cats, which has taught me incredible patience, and I once also learned the hard way that a donkey will only move when you give it a good reason to move, which suggests I need to somehow get into the head of the donkey. Is that a start?
It at least reminds me how the problem is not in the structure of the whole, but about whether the pieces are working together in harmony. If the flesh is weak, while the spirit is willing, how do I get that pesky flesh back in line? I can certainly punish the body, and yet am I certain the mind is truly doing all that is required?
This is the age-old philosophical question of moral incontinence, even as I can’t use that term in a classroom without then hearing the inevitable giggling. With Plato, I can say that we only choose what we think is best, though with Aristotle I must observe that our choices are not always in line with our thinking.
Clearly, like a stubborn teenager, proclaiming that I know is not the same as actually knowing, and my ignorance is still getting in the way. The trick needs to be in closing the gap, in making my awareness so complete as to offer only one irresistible choice. The more fully I understand, the easier it becomes to decide. Show the donkey a carrot, and he will soon be your friend.
And just as the animal does his best work when guided by a trainer, so my own character will benefit from the example of a teacher. There’s no use in calling an intemperate man an idiot, because I am then also condemning myself. For those times when I am sorely confused about how to proceed, I should turn to the man who has already proven his worth. He can help me to help myself.
—Reflection written in 4/2013
IMAGE: Anton Romako, The Stubborn Donkey (c. 1856)
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