Letter 53: On the faults of the spirit
You can persuade me into almost anything now, for I was recently persuaded to travel by water. We cast off when the sea was lazily smooth; the sky, to be sure, was heavy with nasty clouds, such as usually break into rain or squalls. Still, I thought that the few miles between Puteoli and your dear Parthenope might be run off in quick time, despite the uncertain and lowering sky. So, in order to get away more quickly, I made straight out to sea for Nesis, with the purpose of cutting across all the inlets.
But when we were so far out that it made little difference to me whether I returned or kept on, the calm weather, which had enticed me, came to naught. The storm had not yet begun, but the groundswell was on, and the waves kept steadily coming faster. I began to ask the pilot to put me ashore somewhere; he replied that the coast was rough and a bad place to land, and that in a storm he feared a lee shore more than anything else.
But I was suffering too grievously to think of the danger, since a sluggish seasickness which brought no relief was racking me, the sort that upsets the liver without clearing it. Therefore I laid down the law to my pilot, forcing him to make for the shore, willy-nilly. When we drew near, I did not wait for things to be done in accordance with Vergil's orders, until
“Prow faced seawards”
or
“Anchor plunged from bow;”
I remembered my profession as a veteran devotee of cold water, and, clad as I was in my cloak, let myself down into the sea, just as a cold-water bather should.
What do you think my feelings were, scrambling over the rocks, searching out the path, or making one for myself? I understood that sailors have good reason to fear the land. It is hard to believe what I endured when I could not endure myself; you may be sure that the reason why Ulysses was shipwrecked on every possible occasion was not so much because the sea god was angry with him from his birth; he was simply subject to seasickness. And in the future I also, if I must go anywhere by sea, shall only reach my destination in the twentieth year .
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 53
Certain hard-edged people, who are very much caught up in their circumstances, will regularly tell me that Stoicism is an “unrealistic” or “impractical” philosophy, and I can only suggest to them that where we choose to place our priorities will, in turn, determine what we consider to be either reasonable or convenient.
I understand the root of the objection, and yet one can hardly claim that the Stoics are not acutely aware of the gritty details of common life, or of the way our impressions act upon us in incredibly powerful ways. Stoicism does not wish to brush aside everyday experience, but rather seeks to provide a meaningful context for what too often feels like a tangled mess of insistent passions.
This letter opens with a more involved personal story than usual, and the way Seneca describes his frightful sea journey serves as a helpful reminder of how a Stoic attitude must ground us in this turbulent life. Why is this feeling so vivid? How can I go about discerning and correcting my weaknesses, so I will not be so easily tossed about the next time I confront an anxiety?
Seneca started out on his voyage full of confidence, but Nature quickly showed him who was in charge. What began as a nausea in the gut became a sort of panic in the mind, and I imagine that all of us, even the most resilient, have known such a sense of helplessness. It can be awfully discouraging to face our limitations, especially when they catch us unawares.
I do not have my father’s love for the sea, so I tend to stay clear of large bodies of water if I can help it, and this is the only reason why I have managed to avoid the discomfort of seasickness. Given how severely people describe it, I’m glad to have been spared.
The closest I can come to Seneca’s plight is my fear of heights, which only showed up later in life, after a grueling ascent of a rock face with my uncle. He sternly told me not to look down, which, of course, I promptly did, and since then I feel paralyzed by most any drop. As the years have passed, it only seems to have gotten worse, and now even a balcony or a stairwell give me the jitters.
As much as I would like to blame that mountain for messing with my perceptions, I must humbly admit that the problem is entirely in my head. Willpower alone has not been enough to cure it, and I continue to work on subtler ways I can best calm my nerves when I climb up a ladder.
If such pains must come, what will I decide to do with them? The G.I. Joe cartoons of my youth told me that knowing is half the battle, and there is actually a profound wisdom to this. If I can’t remove the obstacle, I can still find a way to step around it, to work with it, to transform it into something of benefit.
If I am first aware of my foibles, at least they won’t creep up on me!
Certain hard-edged people, who are very much caught up in their circumstances, will regularly tell me that Stoicism is an “unrealistic” or “impractical” philosophy, and I can only suggest to them that where we choose to place our priorities will, in turn, determine what we consider to be either reasonable or convenient.
I understand the root of the objection, and yet one can hardly claim that the Stoics are not acutely aware of the gritty details of common life, or of the way our impressions act upon us in incredibly powerful ways. Stoicism does not wish to brush aside everyday experience, but rather seeks to provide a meaningful context for what too often feels like a tangled mess of insistent passions.
This letter opens with a more involved personal story than usual, and the way Seneca describes his frightful sea journey serves as a helpful reminder of how a Stoic attitude must ground us in this turbulent life. Why is this feeling so vivid? How can I go about discerning and correcting my weaknesses, so I will not be so easily tossed about the next time I confront an anxiety?
Seneca started out on his voyage full of confidence, but Nature quickly showed him who was in charge. What began as a nausea in the gut became a sort of panic in the mind, and I imagine that all of us, even the most resilient, have known such a sense of helplessness. It can be awfully discouraging to face our limitations, especially when they catch us unawares.
I do not have my father’s love for the sea, so I tend to stay clear of large bodies of water if I can help it, and this is the only reason why I have managed to avoid the discomfort of seasickness. Given how severely people describe it, I’m glad to have been spared.
The closest I can come to Seneca’s plight is my fear of heights, which only showed up later in life, after a grueling ascent of a rock face with my uncle. He sternly told me not to look down, which, of course, I promptly did, and since then I feel paralyzed by most any drop. As the years have passed, it only seems to have gotten worse, and now even a balcony or a stairwell give me the jitters.
As much as I would like to blame that mountain for messing with my perceptions, I must humbly admit that the problem is entirely in my head. Willpower alone has not been enough to cure it, and I continue to work on subtler ways I can best calm my nerves when I climb up a ladder.
If such pains must come, what will I decide to do with them? The G.I. Joe cartoons of my youth told me that knowing is half the battle, and there is actually a profound wisdom to this. If I can’t remove the obstacle, I can still find a way to step around it, to work with it, to transform it into something of benefit.
If I am first aware of my foibles, at least they won’t creep up on me!
—Reflection written in 4/2013
No comments:
Post a Comment