When I finally calmed my stomach (for you know that one does not escape seasickness by escaping from the sea) and refreshed my body with a rubdown, I began to reflect how completely we forget or ignore our failings, even those that affect the body, which are continually reminding us of their existence—not to mention those which are more serious in proportion as they are more hidden.
A slight ague deceives us; but when it has increased and a genuine fever has begun to burn, it forces even a hardy man, who can endure much suffering, to admit that he is ill.
There is pain in the foot, and a tingling sensation in the joints; but we still hide the complaint and announce that we have sprained a joint, or else are tired from over-exercise.
Then the ailment, uncertain at first, must be given a name; and when it begins to swell the ankles also, and has made both our feet "right" feet, we are bound to confess that we have the gout.
The opposite holds true of diseases of the soul; the worse one is, the less one perceives it. You need not be surprised, my beloved Lucilius. For he whose sleep is light pursues visions during slumber, and sometimes, though asleep, is conscious that he is asleep; but sound slumber annihilates our very dreams and sinks the spirit down so deep that it has no perception of self.
Why will no man confess his faults? Because he is still in their grasp; only he who is awake can recount his dream, and similarly a confession of sin is a proof of sound mind.
A slight ague deceives us; but when it has increased and a genuine fever has begun to burn, it forces even a hardy man, who can endure much suffering, to admit that he is ill.
There is pain in the foot, and a tingling sensation in the joints; but we still hide the complaint and announce that we have sprained a joint, or else are tired from over-exercise.
Then the ailment, uncertain at first, must be given a name; and when it begins to swell the ankles also, and has made both our feet "right" feet, we are bound to confess that we have the gout.
The opposite holds true of diseases of the soul; the worse one is, the less one perceives it. You need not be surprised, my beloved Lucilius. For he whose sleep is light pursues visions during slumber, and sometimes, though asleep, is conscious that he is asleep; but sound slumber annihilates our very dreams and sinks the spirit down so deep that it has no perception of self.
Why will no man confess his faults? Because he is still in their grasp; only he who is awake can recount his dream, and similarly a confession of sin is a proof of sound mind.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 53
An ailment may limit my capacities, and yet I hinder myself far more when I pretend that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me to begin with. As great as the pressure of the circumstances might be, it fades in contrast to the power of a mind to set its own attitude, for good or for ill.
I suppose it is a function of my stubborn temperament, but I so dislike feeling sick that I will often try to simply wish my condition away: if I don’t acknowledge it, maybe it will magically disappear?
This frustrates my wife to no end, and while there can be merit to a strong will, it ends up being a failing when divorced from a sound understanding. That determination would be better directed toward working with the facts, not against them. Contrary to what they say, what I don’t know can hurt me, and so resolve mixed with ignorance can only lead to pigheadedness.
Those little aches and pains are surely telling me something is amiss, which ought to make me more attentive. If I wait until the suffering is overwhelming, it may be far too late to apply a remedy. While there is no need for panic, the reasonable man learns to observe what makes him tick, even in the in the tiniest of details.
The danger is even greater in disorders of the soul than in those of the body, for the confusion in my very judgments makes it all the more difficult to discern my problems clearly. As the bewilderment increases, the focus of my awareness decreases.
It’s hard enough to think straight when I have a fever, even harder to think straight when I am stricken with fear, lust, or anger. I am mistaking a passion for a reason, like some drowsy fellow who takes the wrong pills because he has misplaced his glasses.
Back in my Wilderness Years, I would often drink at night, so I wouldn’t have to remember my dreams. Passing out, however, is no cure for pain, and the deepest sleep still offers no escape from the weight of my vices. Waking up is the only way to restore sanity, to achieve some peace of mind. To finally fix myself I must first come to honestly know myself.
An ailment may limit my capacities, and yet I hinder myself far more when I pretend that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me to begin with. As great as the pressure of the circumstances might be, it fades in contrast to the power of a mind to set its own attitude, for good or for ill.
I suppose it is a function of my stubborn temperament, but I so dislike feeling sick that I will often try to simply wish my condition away: if I don’t acknowledge it, maybe it will magically disappear?
This frustrates my wife to no end, and while there can be merit to a strong will, it ends up being a failing when divorced from a sound understanding. That determination would be better directed toward working with the facts, not against them. Contrary to what they say, what I don’t know can hurt me, and so resolve mixed with ignorance can only lead to pigheadedness.
Those little aches and pains are surely telling me something is amiss, which ought to make me more attentive. If I wait until the suffering is overwhelming, it may be far too late to apply a remedy. While there is no need for panic, the reasonable man learns to observe what makes him tick, even in the in the tiniest of details.
The danger is even greater in disorders of the soul than in those of the body, for the confusion in my very judgments makes it all the more difficult to discern my problems clearly. As the bewilderment increases, the focus of my awareness decreases.
It’s hard enough to think straight when I have a fever, even harder to think straight when I am stricken with fear, lust, or anger. I am mistaking a passion for a reason, like some drowsy fellow who takes the wrong pills because he has misplaced his glasses.
Back in my Wilderness Years, I would often drink at night, so I wouldn’t have to remember my dreams. Passing out, however, is no cure for pain, and the deepest sleep still offers no escape from the weight of my vices. Waking up is the only way to restore sanity, to achieve some peace of mind. To finally fix myself I must first come to honestly know myself.
—Reflection written in 4/2013
IMAGE: David Ryckaert the Younger, Old Man Sleeping (c. 1642)
_-_Old_man_sleeping.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment