Seneca, Moral Letters 55.4

The place where one lives, however, can contribute little towards tranquility; it is the mind which must make everything agreeable to itself. 

 

I have seen men despondent in a gay and lovely villa, and I have seen them to all appearance full of business in the midst of a solitude. For this reason, you should not refuse to believe that your life is well-placed merely because you are not now in Campania. 

 

But why are you not there? Just let your thoughts travel, even to this place. You may hold converse with your friends when they are absent, and indeed as often as you wish and for as long as you wish. For we enjoy this, the greatest of pleasures, all the more when we are absent from one another. 

 

For the presence of friends makes us fastidious; and because we can at any time talk or sit together, when once we have parted, we give not a thought to those whom we have just beheld. And we ought to bear the absence of friends cheerfully, just because everyone is bound to be often absent from his friends even when they are present. 

 

Include among such cases, in the first place, the nights spent apart, then the different engagements which each of two friends has, then the private studies of each and their excursions into the country, and you will see that foreign travel does not rob us of much. A friend should be retained in the spirit; such a friend can never be absent. He can see every day whomsoever he desires to see.
 
I would therefore have you share your studies with me, your meals, and your walks. We should be living within too narrow limits if anything were barred to our thoughts. I see you, my dear Lucilius, and at this very moment I hear you; I am with you to such an extent that I hesitate whether I should not begin to write you notes instead of letters. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 55 
 
I have long had an interest in the meanings behind well-known sayings, for I find that we speak them so often but can also sadly neglect their deeper significance, precisely because they are so taken for granted. Yes, I know you will tell me that I think too much, though I don’t believe it is ever the quantity of our thinking that is a problem, only the quality. 
 
I am especially intrigued by proverbs that at first appear to conflict with one another. For example: 
 
Out of sight, out of mind. 
 
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. 
 
Each can be true, in different senses, depending upon how we choose to value our friends. Are you merely a convenience to me, a utility to be exploited when you are present? Then I will cease to think of you when you are absent. Do I love you, for your own sake, and for nothing else? Then your absence will make me love you all the more. 
 
Love is a much-abused word, and we employ it far to freely. This is why I try to use it rarely, when I know that I genuinely mean it. I have gotten myself into far too much trouble when I assumed another person meant it in the same way that I did. You live and you learn, as much as it hurts. 
 
As creatures of mind, we can be where we think. I have now, thanks to the weight of circumstances, been separated in space from my parents for many years, yet in my thoughts I cling to them all the more. We often don’t appreciate what we have until it is gone, and I take that as one of Nature’s clever methods of teaching. It isn’t always an easy lesson. 
 
I have known many pathetic men like Vatia, and I have also been blessed with the bittersweet opportunities to share in the sort of friendship like the one between Seneca and Lucilius. Though the people I love may be far, far away, they become so much dearer to me when they are only in my heart. 
 
I have an unfortunate tendency to take people for granted. I am working on that. 

—Reflection written in 4/2013 

IMAGE: John William Godward, Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (1912)