So you say: "What iron nerves or deadened ears, you must have, if your mind can hold out amid so many noises, so various and so discordant, when our friend Chrysippus is brought to his death by the continual good-morrows that greet him!"
But I assure you that this racket means no more to me than the sound of waves or falling water; although you will remind me that a certain tribe once moved their city merely because they could not endure the din of a Nile cataract. Words seem to distract me more than noises; for words demand attention, but noises merely fill the ears and beat upon them.
Among the sounds that din round me without distracting, I include passing carriages, a machinist in the same block, a saw-sharpener nearby, or some fellow who is demonstrating with little pipes and flutes at the Trickling Fountain, shouting rather than singing.
Furthermore, an intermittent noise upsets me more than a steady one. But by this time I have toughened my nerves against all that sort of thing, so that I can endure even a boatswain marking the time in high-pitched tones for his crew.
For I force my mind to concentrate, and keep it from straying to things outside itself; all outdoors may be bedlam, provided that there is no disturbance within, provided that fear is not wrangling with desire in my breast, provided that meanness and lavishness are not at odds, one harassing the other.
For of what benefit is a quiet neighborhood, if our emotions are in an uproar?
But I assure you that this racket means no more to me than the sound of waves or falling water; although you will remind me that a certain tribe once moved their city merely because they could not endure the din of a Nile cataract. Words seem to distract me more than noises; for words demand attention, but noises merely fill the ears and beat upon them.
Among the sounds that din round me without distracting, I include passing carriages, a machinist in the same block, a saw-sharpener nearby, or some fellow who is demonstrating with little pipes and flutes at the Trickling Fountain, shouting rather than singing.
Furthermore, an intermittent noise upsets me more than a steady one. But by this time I have toughened my nerves against all that sort of thing, so that I can endure even a boatswain marking the time in high-pitched tones for his crew.
For I force my mind to concentrate, and keep it from straying to things outside itself; all outdoors may be bedlam, provided that there is no disturbance within, provided that fear is not wrangling with desire in my breast, provided that meanness and lavishness are not at odds, one harassing the other.
For of what benefit is a quiet neighborhood, if our emotions are in an uproar?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 56
Here is where Seneca and I diverge in our pet peeves, and I do understand how that has everything to do with our habitual attitudes. I am sure he is at least one step ahead of me, because any sounds themselves will still bother me, and he is able to at least limit himself to the meaning of the words he hears. One step at a time, one day at a time!
I do know what Seneca means about sudden or unexpected noises, for as I get older, I find that I am far more easily startled, and I notice that the more anxious I already am on the inside, the more a distraction on the outside will rattle me.
This insight is really the key to the whole problem, because while I may think that the sound itself is bringing me grief, the true source of my distress is in my own reaction.
The difficulty then becomes whether my attempts to overcome the frustration will only increase my discomfort. We all know how saying we won’t think about something can sometimes make us think of it all the more. Instead of banging my head against the obstacle, I will need to find a way to work around it.
I find that the sort of “toughening up” Seneca speaks of can’t be acquired by brute force of will alone, which is true of so many challenged we face in life. For me, it is only the subtlety of understanding, the more refined the better, that provides me with the strength to overcome my circumstances.
The mental equivalent of taking a deep breath is the start, and the transformation will then come gradually.
Indeed, just putting myself in a calm environment will be useless without first forming the peace of a calm mind. The situation doesn’t make me, but I make the situation. It becomes smooth and polished with a gentle touch.
Here is where Seneca and I diverge in our pet peeves, and I do understand how that has everything to do with our habitual attitudes. I am sure he is at least one step ahead of me, because any sounds themselves will still bother me, and he is able to at least limit himself to the meaning of the words he hears. One step at a time, one day at a time!
I do know what Seneca means about sudden or unexpected noises, for as I get older, I find that I am far more easily startled, and I notice that the more anxious I already am on the inside, the more a distraction on the outside will rattle me.
This insight is really the key to the whole problem, because while I may think that the sound itself is bringing me grief, the true source of my distress is in my own reaction.
The difficulty then becomes whether my attempts to overcome the frustration will only increase my discomfort. We all know how saying we won’t think about something can sometimes make us think of it all the more. Instead of banging my head against the obstacle, I will need to find a way to work around it.
I find that the sort of “toughening up” Seneca speaks of can’t be acquired by brute force of will alone, which is true of so many challenged we face in life. For me, it is only the subtlety of understanding, the more refined the better, that provides me with the strength to overcome my circumstances.
The mental equivalent of taking a deep breath is the start, and the transformation will then come gradually.
Indeed, just putting myself in a calm environment will be useless without first forming the peace of a calm mind. The situation doesn’t make me, but I make the situation. It becomes smooth and polished with a gentle touch.
—Reflection written in 5/2013
IMAGE: Jean-Francois Millet, Woman and Child (Silence) (1855)
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