He who writes these words to you is no other than I, who wept so excessively for my dear friend Annaeus Serenus that, in spite of my wishes, I must be included among the examples of men who have been overcome by grief.
Today, however, I condemn this act of mine, and I understand that the reason why I lamented so greatly was chiefly that I had never imagined it possible for his death to precede mine. The only thought which occurred to my mind was that he was the younger, and much younger, too—as if the Fates kept to the order of our ages!
Therefore, let us continually think as much about our own mortality as about that of all those we love. In former days I ought to have said: "My friend Serenus is younger than I; but what does that matter? He would naturally die after me, but he may precede me."
It was just because I did not do this that I was unprepared when Fortune dealt me the sudden blow. Now is the time for you to reflect, not only that all things are mortal, but also that their mortality is subject to no fixed law. Whatever can happen at any time can happen today.
Let us therefore reflect, my beloved Lucilius, that we shall soon come to the goal which this friend, to our own sorrow, has reached. And perhaps, if only the tale told by wise men is true and there is a bourn to welcome us, then he whom we think we have lost has only been sent on ahead. Farewell.
Today, however, I condemn this act of mine, and I understand that the reason why I lamented so greatly was chiefly that I had never imagined it possible for his death to precede mine. The only thought which occurred to my mind was that he was the younger, and much younger, too—as if the Fates kept to the order of our ages!
Therefore, let us continually think as much about our own mortality as about that of all those we love. In former days I ought to have said: "My friend Serenus is younger than I; but what does that matter? He would naturally die after me, but he may precede me."
It was just because I did not do this that I was unprepared when Fortune dealt me the sudden blow. Now is the time for you to reflect, not only that all things are mortal, but also that their mortality is subject to no fixed law. Whatever can happen at any time can happen today.
Let us therefore reflect, my beloved Lucilius, that we shall soon come to the goal which this friend, to our own sorrow, has reached. And perhaps, if only the tale told by wise men is true and there is a bourn to welcome us, then he whom we think we have lost has only been sent on ahead. Farewell.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 63
When I more fully understand something, I learn to be more at peace with its nature, and so I will also not so easily let myself be devastated by its failure to comply to my whims.
Knowing how it was meant to be, and why it unfolds as it does, offers an assurance that my commitment has not been in vain.
I have been scolded, by different kinds of folks, both for caring too little and for caring too much, and yet I now find that the prudent path is about the quality of the caring, not about its quantity.
How am I ordering and directing my attachments? Do I seek out how to serve what I love, or do I expect it to gratify me? Once it passes on, will I be glad for what it was, for its own sake, or will I demand its continuation, for my own convenience?
Like Seneca, I have clung too tightly, and it was always because I did not consider how precious something was while I still possessed it.
By taking it for granted, I treated it as an entitlement, and not as a gift. If I do not appreciate the fullness of its dignity at this one very moment, I am not really respecting it at all, by attaching my various terms and conditions.
In this light, it can once again make far more sense of why the Stoics constantly keep in mind the transience of all creatures. When we consciously reflect upon mortality, everything in life becomes brighter and sweeter, as there is now no need for a stagnation of permanence.
The sudden spark is then just as hot as the slow burn of an ember.
If my beloved is lost, there will be less sorrow once I grasp how the same fate awaits us all, and why it is always right and proper for it to be so. For the new to arise, the old must give way.
Will there be some future state when we meet again? Perhaps, but only if Providence is willing, and even then, such a prospect for the future should not be my motive for loving without reservation in the present.
When I more fully understand something, I learn to be more at peace with its nature, and so I will also not so easily let myself be devastated by its failure to comply to my whims.
Knowing how it was meant to be, and why it unfolds as it does, offers an assurance that my commitment has not been in vain.
I have been scolded, by different kinds of folks, both for caring too little and for caring too much, and yet I now find that the prudent path is about the quality of the caring, not about its quantity.
How am I ordering and directing my attachments? Do I seek out how to serve what I love, or do I expect it to gratify me? Once it passes on, will I be glad for what it was, for its own sake, or will I demand its continuation, for my own convenience?
Like Seneca, I have clung too tightly, and it was always because I did not consider how precious something was while I still possessed it.
By taking it for granted, I treated it as an entitlement, and not as a gift. If I do not appreciate the fullness of its dignity at this one very moment, I am not really respecting it at all, by attaching my various terms and conditions.
In this light, it can once again make far more sense of why the Stoics constantly keep in mind the transience of all creatures. When we consciously reflect upon mortality, everything in life becomes brighter and sweeter, as there is now no need for a stagnation of permanence.
The sudden spark is then just as hot as the slow burn of an ember.
If my beloved is lost, there will be less sorrow once I grasp how the same fate awaits us all, and why it is always right and proper for it to be so. For the new to arise, the old must give way.
Will there be some future state when we meet again? Perhaps, but only if Providence is willing, and even then, such a prospect for the future should not be my motive for loving without reservation in the present.
—Reflection written in 6/2013
IMAGE: Frederick William Elwell, The Wedding Dress (1911)
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