A sequence which cannot be broken or altered by any power binds all things together and draws all things in its course. Think of the multitudes of men doomed to death who will come after you, of the multitudes who will go with you!
You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways.
But you—did you believe that you would not someday reach the goal towards which you have always been traveling? No journey but has its end.
You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways.
But you—did you believe that you would not someday reach the goal towards which you have always been traveling? No journey but has its end.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
I pause at this brief section of the letter, because the blunt images make me feel quite foolish about my own fear of dying. Here I am, imagining myself completely isolated in the dread of my mortality, and yet I arrogantly forget how I share in this basic condition with every other person on the face of the Earth.
While it may well be a struggle to get over myself, I am hardly alone in meeting the challenge.
I think of the countless who have gone before me, and I notice how some hid their heads in the sand, and others bravely rose to the occasion. If you put it that way, I know full well how I wish to proceed.
I think further of the countless who will depart after me, and I am filled with compassion instead of terror, wishing each one the understanding to let go with dignity.
Finally, I remember a statistic I was once given, that in any given minute, a hundred people are breathing their last. Once I make the reality of the here and now so immediate, the faceless despair is transformed into a fierce respect.
It is perhaps a benefit of my sensitive disposition that I ponder the abundance of blood, toil, tears, and sweat that go into building any life, and then the abrupt and unsung manner in which it is so often snuffed out.
Now I could complain that it all seems so unfair, or I could recognize why the beauty of life is in what we choose to give of ourselves without condition, which can never be diminished by anything that Fortune might choose to take away.
It is supposed to end, whether with a bang or with a whimper, and what matters is how we go about approaching that end.
Many years ago, I risked sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings with someone I loved, only to suddenly find the delicate offering rejected. I then wasted many years wallowing in regret, until I learned to redefine my goals, from the expectation of receiving more to the acceptance of simply acting with decency, for this brief spell.
There is a reward that can’t be beat.
I pause at this brief section of the letter, because the blunt images make me feel quite foolish about my own fear of dying. Here I am, imagining myself completely isolated in the dread of my mortality, and yet I arrogantly forget how I share in this basic condition with every other person on the face of the Earth.
While it may well be a struggle to get over myself, I am hardly alone in meeting the challenge.
I think of the countless who have gone before me, and I notice how some hid their heads in the sand, and others bravely rose to the occasion. If you put it that way, I know full well how I wish to proceed.
I think further of the countless who will depart after me, and I am filled with compassion instead of terror, wishing each one the understanding to let go with dignity.
Finally, I remember a statistic I was once given, that in any given minute, a hundred people are breathing their last. Once I make the reality of the here and now so immediate, the faceless despair is transformed into a fierce respect.
It is perhaps a benefit of my sensitive disposition that I ponder the abundance of blood, toil, tears, and sweat that go into building any life, and then the abrupt and unsung manner in which it is so often snuffed out.
Now I could complain that it all seems so unfair, or I could recognize why the beauty of life is in what we choose to give of ourselves without condition, which can never be diminished by anything that Fortune might choose to take away.
It is supposed to end, whether with a bang or with a whimper, and what matters is how we go about approaching that end.
Many years ago, I risked sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings with someone I loved, only to suddenly find the delicate offering rejected. I then wasted many years wallowing in regret, until I learned to redefine my goals, from the expectation of receiving more to the acceptance of simply acting with decency, for this brief spell.
There is a reward that can’t be beat.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jan Bruegel the Younger, The Triumph of Death (1597)
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