Letter 78: On the healing power of the mind
That you are frequently troubled by the snuffling of catarrh and by short attacks of fever which follow after long and chronic catarrhal seizures, I am sorry to hear; particularly because I have experienced this sort of illness myself, and scorned it in its early stages.
For when I was still young, I could put up with hardships and show a bold front to illness. But I finally succumbed, and arrived at such a state that I could do nothing but snuffle, reduced as I was to the extremity of thinness. I often entertained the impulse of ending my life then and there; but the thought of my kind old father kept me back.
For I reflected, not how bravely I had the power to die, but how little power he had to bear bravely the loss of me. And so I commanded myself to live. For sometimes it is an act of bravery even to live.
Now I shall tell you what consoled me during those days, stating at the outset that these very aids to my peace of mind were as efficacious as medicine. Honorable consolation results in a cure; and whatever has uplifted the soul helps the body also.
My studies were my salvation. I place it to the credit of philosophy that I recovered and regained my strength. I owe my life to philosophy, and that is the least of my obligations!
My friends, too, helped me greatly toward good health; I used to be comforted by their cheering words, by the hours they spent at my bedside, and by their conversation. Nothing, my excellent Lucilius, refreshes and aids a sick man so much as the affection of his friends; nothing so steals away the expectation and the fear of death. In fact, I could not believe that, if they survived me, I should be dying at all.
Yes, I repeat, it seemed to me that I should continue to live, not with them, but through them. I imagined myself not to be yielding up my soul, but to be making it over to them.
That you are frequently troubled by the snuffling of catarrh and by short attacks of fever which follow after long and chronic catarrhal seizures, I am sorry to hear; particularly because I have experienced this sort of illness myself, and scorned it in its early stages.
For when I was still young, I could put up with hardships and show a bold front to illness. But I finally succumbed, and arrived at such a state that I could do nothing but snuffle, reduced as I was to the extremity of thinness. I often entertained the impulse of ending my life then and there; but the thought of my kind old father kept me back.
For I reflected, not how bravely I had the power to die, but how little power he had to bear bravely the loss of me. And so I commanded myself to live. For sometimes it is an act of bravery even to live.
Now I shall tell you what consoled me during those days, stating at the outset that these very aids to my peace of mind were as efficacious as medicine. Honorable consolation results in a cure; and whatever has uplifted the soul helps the body also.
My studies were my salvation. I place it to the credit of philosophy that I recovered and regained my strength. I owe my life to philosophy, and that is the least of my obligations!
My friends, too, helped me greatly toward good health; I used to be comforted by their cheering words, by the hours they spent at my bedside, and by their conversation. Nothing, my excellent Lucilius, refreshes and aids a sick man so much as the affection of his friends; nothing so steals away the expectation and the fear of death. In fact, I could not believe that, if they survived me, I should be dying at all.
Yes, I repeat, it seemed to me that I should continue to live, not with them, but through them. I imagined myself not to be yielding up my soul, but to be making it over to them.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 78
I don’t often get sick, but when I do, it hits me like a ton of bricks. Others have the sniffles or feel a bit achy, while I am knocked on my back for a week, complete with trembling chills or feverish hallucinations. The congestion in my head or chest will feel like dull knives, and the panic that comes from being unable to breathe will make me mumble prayers I was sure I had long forgotten.
As easy as it is to brush aside the illness of a stranger, it becomes earth-shattering once my own turn happens to come around. And if a case of what we now generically call the “flu” can lay me so low, how shall I respond when the ailment is chronic, and I can see no end in sight? What use will my fancy philosophy be to me then?
It will, as it turns out, make all the difference. Wherever the pain may be, in the flesh or in the spirit, it is only an understanding of meaning and of purpose that can transform any suffering into an opportunity for restoration. This is a lesson to be learned in the trenches, not merely from the dusty pages of a book.
The younger Seneca kept going on for the sake of his father, and in doing so he came to appreciate something more about his own inner worth. I also know how a fear of hurting others was a means for finally beginning to care for myself.
While I will not deny any man his hopes, I am suspicious of those who rely too heavily on the power of wishful thinking; for all of its influence, I should not expect the concentration of mind to magically mend a broken bone or to rid me of my cancer. No, my thoughts do not control my circumstances, yet they do determine how I will go about coping with them, and it is in this sense that I believe an attitude to be the best form of cure.
Despite my skepticism, I have seen remarkable things happen when the mind is in tune with the body, which should come as no surprise, for the human person is made as a single whole, not as an accidental assembly of parts. Most importantly, the cultivation of self-awareness allows for every condition to acquire a redeeming value: instead of asking what it will do to me, it is better to ask what I will do with it.
Philosophy, as the way our judgments inform all of our actions, is the ultimate arbiter of our lives, whether or not we choose to recognize it. It may not decide how long we live, but it is what makes our lives worth living.
Friends, those who travel together with us, become indispensable supports during the journey, inspiring us to choose the true, the good, and the beautiful. They do not save us from grief, but they do assist us in saving ourselves.
Though my philosophy is obscure, and I possess very few friends, I find my strength in quality over quantity. Nature has provided the remedy by always allowing us to love, and to be loved.
I don’t often get sick, but when I do, it hits me like a ton of bricks. Others have the sniffles or feel a bit achy, while I am knocked on my back for a week, complete with trembling chills or feverish hallucinations. The congestion in my head or chest will feel like dull knives, and the panic that comes from being unable to breathe will make me mumble prayers I was sure I had long forgotten.
As easy as it is to brush aside the illness of a stranger, it becomes earth-shattering once my own turn happens to come around. And if a case of what we now generically call the “flu” can lay me so low, how shall I respond when the ailment is chronic, and I can see no end in sight? What use will my fancy philosophy be to me then?
It will, as it turns out, make all the difference. Wherever the pain may be, in the flesh or in the spirit, it is only an understanding of meaning and of purpose that can transform any suffering into an opportunity for restoration. This is a lesson to be learned in the trenches, not merely from the dusty pages of a book.
The younger Seneca kept going on for the sake of his father, and in doing so he came to appreciate something more about his own inner worth. I also know how a fear of hurting others was a means for finally beginning to care for myself.
While I will not deny any man his hopes, I am suspicious of those who rely too heavily on the power of wishful thinking; for all of its influence, I should not expect the concentration of mind to magically mend a broken bone or to rid me of my cancer. No, my thoughts do not control my circumstances, yet they do determine how I will go about coping with them, and it is in this sense that I believe an attitude to be the best form of cure.
Despite my skepticism, I have seen remarkable things happen when the mind is in tune with the body, which should come as no surprise, for the human person is made as a single whole, not as an accidental assembly of parts. Most importantly, the cultivation of self-awareness allows for every condition to acquire a redeeming value: instead of asking what it will do to me, it is better to ask what I will do with it.
Philosophy, as the way our judgments inform all of our actions, is the ultimate arbiter of our lives, whether or not we choose to recognize it. It may not decide how long we live, but it is what makes our lives worth living.
Friends, those who travel together with us, become indispensable supports during the journey, inspiring us to choose the true, the good, and the beautiful. They do not save us from grief, but they do assist us in saving ourselves.
Though my philosophy is obscure, and I possess very few friends, I find my strength in quality over quantity. Nature has provided the remedy by always allowing us to love, and to be loved.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Edvard Munch, Self-Portrait with the Spanish Flu (1919)
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