After tiring myself out in this way, for I cannot call it exercise, I took a cold bath; this, at my house, means just short of hot.
I, the former cold-water enthusiast, who used to celebrate the new year by taking a plunge into the canal, who, just as naturally as I would set out to do some reading or writing, or to compose a speech, used to inaugurate the first of the year with a plunge into the Virgo aqueduct, have changed my allegiance, first to the Tiber, and then to my favorite tank, which is warmed only by the sun, at times when I am most robust and when there is not a flaw in my bodily processes.
I have very little energy left for bathing. After the bath, some stale bread and breakfast without a table; no need to wash the hands after such a meal. Then comes a very short nap. You know my habit; I avail myself of a scanty bit of sleep—unharnessing, as it were. For I am satisfied if I can just stop staying awake. Sometimes I know that I have slept; at other times, I have a mere suspicion.
Lo, now the din of the Races sounds about me! My ears are smitten with sudden and general cheering. But this does not upset my thoughts or even break their continuity. I can endure an uproar with complete resignation. The medley of voices blended in one note sounds to me like the dashing of waves, or like the wind that lashes the tree-tops, or like any other sound which conveys no meaning.
I, the former cold-water enthusiast, who used to celebrate the new year by taking a plunge into the canal, who, just as naturally as I would set out to do some reading or writing, or to compose a speech, used to inaugurate the first of the year with a plunge into the Virgo aqueduct, have changed my allegiance, first to the Tiber, and then to my favorite tank, which is warmed only by the sun, at times when I am most robust and when there is not a flaw in my bodily processes.
I have very little energy left for bathing. After the bath, some stale bread and breakfast without a table; no need to wash the hands after such a meal. Then comes a very short nap. You know my habit; I avail myself of a scanty bit of sleep—unharnessing, as it were. For I am satisfied if I can just stop staying awake. Sometimes I know that I have slept; at other times, I have a mere suspicion.
Lo, now the din of the Races sounds about me! My ears are smitten with sudden and general cheering. But this does not upset my thoughts or even break their continuity. I can endure an uproar with complete resignation. The medley of voices blended in one note sounds to me like the dashing of waves, or like the wind that lashes the tree-tops, or like any other sound which conveys no meaning.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83
For all the wry jokes at his own expense, Seneca turns out to be describing the priceless details of an untroubled life that is free of all pretensions. Why should I care about this old man’s bath, or what he eats for breakfast, or when he takes his nap? Because happiness comes from being at peace with oneself, and thereby wanting very little.
I can’t help but notice how most of my frustrations are the product of my many vain diversions, when the simple care of my own soul is all that I truly need. While my peers are consumed by the complications of their careers, or the excitement of their newest sexual conquests, or the endless scheming of social advancement, I always retain the option of finding my joy in the little things. This is because it is always about the integrity of the attitude, and it was never really about any of the things to begin with.
I know some who swear by a cold shower, even as I prefer my water to be piping hot. The wife insists on a properly cooked breakfast, yet I am content with a cup of tea, no milk or sugar, thank you. My grandmother would lie down for a nap every afternoon, like clockwork, while it is only reading that ever makes me sleepy. Our particular preferences matter far less than a common principle: humble living is the best sort of living.
If I want proof of this, I need look no further than the man who does not permit himself to be agitated by the noise of the world. Like Seneca, he is satisfied with the slightest of circumstances, adapting them to his benefit by focusing on his inner character. If I can manage this, I don’t have to be bothered by the neighbors screaming and cursing about their tribal sports match, for I have the power to rest in the comforts of my own thoughts. Modify the standard for a disturbance, and you have thus removed the disturbance.
If you claim that such a life must be terribly boring, I will suggest that things are just as exciting as we are willing to make them. Hence one of my favorite lines from G.K. Chesterton: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person."
Once again, it is no accident that my urge to get roaring drunk will rear its ugly head at precisely those points when I have abandoned the glory of the ordinary.
For all the wry jokes at his own expense, Seneca turns out to be describing the priceless details of an untroubled life that is free of all pretensions. Why should I care about this old man’s bath, or what he eats for breakfast, or when he takes his nap? Because happiness comes from being at peace with oneself, and thereby wanting very little.
I can’t help but notice how most of my frustrations are the product of my many vain diversions, when the simple care of my own soul is all that I truly need. While my peers are consumed by the complications of their careers, or the excitement of their newest sexual conquests, or the endless scheming of social advancement, I always retain the option of finding my joy in the little things. This is because it is always about the integrity of the attitude, and it was never really about any of the things to begin with.
I know some who swear by a cold shower, even as I prefer my water to be piping hot. The wife insists on a properly cooked breakfast, yet I am content with a cup of tea, no milk or sugar, thank you. My grandmother would lie down for a nap every afternoon, like clockwork, while it is only reading that ever makes me sleepy. Our particular preferences matter far less than a common principle: humble living is the best sort of living.
If I want proof of this, I need look no further than the man who does not permit himself to be agitated by the noise of the world. Like Seneca, he is satisfied with the slightest of circumstances, adapting them to his benefit by focusing on his inner character. If I can manage this, I don’t have to be bothered by the neighbors screaming and cursing about their tribal sports match, for I have the power to rest in the comforts of my own thoughts. Modify the standard for a disturbance, and you have thus removed the disturbance.
If you claim that such a life must be terribly boring, I will suggest that things are just as exciting as we are willing to make them. Hence one of my favorite lines from G.K. Chesterton: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person."
—Reflection written in 12/2013
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