“What then,” you say, “is not a pilot harmed by any circumstance which does not permit him to make port, frustrates all his efforts, and either carries him out to sea, or holds the ship in irons, or strips her masts?”
No, it does not harm him as a pilot, but only as a voyager; otherwise, he is no pilot. It is indeed so far from hindering the pilot’s art that it even exhibits the art; for anyone, in the words of the proverb, is a pilot on a calm sea. These mishaps obstruct the voyage but not the steersman qua steersman.
A pilot has a double role: one he shares with all his fellow-passengers, for he also is a passenger; the other is peculiar to him, for he is the pilot. The storm harms him as a passenger, but not as a pilot. Again, the pilot’s art is another’s good—it concerns his passengers just as a physician’s art concerns his patients. But the wise man’s good is a common good—it belongs both to those in whose company he lives, and to himself also.
Hence our pilot may perhaps be harmed, since his services, which have been promised to others, are hindered by the storm; but the wise man is not harmed by poverty, or by pain, or by any other of life’s storms.
For all his functions are not checked, but only those which pertain to others; he himself is always in action, and is greatest in performance at the very time when fortune has blocked his way. For then he is actually engaged in the business of wisdom; and this wisdom I have declared already to be, both the good of others, and also his own.
No, it does not harm him as a pilot, but only as a voyager; otherwise, he is no pilot. It is indeed so far from hindering the pilot’s art that it even exhibits the art; for anyone, in the words of the proverb, is a pilot on a calm sea. These mishaps obstruct the voyage but not the steersman qua steersman.
A pilot has a double role: one he shares with all his fellow-passengers, for he also is a passenger; the other is peculiar to him, for he is the pilot. The storm harms him as a passenger, but not as a pilot. Again, the pilot’s art is another’s good—it concerns his passengers just as a physician’s art concerns his patients. But the wise man’s good is a common good—it belongs both to those in whose company he lives, and to himself also.
Hence our pilot may perhaps be harmed, since his services, which have been promised to others, are hindered by the storm; but the wise man is not harmed by poverty, or by pain, or by any other of life’s storms.
For all his functions are not checked, but only those which pertain to others; he himself is always in action, and is greatest in performance at the very time when fortune has blocked his way. For then he is actually engaged in the business of wisdom; and this wisdom I have declared already to be, both the good of others, and also his own.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 85
This discussion about pilots and wise men makes me reflect on my own personal moments of success and failure, and how often I have managed to confuse the two. If I judge by the standards of the worldly achiever, I must be quite the disappointment, but if I turn to the mindset of the Stoic, I have been making some progress, even though there are no fancy trophies to show for it.
Caught up in a world of appearances, I pretended I could rub shoulders with sophisticated intellectuals, but I had neither the talent nor the temperament to do so. No, if I was going to learn, it would have to be at my own pace, and if I was going to teach, it would have to be well out of view. While I occasionally find offers of work, I get myself in trouble whenever I ask to be paid a living wage.
I have most certainly not reached the port I had once sailed for, and it is most likely that I will die an obscure eccentric, unsung and penniless. And yet, in a manner both unnerving and fitting, the journey has not been wasted, because each and every obstacle has provided a chance to grow in understanding and in love. Whenever I lose something alluring out there, I always have the option of gaining something far greater in here.
It is much the same when it comes to the daunting task of raising children. Our vain attempts at producing the ideal offspring, basking in glory, must give way to the realization that no person can ever create the blessings of another. However much I might instruct, encourage, and inspire, that young mind will have to choose for itself, and whatever has been offered must then be transformed into something new. Even as I can be my own master, I cannot secure the results for anyone else.
As a passenger, I did not arrive where I once hoped to be going; as a pilot, I did pick up a better sense of direction. By the time I had some more skill in reading the compass, I was far less interested in arriving at a certain destination as I was in traveling in a certain way, wherever I then happened to find myself. There were limits put on my circumstances at the same time as there were opportunities for my character.
How should I best serve my students? How should I best nurture my children? For all the difficulties fortune will put in my way, let me seek out my own wisdom and practice my own virtues. It turns out that attending to the thoughts, words, and deeds within my power is the best gift I can present to my fellow travelers.
This discussion about pilots and wise men makes me reflect on my own personal moments of success and failure, and how often I have managed to confuse the two. If I judge by the standards of the worldly achiever, I must be quite the disappointment, but if I turn to the mindset of the Stoic, I have been making some progress, even though there are no fancy trophies to show for it.
Caught up in a world of appearances, I pretended I could rub shoulders with sophisticated intellectuals, but I had neither the talent nor the temperament to do so. No, if I was going to learn, it would have to be at my own pace, and if I was going to teach, it would have to be well out of view. While I occasionally find offers of work, I get myself in trouble whenever I ask to be paid a living wage.
I have most certainly not reached the port I had once sailed for, and it is most likely that I will die an obscure eccentric, unsung and penniless. And yet, in a manner both unnerving and fitting, the journey has not been wasted, because each and every obstacle has provided a chance to grow in understanding and in love. Whenever I lose something alluring out there, I always have the option of gaining something far greater in here.
It is much the same when it comes to the daunting task of raising children. Our vain attempts at producing the ideal offspring, basking in glory, must give way to the realization that no person can ever create the blessings of another. However much I might instruct, encourage, and inspire, that young mind will have to choose for itself, and whatever has been offered must then be transformed into something new. Even as I can be my own master, I cannot secure the results for anyone else.
As a passenger, I did not arrive where I once hoped to be going; as a pilot, I did pick up a better sense of direction. By the time I had some more skill in reading the compass, I was far less interested in arriving at a certain destination as I was in traveling in a certain way, wherever I then happened to find myself. There were limits put on my circumstances at the same time as there were opportunities for my character.
How should I best serve my students? How should I best nurture my children? For all the difficulties fortune will put in my way, let me seek out my own wisdom and practice my own virtues. It turns out that attending to the thoughts, words, and deeds within my power is the best gift I can present to my fellow travelers.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
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