If what I am saying shall seem to you too pessimistic, charge it up against Scipio’s country house, where I have learned a lesson from Aegialus, a most careful householder and now the owner of this estate; he taught me that a tree can be transplanted, no matter how far gone in years.
We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which
“Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer
Your grandsons in the far-off years,”
as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me today to detect a fault:
“In spring sow beans then, too, O clover plant,
Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and
The millet calls for yearly care.”
You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet.
We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which
“Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer
Your grandsons in the far-off years,”
as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me today to detect a fault:
Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and
The millet calls for yearly care.”
You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
Long before I ever started dabbling in philosophy, I was in love with the natural world, and I have never regretted fostering that particular instinct. Animals can feel as if they have been the best of friends, and plants can teach me about the core of what it means to live.
While I am not patient enough to train a dog, a tabby cat has been my loyal companion for many years. He gets me, even though he does not understand me.
While I have never had a green thumb, I care for a small bed of herbs in my backyard. Sometimes these plants grow strong, and sometimes they wither away, but they never fail to do their best, without any hesitation.
My mother and father kept the most exquisite garden—to remember it is to conquer despair. What happens in one aspect of nature is always mirrored in another, so I do not think it ridiculous to observe how the virtue of a tree has much in common with the virtue of a man. It is no accident that poets have long drawn from the language of seeds and of blossoms, of cultivating and of harvesting.
I would have to ask my parents if Cicero was right to question Vergil about the best growing seasons, but for the moment, my interest is in the likeness between nurturing a garden and nurturing a soul. How can an old tree be transplanted into new soil? How can ancient wisdom be passed on to younger minds? The goal should be to maintain that which is perennial, instead of merely starting over with a fresh batch of annuals.
The newest thing is usually the flashiest thing, so those who are driven first by their passions will be charmed by the sparkle of the impressions. Yet given a bit of time, which can lift us to a broader perspective, we begin to understand why, for all the comings and goings, the only real truths are the timeless truths. The sapling is sassy, though the oak is enduring.
Yes, every creature must eventually weaken and diminish, and this is only fitting, for when the new arises from the old, it will nevertheless express the patterns of what came before. This is the work of the Creator: the beings reflect Being, and the natures reflect Nature.
Do not underestimate those timeworn olive trees. They may have some fruit in them yet.
Long before I ever started dabbling in philosophy, I was in love with the natural world, and I have never regretted fostering that particular instinct. Animals can feel as if they have been the best of friends, and plants can teach me about the core of what it means to live.
While I am not patient enough to train a dog, a tabby cat has been my loyal companion for many years. He gets me, even though he does not understand me.
While I have never had a green thumb, I care for a small bed of herbs in my backyard. Sometimes these plants grow strong, and sometimes they wither away, but they never fail to do their best, without any hesitation.
My mother and father kept the most exquisite garden—to remember it is to conquer despair. What happens in one aspect of nature is always mirrored in another, so I do not think it ridiculous to observe how the virtue of a tree has much in common with the virtue of a man. It is no accident that poets have long drawn from the language of seeds and of blossoms, of cultivating and of harvesting.
I would have to ask my parents if Cicero was right to question Vergil about the best growing seasons, but for the moment, my interest is in the likeness between nurturing a garden and nurturing a soul. How can an old tree be transplanted into new soil? How can ancient wisdom be passed on to younger minds? The goal should be to maintain that which is perennial, instead of merely starting over with a fresh batch of annuals.
The newest thing is usually the flashiest thing, so those who are driven first by their passions will be charmed by the sparkle of the impressions. Yet given a bit of time, which can lift us to a broader perspective, we begin to understand why, for all the comings and goings, the only real truths are the timeless truths. The sapling is sassy, though the oak is enduring.
Yes, every creature must eventually weaken and diminish, and this is only fitting, for when the new arises from the old, it will nevertheless express the patterns of what came before. This is the work of the Creator: the beings reflect Being, and the natures reflect Nature.
Do not underestimate those timeworn olive trees. They may have some fruit in them yet.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Georges Seurat, The Gardener (1883)
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