LIAM MILBURN: Living with Nature: Reflections on the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius 1-4

Living with Nature:

Reflections on the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius 1-4

Liam Milburn

The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius has long been the Stoic text that I find to be the most profound and insightful. This is hardly because of its technical complexity, or any obscurity of thought, but because I see in it the personal reflections of one of the most powerful men in the world, the Emperor of Rome, who at the same time speaks as one who is simply trying to be a good man.

There is a humility here that reminds us that each and every one of us, regardless of our birth or position, is called by Nature to the same happiness and excellence, and that this will only come to us by casting away what is a hindrance, and clinging to what is necessary.

Over more than two decades, I would choose a passage from one of the Stoic philosophers in the early morning, read through it with great care, and usually write down my own thoughts and experiences on the topic at hand. These were never really intended for publication, but rather helped me to manage my own day with as much serenity and dignity as I could muster.

In the end, many of the passages and comments were joined together in A Stoic breviary: Classical wisdom in daily practice, in the hope that a handful of others might also benefit from the original philosophers. The Stoic Reflections series, based upon certain themes, were something of a further supplement.

I eventually found that, quite by accident, I had over time written a full commentary, often quite a few different times, on the complete texts of Epictetus’ Handbook, Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, and Seneca the Younger’s On the happy life. Since these three texts have always been at the heart of my own Stoic adventures, I offer them separately for your consideration as well.

The translation of the Meditations used here is the classic edition by George Long. I have used modern pronouns, and I have occasionally changed archaic usage and spelling to better speak to the contemporary reader.

1.1

From my grandfather, Verus, I learned good morals and the government of my temper.

From the reputation and remembrance of my father, modesty and a manly character.

From my mother, piety and beneficence, and abstinence, not only from evil deeds, but even from evil thoughts; and further, simplicity in my way of living, far removed from the habits of the rich.

From my great-grandfather, not to have frequented public schools, and to have had good teachers at home, and to know that on such things a man should spend liberally.

From my governor, to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at the games in the Circus, nor a partisan either of the Parmularius or the Scutarius at the gladiators' fights; from him too I learned endurance of labor, and to want little, and to work with my own hands, and not to meddle with other people's affairs, and not to be ready to listen to slander.

From Diognetus, not to busy myself about trifling things, and not to give credit to what was said by miracle-workers and jugglers about incantations and the driving away of daemons and such things; and not to breed quails for fighting, nor to give myself up passionately to such things; and to endure freedom of speech; and to have become intimate with philosophy; and to have been a hearer, first of Bacchius, then of Tandasis and Marcianus; and to have written dialogues in my youth; and to have desired a plank bed and skin, and whatever else of the kind belongs to the Greek discipline.

From Rusticus I received the impression that my character required improvement and discipline; and from him I learned not to be led astray to sophistic emulation, nor to writing on speculative matters, nor to delivering little hortatory orations, nor to showing myself off as a man who practices much discipline, or does benevolent acts in order to make a display. . . .

From Apollonius I learned freedom of will and undeviating steadiness of purpose; and to look to nothing else, not even for a moment, except to reason; and to be always the same, in sharp pains, on the occasion of the loss of a child, and in long illness. . . .

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 1.1-8 (tr Long)

We still thank those who have helped us when we receive honors, and we still tend to write dedications for books or records, but we usually don’t do so with half as much commitment and reflection as Marcus Aurelius. They will cut you off after a few too many seconds at the Academy Awards, but Aurelius fills the entire first book of the Meditations with his thanks.

We think it enough to thank a spouse for just being “patient” in the preface, but Aurelius tells us so much more, about how and why these many people helped him to build his character.

It is interesting to look up who these people were, but perhaps even more interesting to consider why he is grateful to them. I may thank my manager for getting me the best contract, or my business professor for teaching me the art of the deal, or my law partner for helping me win all of those lucrative cases. Aurelius is not interested in the acquisition of wealth, power, or fame, but admires others for the wisdom and virtue they modeled. This isn’t about recognizing those who were there while he became a big man, but those who helped him to become a good man.

Only the first few entries are listed above, but they already give a powerful sense of the man who ruled an empire and slept on a board.

He hardly sounds like a wealthy heir when he speaks of what his family offered him: good morals, temperance, modesty, manly character, piety, beneficence, abstinence from evil deeds and evil thoughts, and simplicity of living far from the habits of the rich. I smile when I see him grateful for an education at home, something he does think is well worth the expense.

Some of the teachers who had a great influence on him, Diognetus, Apollonius, and Rusticus, encouraged the pursuit of a philosophical life: to follow reason over superstition, to dedicate oneself to self-discipline over the love of appearances, and to choose steadfastness of purpose in all circumstances.

Now I have been around the block a few times, and I have seen people mouth all the right words, while still doing all the wrong things; those are, in fact, usually the most successful kind of criminals and tyrants. If I have any doubts, however, about whether Marcus Aurelius will put his money where his mouth is, I need only read on in the Meditations.

He was a man with faults like anyone else, but what sets him apart is his commitment to a life of constant personal improvement, and a perspective on the value of all human effort within the harmony of the entire Universe. I believe there is a good reason he was the last of Rome’s “Five Good Emperors”, men who tried to exercise power with virtue.

2.1

Begin the morning by saying to yourself: I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil.

But I who have seen the nature of the good that is beautiful, and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not only of the same blood or seed, but that it participates in the same intelligence and the same portion of the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him.

For we are made for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to Nature, and it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.1 (tr Long)

I have often felt, as I am sure many of us have, that the selfishness, malice, and pettiness of others has been the greatest obstacle to my own sanity and sanctity. It would be so much easier to live well if others did not live so poorly.

That concern is, however, not an expression of my problems, but the very root of my problems. Others are hardly the obstacles, because as soon as I think in that way, I am passing on the blame. My own thinking is the only obstacle.

Another tries to hurt me, because he thinks it is right to do so. I will only allow myself to be hurt if I also think it is right to do so. If this is the case, I have already lost, for I have defined myself by conflict, and I have justified myself through division. Hatred has just bred more hatred. The only difference was that one instance was beyond my power, and the other instance was entirely within my power.

Selfishness, malice, and pettiness are all built on the premise that we are at our best in opposition. I cannot change the assumption of another, but I can easily change my own assumption. Nature makes us to be together, and not apart, to work in harmony, and not in strife. I should worry less if another understands this, than if I understand it and live it myself.

The complementarity of human beings is no pipe dream, but is grounded in our very identity. Creatures that can know what is good in itself, completely above what is gratifying only to their passions, are given one of the most wonderful gifts. I don’t need to be better than someone else, but I can be better with someone else. It doesn’t matter if someone else tips the balance the wrong way, because I can decide to tip it right back.

Life does often seem like a battle, but we are not fighting other people. We are only fighting ourselves. You may try to hurt me, but only I can choose to be hurt. You are my neighbor, not my enemy, made for the same purpose that I am, and I refuse to engage in combat with you. You may want to make me miserable, but I will still try to help you to be happy.

Anyone who wants to harm you, to discredit you, or to dismiss you is not an obstacle at all. He is only an obstacle to himself, and an opportunity for you to be good in the face of evil. I should attempt to think of ignorance as a chance to pursue wisdom, and vice as a means to seek virtue.

2.2

Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part.

Throw away your books. No longer distract yourself, for it is not allowed, but as if you were now dying, despise the flesh. It is blood and bones and a network, a contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a thing it is, air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked in.

The third, then, is the ruling part. Consider this: you are an old man, no longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to unsocial movements, no longer either be dissatisfied with your present lot, or shrink from the future.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.2 (tr Long)

Stoicism has a wonderful way of helping us to see things from a new perspective, sometimes revealing the direct opposite of what we thought was true, or pointing to a complete reversal of what we thought was valuable in life. I have often called this the “Stoic Turn”, and it can at the same time be both an unnerving and a liberating experience.

Consider how we define ourselves. For all of our insistence on respecting what people are on the “inside”, we are usually quite obsessed with what is on the outside. We worship the things of the body: its appearance, its pleasure, its strength, its health, its longevity, and its possessions.

What fabric have I draped over my body today, and what chemicals line my face? What kind of box does my body live in, and what kind of smaller box do I move around in? When my body goes to yet another box that gives me the pieces of paper to acquire the first two boxes, do the other bodies there make me feel good about myself? When I get back to my own box at night, how will I gratify my body? Will any of this make any difference when I end up dead in a one final box?

The body is just an arrangement of matter, and all the things that adorn it are just different arrangements of matter. What gives that matter life, what we call the breath, is just the motion of matter. These things are brought into existence by combination, they exist very briefly in a fragile and precarious state, and then they suddenly cease to exist by separation.

To “despise” the flesh is not to want to destroy it, but to recognize that there is absolutely nothing about it that is worth loving for its own sake. I should be completely indifferent to my body, not by failing to care for it, but by knowing that it only becomes good or bad depending on how it is ordered and directed by reason, by the ruling part.

What is meaningful and valuable in this life is not the mere presence of the body, or the fact that it is living instead of dead, or how that body is tied together to other bodies. What gives dignity and purpose to life is the ability to understand what is true and good, to freely choose it, and to act upon it. It is not merely in the living, but in how well we live.

It is through awareness, both of itself and its world, that the ruling part guides the way, and can inform us how it is only the excellence of our own judgments and actions themselves that can give us worth.

The higher should rule the lower, but in our lives we find these roles are too often reversed. The mind should be telling the body how to assist as we grow in wisdom and in virtue, but instead the body tells the mind how to merely be a tool for greater power and pleasure. The strings are being pulled from the wrong direction.

My life is short, and I must learn to make the right choice, to no longer desire the lesser things, about how rich or gratified I am in the flesh, but to dedicate everything to the greater things, about how virtuous and dignified I am in my thoughts and deeds. If I can turn around my thinking, I can also turn around my priorities.

2.3

All that is from the gods is full of Providence. That which is from Fortune is not separated from Nature, or without an interweaving and involvement with the things that are ordered by Providence.

From there all things flow, and there is besides also necessity, and that which is for the advantage of the whole Universe, of which you are a part.

But that is good for every part of Nature that the Nature of the whole brings, and what serves to maintain this Nature. Now the universe is preserved, as by the changes of the elements, so by the changes of things compounded of the elements.

Let these principles be enough for you, and let them always be fixed opinions. But cast away the thirst after books, so that you may not die murmuring, but cheerfully, truly, and from your heart be thankful to the gods.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.3 (tr Long)

We can very easily surrender our view of the world to our changing feelings and clouded impressions. If events seem to be proceeding as I wish, then surely the Universe is full of peace and order. If events seem to be proceeding against my wishes, then surely the Universe is full of conflict and chaos.

My wishes and my feelings, however, do not make something real, and we make things far too difficult for ourselves when we follow only the whims of appearances, rather than the principles of reason. I will only make sense of how I feel when I understand who I am, and why I am here.

Beyond my own prejudices, there are simple truths that can guide the way. What has been moved requires a mover, and every effect requires a cause. Where there is causality, there is order. Where there is order, there is purpose. Things do not act in isolation, but in relationship to one another, and as parts of the whole. I must consider, therefore, the order and purpose of the parts within the order and purpose of the whole.

Providence need not be some obscure and mysterious concept, but can rather be understood as the way in which all changing things, past, present, and future, share in a unified good. Nature reveals this whenever we observe her shapes and patterns, and our own lives reveal this when we observe how our actions interlock with our world.

Providence does not exclude Fortune, what we might call luck or chance events, because randomness exists only in our perceptions. I may not know the specific cause, though I can surely know that there was a cause, and that it was connected to all others.

Providence also does not exclude freedom, the power of our own choices within the whole, because freedom can already exist within a universal order, and need not be outside of it. Order may permit by cooperation just as easily as it may temper by restriction.

Of what use can such grand theory be in my daily living? It can be of great worth, because it reminds me that everything has its place, and everything has its reason. Whatever happens to me, however pleasant or painful, and whatever I choose, however right or wrong, will play a necessary part in the harmony of everything, and however small my role may be, it will never be insignificant.

Sometime the world seems so big, impersonal, and chaotic, but it only seems that way because my own judgment is so petty, selfish, and disordered. I can find my own liberty and peace as soon as I see that the act of choosing to improve myself is reflected in the improvement of all that is around me.

I should hardly blame fate, or curse chance, because how fully I cooperate with Providence is the very measure of my own purpose, and the very foundation of my own happiness.

2.4

Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet you do not use it.

You must now at last perceive of what Universe you are a part, and of what Ruler of the Universe your existence is an efflux, and that a limit of time is fixed for you, which if you do not use it for clearing away the clouds from your mind, it will go, and you will go, and it will never return.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.4 (tr Long)

I often ask myself the “what if?” question, and I wonder how things would be different if I had followed through instead of holding back, or restrained myself instead of acting on impulse. I find it too easy to tie myself in knots about missed chances and wasted opportunities, speculating aimlessly about all the possible outcomes.

I feel regret for not helping a friend that needed me, and who’s passing made it impossible for me to make it right. I feel resentment for reaching out to someone I loved, only to be cast down further than I was before. I often wish I had done these things differently.

Yet making the best of opportunities is never about regretting things that can’t be changed, or altering circumstances that are far beyond our power. The real chances we are offered concern what we can do with what is given, right here and now, not our ability to manipulate what we might receive.

There is really only one opportunity that I am offered, and I am offered it for every single moment that I am alive. Whatever may happen to me, will I act with prudence when others act with ignorance? Will I act with fortitude when others act with cowardice? Will I act with temperance when others act with excess? Will I act with justice when others act with greed?

The only possible reason I might delay on such a commitment is because I am not yet ready to make the promise. The only reason I am not ready to make the promise is because I do not have my house in order, because I do not yet care enough about the right things, and I care too much about the wrong things.

I cared too much about the pain that would have come with loving a friend to whom I should have easily offered help, and I cared too much about the resentment that came with loving a friend I should have easily forgiven.

To commit to virtue sometime seems like stepping into the unknown. There’s the rub. It is never about what will or will not happen, about the outcomes, but only about the merit of my commitment. The edge of that cliff that seems so stable can very easily crumble, and I am no safer standing on what I falsely perceive as solid ground than I am moving myself forward.

1980’s advertising told us that life is short, so we should play hard. Stoicism tells us that life is short, so we should live well. There is a real difference here, since gratification and service are not the same thing.

Why delay? Fear is countered by courage, and despair is countered by hope. Courage and hope spring from depending upon what doesn’t fail. I should never fear what cannot hurt me, and I should never despair of what I cannot lose.

My circumstances will not hurt me, if I do not allow it, and my character is something I need not lose, if I do not allow it. I should never think there is more time for making things right, because the now is the only certain opportunity.

2.5

Every moment think steadily, as a Roman, and as a man, to do what you have in hand with a perfect and simple dignity, and with feelings of affection, and freedom, and justice, and to give yourself relief from all other thoughts.

And you will give yourself relief, if you do every act of your life as if it were the last, laying aside all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all hypocrisy, and all self-love, and any discontent with the portion which has been given to you.

You see how few those things are, which if a man lays hold of them, he is able to live with a life that flows in peace, and is like the existence of the gods. For the gods on their part will require nothing more from him who observes these things.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.5 (tr Long)

The happy life is simple, not in the sense that it is always easy to learn, but in the sense that I need little to live it. Perhaps that is what can make it seem so difficult, because it means becoming accustomed to seeking less, when I am constantly being told that I must have more.

Happiness never demands that the world give me anything, or that I must always scramble to maintain any power over my circumstances. It asks only for action that proceeds from a certain disposition of character, perfect because it requires nothing beyond itself, simple because it is not divided but one, and dignified because it rises above what is base.

Beyond all the glitter and all the chatter, each person is made simply to live with integrity and charity. This may be easy to say, especially for the man who loves words but shrinks from tasks, and an attempt to practice it will often reveal the many diversions that lead us astray.

Can I think this equally of myself and of others, of friends and of enemies, of the strong and of the weak, of those who attract me and of those who repel me? Can I remove all the trappings and accessories of life and consider every person only as a vessel for truth and as an agent for good? The very relief I need demands that I do so, and that I put aside other thoughts.

I cringe at the many hours I have wasted lying awake with worry, wondering why the people I love choose not to love me, or fretting about how I could have played the game differently.

Better yet, I should stop with the cringing entirely, because the relief I seek will only come about when I stop caring about all the unnecessary things. The act of being responsible for myself is more than sufficient.

I no longer see any morbidity at all in living each moment as if it were the last, since this is just another expression of being freed from the burden of extraneous concerns. The past and future will not change with worry, just as none of my circumstances will change with worry.

The more I vainly try to manipulate all the conditions around me, whether I become rich or poor, or if I have a long or a short life, or if I am esteemed or ignored, the less attention I am giving to the only thing that matters, the dignity of my living.  Yes, relief is that simple.

2.6

Do wrong to yourself, do wrong to yourself, my soul; but you will no longer have the opportunity of honoring yourself.

 Every man's life is sufficient.

But yours is nearly finished, though your soul reverences not itself but places your felicity in the souls of others.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.6 (tr Long)

Freedom is both liberating and frightening. Stoic self-reliance builds upon the reality that we are not defined by the events that occur around us, and that our own actions are not merely driven by passion and instinct. We are creatures that can think for ourselves, and it is through the power of reason that we can come to understand, and therefore to decide, about what is good. We are not limited to impulsive reaction, but are opened up to choice.

I think about how the same phrase, “I am responsible for myself”, is such a gift when I choose wisely, and such a burden when I choose foolishly. Yet the beauty of choice is such that it remains within my power, for as long as I am living and aware, to decide in a new way, to make right what I have done wrong, to change the quality of my thinking and therefore the quality of my living.

It matters very little what field of circumstances is spread before me, whether Fortune has blessed me with bounty or bound me in need. Each and every choice, under whatever situation I find myself in, gives me the very same opportunity to act with virtue.

Show me hate, and I can choose to love, do me violence and I can choose to offer peace, surround me with lies and I can choose to speak the truth. It is this one thing that always remains completely my own as long as I do not surrender it. I often think of the words of Viktor Frankl:

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.

I am aware, however, not only how many times I have abused my freedom by choosing vice, but also how many times I have avoided my commitment to freedom entirely. It seems odd to say that I have chosen not to decide, but I do just that when I know precisely what I must do to live well, but I continue to allow myself to be swept along by what others may do to me.

Perhaps it seems easier to do nothing at all, or perhaps I assume that I can defer my decision for a later time. I deceive myself into believing I can make a mess of it right now, and clean it all up down the line.

Yet there will come a time when it is to late to choose what is right, and there will be no more chances to begin living well. I do not have all the time in the world, but I am only assured of this very moment right here and now. It is never too early to choose well, because I already have everything I need within me to do so.

2.7

Do the things external that fall upon you distract you? Give yourself time to learn something new and good, and cease to be whirled around.

But then you must also avoid being carried about the other way. For those too are triflers, who have wearied themselves in life by their activity, and yet they have no object to which to direct every movement, and, in a word, all of their thoughts.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.7 (tr Long)

If I am to worry less about what is outside of me, I must be certain to have something worth caring about inside of me.

It is never enough to tell myself that I must not be distracted by all the lesser things, when I have hardly paid any attention to nurturing the greater things. Stoicism is not about being a bump on a log, because life is itself defined by action; it is the end toward which all that action is ordered that will make all the difference.

Years ago, I enjoyed the company of one of the most charming old hippies I have ever met. When people asked him if he’d been at Woodstock, he would reply that he never thought music was about making more money for shady promoters. He had such a wonderful way of always sticking it to the man, of calling out greed, consumerism, and the decadence that is our entitled modernity.

As I got to know him, and I learned about all the things he thought didn’t really matter, including sucking up to your boss, mortgages, neckties, and working in very tall buildings, I asked him what he actually thought did matter. I was waiting for an epiphany.

He shrugged. “None of it matters,” he said softly. I loved this man, and though I have long lost touch with him, I still love him. Yet for that very brief moment, I saw something inside of him he had never revealed to me before.

He knew exactly the things Nature asked him to avoid, the shallowness of wealth, power, deceit, and arrogance, but he had no idea what to put in its place. For all of his exuberance and wit, he seemed quite adrift.

We would share Turkish coffee and cigarettes together at a local folk music club, and one day he just got up and told us he was moving on. “Don’t write,” he said, “because you won’t know where to find me.” The last memory I have of him is the sound of his old pale green Datsun backfiring.

I think of that man quite often, because I hope he found the peace and purpose every one of us deserves. When I first read this passage from Marcus Aurelius, he immediately came to mind. I was also the sort of fellow who first knew what to stay clear of, without also finding something to be dedicated to.

I would lie awake at night, thinking about finding someone who would choose to love me with complete dedication, about discovering friends who appreciated me for my own sake, about having my music, my writing, and my thoughts respected. I always hoped that I could make a living from doing what I loved.

I now see how all of those dreams were about what I wanted to happen to me, and not about the merit of what I did. Change the wording ever so slightly, and you can change the meaning quite drastically.

I would probably never make a living from doing what I loved, because most people will only pay you for what they want, not for what you want. Instead, I could make a life doing what I loved. Making a living and making a life are very different things.

Stay clear of what will harm you, but most importantly stay close to what will heal you. Define yourself by what you are, not by what you aren’t. Find joy in the greatness of what you may choose to do, not grief in the frustration of what others might do to you.

2.8

Through not observing what is in the mind of another, a man has seldom been seen to be unhappy; but those who do not observe the movements of their own minds must of necessity be unhappy.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.8 (tr Long)

One of my favorite philosophical definitions, for its simplicity, brevity, and clarity, is one of the formulations identifying the nature of justice from Plato’s Republic. Justice, we are told, is really nothing but minding one’s own business. Concern yourself with what is rightly your own, and let others concern themselves with what is rightly their own.

Now to think of all the grief I would have saved myself if I had taken this insight to heart. It applies, of course, to receiving what we deserve, to giving what is due, and to respecting the responsibility for our own affairs, but it also extends to respecting the responsibility for our own thinking.

I should surely know my own mind, because it is only from my own judgments that I can rule myself. But should I know the minds of others, and is it really my place to rule their judgments for them?

I have wasted precious time and effort in trying to understand why someone would so wish to hurt me, while also neglecting to think about how I should heal myself. I must come to terms with the fact that it I will never comprehend precisely what someone else is thinking, and that it would hardly do me any good if I could make sense of it.

There are many particular things I do not need to know, because they are simply not my business. What is my business, however, is getting my own thinking in order.

The lives of others, and the decisions they make, are perhaps very interesting to us because we can be more careless about something in which we have no real stake. At the same time, occupying ourselves with other people’s minds provides a convenient distraction from mastering our own minds. Ruling ourselves is hard, but pretending to rule others feels so easy.

Our double standard reveals itself when we are quite ready to pry, to meddle, to point fingers, and to judge others, but we resent it mightily when the same things are done to us. By all means, offer assistance when it is needed, and advice when it is sought, but be careful that such apparent concern does not simply mask a smug sense of superiority.

Though my intent may not be malicious, I am certainly diverting myself from managing my own thoughts when I worry more about someone else’s thoughts, and this can easily become a means for casting blame on others when I should instead be taking the blame for myself.

Yes, someone else may have done wrong, but let that be as it is, because I do not have any power over it. My task is not to live another’s life for him, but to live my own as best I can, and if I am confronted with something wrong, my only responsibility is to make quite certain that I do something right.

I often find it very difficult to reflect upon myself sincerely, since it is so easy to lie to myself and make up excuses. I am the only one, after all, who is capable of calling out my own inner thoughts. The discipline of self-awareness can be deeply frustrating, but I recognize more and more that I can only know myself if I calmly clear my mind of any external interference, including the unnecessary worry about the thoughts of another.

2.9

This you must always bear in mind, what is the Nature of the whole, and what is my nature, and how this is related to that, and what kind of a part it is of what kind of a whole; and that there is no one who hinders you from always doing and saying the things which are according to the Nature of which you are a part.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.9 (tr Long)

So much of undertaking the Stoic Turn involves seeing things in a broader perspective, and in recognizing not only who I am, but also how I exist in relationship to all other things. Sound estimation is not merely in squinting at something a bit differently, but in placing circumstances and actions in their right context.

Accordingly, I should never conceive of anything that happens to me, or any choice I make, or any deed I perform in isolation, because everything in Nature shares in a relationship with everything else. I will not always understand the specifics of all these connections, but I can trust with certainty that nothing exists in vain, and that Providence always acts for a purpose.

Marcus Aurelius is not only reminding us that every part exists within the fullness of the whole, of my particular human nature within the binding Nature of all things, but also that my own place as a part within the whole can never be taken from me. It is left to my power, and only to my power, whether or not I will choose to fulfill that place, however humble it may seem to me.

I have sometimes wondered if this is just a bit of wishful thinking, and if I am giving myself a power and significance I don’t really have. Surely there are so many ways that I can lose my place in things, that the events around me can take away my ability to act, that I become just another helpless piece of fate swept along by circumstances?

I would only think so, however, if I am not fully applying all the Stoic lessons on the true source of happiness. Human beings are not only living things, but living things endowed with reason and choice, and are defined not by what happens to them, but by what they do.

Now Fortune may indeed take away my possessions, my health, or my reputation, and she can even take away my life, but that is hardly what decides my place as a part within the whole. It isn’t my part to rule to world, or to decide how it will treat me, but it is simply my part to rule myself.

Nature has ordered it such that I have within me the power to determine my own choice, and that anything that may happen to me simply gives me greater opportunities to exercise that choice. Viewed from this perspective, I can say not only that nothing can hinder my own action, but also that everything can assist my own action, if I just make use of it rightly.

I can rest assured that as long as I decide to pursue my own good of living with wisdom and virtue, I am also playing my own part in the good of all that surrounds me. As long as I keep in mind my own responsibility in relationship to my world, I will hardly fail.

2.10

Theophrastus, in his comparison of bad acts—such a comparison as one would make in accordance with the common notions of mankind—says, like a true philosopher, that the offences which are committed through desire are more blameworthy than those which are committed through anger.

For he who is excited by anger seems to turn away from reason with a certain pain and unconscious contraction, but he who offends through desire, being overpowered by pleasure, seems to be in a manner more intemperate and more unmanly in his offences.

Rightly then, and in a way worthy of philosophy, he said that the offence which is committed with pleasure is more blameworthy than that which is committed with pain; on the whole the one is more like a person who has been first wronged and through pain is compelled to be angry, but the other is moved by his own impulse to do wrong, being carried towards doing something by desire.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.10 (tr Long)

Theophrastus was the successor to Aristotle at the Lyceum, the Peripatetic School. I share in Marcus Aurelius’ respect for his observation, because I have come across the same distinction so often in my own life.

It is necessary for me to consider not only that I am accountable for my actions, but also why I make the decisions I do, and how the nature of my choices affects the degrees of my responsibility. It is an act of judgment, informed by knowledge or by ignorance, that will ultimately determine how I act, but I must not underestimate the influence that the passions will play in that estimation.

Feelings are powerful things, and the greater their force, the greater the strength of mental discipline necessary to guide and order them. This is especially true if I have not yet built up good habits of self-control, which can make it possible to act with far less inner tension, or if my passions are suddenly excited.

Pain and pleasure are at the two ends of our emotions, and they in turn breed anger and desire. Pain is, of course, less agreeable than pleasure, and anger is usually more difficult to resists than desire. In my own experience, anger is sharp, spontaneous, and urgent, and can easily reveal itself through a state of panic. Desire, in contrast, always appears more subtle, deliberate, and intentional, and is often accompanied by a grasping calculation.

Anger acts with desperation as it violently lashes out at what pains us, but desire acts with selfishness as it cleverly consumes the pleasures we crave. Succumbing to anger seems far more instinctive, while surrendering to desire seems far more considered. Anger feels more like a rabid dog, and desire like a slowly constricting snake.

Whenever I have yielded to anger, I observe that I often immediately regret my mistake, sometimes even as the deed is being done, and I am far more willing to make things right. Whenever I have yielded to desire, I will surround myself with pathetic excuses, trying to justify as right what I know deep in my heart is quite wrong, and I will staunchly resist taking responsibility or making amends.

The blame is most certainly always my own, but I know desire is more grievous than anger, because it is far more purposeful in its character. My worst act of anger, which I feel guilty about every day of my life, arose from despair, but my worst act of desire, which I still find difficult to even acknowledge, arose only from greed.

It is surely no accident that I also find it easier to forgive the insult from a moment of rage than I do from a scheming act of lust.

2.11

Since it is possible that you may depart from life this very moment, regulate every act and thought accordingly.

But to depart from among men, if there are gods, is not a thing to be afraid of, for the gods will not involve you in evil; but if indeed they do not exist, or if they have no concern about human affairs, why would I wish to live in a universe devoid of gods or devoid of Providence?

But in truth they do exist, and they do care for human things, and they have put all the means in man's power to enable him not to fall into real evils. And as to the rest, if there were anything evil, they would have provided for this also, that it should be altogether in a man's power not to fall into it.

Now that which does not make a man worse, how can it make a man's life worse? But neither through ignorance, nor having the knowledge but not the power to guard against or correct these things, is it possible that the Nature of the Universe has overlooked them; nor is it possible that it has made so great a mistake, either through want of power or want of skill, that good and evil should happen indiscriminately to the good and the bad.

But death certainly, and life, honor and dishonor, pain and pleasure, all these things equally happen to good men and bad men alike, being things which make us neither better nor worse. Therefore they are neither good nor evil.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.11 (tr Long)

There is no reason to fear death if Providence rules the Universe, and there is no reason to desire life if Providence has no power.

I unfortunately have little patience for what I call “Hipster Stoicism”, a smug stress on self-reliance, an insistence on all of the lower bits, at the expense of the Providential order of Nature, a neglect of all of the higher bits. It is hardly my place to tell another how to think and live, but I do wonder how such an interpretation differs in any way from post-modern atheistic existentialism.

All the great Stoics had a trust in the power of the Divine, and they did not think of themselves in isolation, or surrounded by randomness. They understood their own power as a part of Nature, and as part of a whole ordered by design and purpose. Their own judgments and actions only made sense within that greater context.

Perhaps Providence has blundered, or missed something, or is prone to weakness, or is indifferent? I would only think this if I were applying my own limitations to what is by definition without limit. These are all aspects of imperfection, but what is absolute, the fullness of all the things that exist, will quite literally lack in nothing, and must of necessity be perfect. I may well forget about Providence, but Providence does not forget about me.

If the Divine indeed gives complete meaning to everything around me, I should never worry about how it will all end for me. If there were nothing Divine in the Universe, I would hardly care if it ends right now for me. I will find no peace in a world where the only satisfaction is the struggle to exercise my own selfish desires. Stoicism is not a trendy accessory to egoism.

Whatever happens to me, however gratifying or disturbing, has happened for a reason. God does not play dice with the Universe. Whatever the degree of it, we will all experience pleasure and pain, gain and loss, triumph and failure. None of these things are good or bad in themselves, but are only as good or bad as we choose to make them. The harmony within Nature makes it possible for us to find benefit from any circumstance.

Providence makes no mistakes. I am the one who makes the mistakes, whenever I fail to listen to what She teaches me.

2.12

How quickly all things disappear, in the Universe the bodies themselves, but in time the remembrance of them. What the nature is of all sensible things, and particularly those that attract with the bait of pleasure or terrify by pain, or are noised abroad by vapory fame. How worthless, and contemptible, and sordid, and perishable, and dead they are—all of this it is the part of the intellectual faculty to observe.

To observe too, who these are whose opinions and voices give reputation. What death is, and the fact that, if a man looks at it in itself, and by the abstractive power of reflection resolves into their parts all the things which present themselves to the imagination in it, he will then consider it to be nothing else than an operation of Nature; and if any one is afraid of an operation of Nature, he is a child. This, however, is not only an operation of Nature, but it is also a thing that conduces to the purposes of Nature.

To observe too, how man comes near to the Deity, and by what part of him, and when this part of man is so disposed.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.12 (tr Long)

Marcus Aurelius has a powerful, and somewhat disconcerting way, of indicating how weak and fragile so many of the things we care about really are. I hardly think he does so to shock or disturb, but rather hopes that we can move beyond a shallow life of impressions to the deeper insights of the mind. Discern everything that is beastly about you, and you will also come to reveal what is divine about you.

Material things, and all the elaborate ways we have of acquiring and keeping hold of them, will fail and decay, and our efforts will have been in vain. There was nothing lasting and noble in grasping for disposable playthings.

We cling to memory, but it is flighty and elusive. We almost immediately recall things not as they were, but as we wished them to be, and then even the illusion fades. Think of how often we say we will never forget, and then absolutely no one remembers.

Pleasure and pain are hardly things that decide how well we live, but we allow their coming and going to rule and determine us. We are frantic to embrace one and flee from the other, forgetting that they are in and of themselves empty.

Fame is even more fickle, because it doesn’t even take much time for favors and preferences to vanish. Yet many of us dedicate complete plans of life to the vanity of being admired and praised.

We are so terrified by death that we will go to any lengths to avoid it, or we will ignore its reality completely and hope it will simply go away. We are only acting on the force of impressions, and not reflecting on its meaning.

Birth and death, beginnings and endings, are a necessary part of the order of Nature, because it is through the joining and dividing of all the parts that the whole is made complete. If I have a part in the production of great play, why should I feel fear or resentment when all my lines have been delivered?

Now such thoughts about what is passing in life will only seem depressing if we stubbornly cling to the transient, and can find nothing else to take its place. I can choose to look beyond the immediate appearance of how something feels, to the lasting purpose of what it means. It is the right exercise of the mind that can make this possible. Because the mind rises above the limits of the body, it is also what is most godlike within us.

2.13

Nothing is more wretched than a man who traverses everything in a round, and pries into the things beneath the earth, as the poet says, and seeks by conjecture what is in the minds of his neighbors, without perceiving that it is sufficient to attend to the daemon, the guiding spirit within him, and to reverence it sincerely.

And reverence of the daemon consists in keeping it pure from passion and thoughtlessness, and dissatisfaction with what comes from gods and men. For the things from the gods merit veneration for their excellence, and the things from men should be dear to us by reason of kinship.

And sometimes even, in a manner, they move our pity by reason of men's ignorance of good and bad, this defect being not less than that which deprives us of the power of distinguishing things that are white and black.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.13 (tr Long)

We are far too quickly drawn to seeking satisfaction in the things that surround us, and to the assumption that wisdom should occupy itself with acquiring a mastery of the world. Yet happiness requires nothing more than the mastery of ourselves.

We only reach outwards for an imagined security in things entirely beyond our power because we have neglected the things entirely within our power. Let the world be as it is, but let me simply rule my own thoughts and deeds. That is sufficient. I should worry less about being rich, influential, pleasured, or clever, and far more about simply being good.

A man becomes a busybody when he fails to get busy with himself.

Listening to your daemon has nothing to do with following the forces of darkness. Remember, Socrates had a daemon that always told him the paths to avoid. The guiding spirit that dwells within us is representative of our conscience, of our knowledge of good and evil.

I may be tempted to complain and criticize, to cast blame on the world for whatever may be wrong with me, but my conscience should always tell me that it is not the fault of the gods, or the fault of my neighbor. Whatever is divine is worthy of respect because its dignity transcends mine, and whatever is human is worthy of respect because its dignity is equal to mine.

Even when I am faced with the error and ignorance of others, that is still something good for me, not so I can condemn or feel superior, but because it allows me the opportunity to have compassion, and to see what is right through the failure of what is wrong. Recognize that the man who cannot reflect upon what is good within him suffers like the man who cannot see what stands in front of him.

I am too easily distracted by what is hardly my business, and I am too eager in trying to conquer everything except myself. My joy or misery will never come or go by how I tinker with what is on the outside, but will rather depend upon how well I correct myself on the inside.

2.14

Though you should be going to live three thousand years, and as many times ten thousand years, still remember that no man loses any other life than this which he now lives, nor lives any other than this which he now loses. The longest and shortest are thus brought to the same.

For the present is the same to all, though that which perishes is not the same; and so that which is lost appears to be a mere moment. For a man cannot lose either the past or the future, for what a man has not, how can any one take this from him?

These two things then you must bear in mind: the first, that all things from eternity are of like forms and come round in a circle, and that it makes no difference whether a man shall see the same things during a hundred years or two hundred, or an infinite time.

The second, that the longest liver and he who will die soonest lose just the same. For the present is the only thing of which a man can be deprived, if it is true that this is the only thing which he has, and that a man cannot lose a thing if he has it not.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.14 (tr Long)

We sometimes struggle with arguments like this one, perhaps because of what seems to be a web of words, but I suspect it is most often because we think about a question too abstractly, and do not ground it sufficiently in the concrete act of living. By all means, consider time through the means of mathematics and physics, but do not neglect to also consider it from the immediate perspective of human experience.

We speak of our awareness of time in terms of the past, the present, and the future, of what was, of what is, and of what will be. The past is held in my memory, the present is what I am experiencing now, and the future lies in my expectation. Now these three are in relation to one another, but which can I truly say exists in the fullest sense? Only the present is, because the past is no more, and the future has not yet come to pass.

In this light, I should therefore remember that it is the now that I am actually living, and that I possess for myself. Even the present itself has no quantity, but is a constant process of coming and going, and it offers the same quality to all of us.

It will make no difference how long I have already lived, or how much longer I am going to live, because the Stoic measure of my life, of that which is within my power to decide, can be said to exist in its totality and completeness at any given moment.

I should never neglect my awareness of the past or of the future, but my estimation of them must always be ordered toward how well I am living. Think of how often we destroy the good now from hopes and fears about the past and the future. If I have lived poorly before, I can change that right now, and I should hardly live poorly now because of what may or may not still unfold.

The past is something I can learn from, and the future is something I can plan for, but no change in the quantity of either will matter if I do not strive for quality right here and now. Carpe diem.

Everything comes around, and Nature always offers the same order, and the same opportunities, whether through a larger or a smaller orbit. A long or a short life is in not in itself a blessing or a curse, because living is in itself complete.

For myself, pain from the past can often tempt me into despair, and all the metaphysics aside, Stoicism offers a very practical solution. The only thing I can really lose is right now, and it is ironic that only I am able to throw away the chance of that immediate moment, out of a worry for something that no longer exists. I end up foolishly abandoning what I do have for what I no longer have. It is only by rightly reordering my attention on what is or is not mine that I can make the most of my time.

2.15

Remember that all is opinion. For what was said by the Cynic Monimus is manifest; and manifest too is the use of what was said, if a man receives what may be got out of it as far as it is true.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.15 (tr Long)

The statement here that “all is opinion” is perhaps the most widely quoted passage from Marcus Aurelius these days, and I have seen it, and quite a number of creative variations, confidently referenced by people who may know absolutely nothing else about Stoicism.

I once met an interesting fellow who had a version tattooed on his arm, and I asked him what he thought it meant. “Truth is a lie!” he said, as he stared at me intently. I slowly nodded, and resisted asking him how he knew it to be true that there was no truth.

We live in an age of skepticism, where we deny that anything can be known for certain, and relativism, where we insist that nothing is every really true or false. There have been a variety of skeptics throughout the history of philosophy, but our own post-modern era has a special preference for it. I suspect we like to deny that there is any objective truth, because then things can mean whatever we want. It is the ultimate “get out of jail free card” for dodging accountability to anything beyond our own desires.

I do not know to what extent Monimus of Syracuse was himself a skeptic, because we have very few sources on his thinking. What should interest us here is how Marcus Aurelius understood the statement, and how this can assist us in the Stoic life.

Marcus Aurelius, like any good Stoic, defined man by his power to understand his own nature, and how he has a place within the Nature of all things. Our reason can be misled by judging hastily from impressions, or clouded by surrender to our desires, but our ability to judge what is true from what is false is in turn what decides how well we will live.

This is precisely what Marcus Aurelius is referring to when he says that “all is opinion”, because the way we think informs our every decision and every action. Hypolepsis refers here to how we take something up, reply, estimate, assume, or have a notion. This does not deny that there is truth, but asserts that it is our ability to distinguish the truth that will make all the difference.

I may also say, for example, that “it all depends on how you look at it.” This does not mean that there is nothing to look at, or that I am unable to see, but that how I go about looking will determine how clearly and fully I see something. My view certainly proceeds through my perception, but this does not validate any perception.

It is one of the essential lessons of Stoicism that any circumstance in my life is only as good or bad for me as what I will make of it, and this is what is clearly useful to remember. How we relate to our world, and the place of our own judgment in finding meaning and purpose within Nature, is itself a part of what reason must discover.

I should first learn what something is, and then learn how it can help me to live with virtue. An apple is good in itself for being an apple, but the question for me is then whether it is good for me to eat it. The moral good of anything proceeds from how the nature of something else can enrich the exercise of my own nature.

Our opinions will indeed shape our lives. Now let us be certain we have the right opinions instead of the wrong ones. It would be quite right, for instance, to think that we should make the most of what is given to us, but quite wrong to think that we are made by what is given to us.

The Stoic is not a skeptic, and anyone should carefully consider this before tattooing any Stoic slogan on his arm. Any opinion is only as helpful as far as it is true.

2.16

The soul of man does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an abscess and, as it were, a tumor on the Universe, so far as it can. For to be vexed at anything which happens is a separation of ourselves from Nature, in some part of which the natures of all other things are contained.

In the next place, the soul does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves towards him with the intention of injuring, such as are the souls of those who are angry.

In the third place, the soul does violence to itself when it is overpowered by pleasure or by pain.

Fourthly, when it plays a part, and does or says anything insincerely and untruly.

Fifthly, when it allows any act of its own and any movement to be without an aim, and does anything thoughtlessly and without considering what it is, it being right that even the smallest things be done with reference to an end; and the end of rational animals is to follow the reason and the law of the most ancient city and community.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.16 (tr Long)

As long as I can remember, I was told that it wasn’t nice to hurt other people. Now such an appeal can help to remind me that I should nurture respect for the rights of others, and sympathy for how they might feel. Yet there would sometimes be a sinister little voice deep inside, that one that would seductively suggest: “Well, sure, you might hurt someone else, but think about how much it will help you?” After all, despite what I was being told, I just had to look around me to see how many people seemed to thrive on the losses of others.

Yet that voice can only seem convincing if we are still working from a confused premise, the thinking that our vices may bring harm to others, but can also offer benefit for ourselves. As usual, Stoicism considers this from a different perspective.

Whenever I act unjustly toward another, I am most certainly doing wrong to him. Yet of all the things I may take away with force, with guile, or with deceit, I remain powerless over the very core of what he is, a being of reason and choice who can rule his own actions. I may act with vice toward someone else, but I can never make someone else act with vice. What he makes of the hurt I throw at him will be entirely up to him. He may even use it to be good himself in return.

At the same time, what have I done to myself? I may have affected the fortune of another, but I have deeply harmed my own nature. In choosing vice, I have surrendered the dignity of my own reason, and I have neglected the very core of who I am. My own actions were the only things that were ever truly my own, and now I have wasted them by loving all the wrong things. My intended victim may lose the goods of his body, but I lose the goods of my soul.

One of the first things I noticed in this passage by Marcus Aurelius is the claim that when we live poorly, we are really doing violence to ourselves. The text tells me not only what I should avoid in the way that I live, but also the very reasons why I am the one who ends up hurt the most.

Whenever I go around declaring war, hoping to be victorious over my enemy, I have already made myself my own worst victim. I am fighting myself most of all.

When I feel the world has been unfair, and that I have been treated poorly by my circumstances, I may think I should lash out and blame everything around me. I am hardly doing any violence to the Universe when I choose this, but I am certainly doing violence to myself.

When I resent my neighbor, and harbor malice toward him, I may think I will feel better if I cause him pain and loss, and that he should feel as badly as I may feel. I am hardly doing any violence to the Universe when I choose this, but I am certainly doing violence to myself.

When I am confronted by the lust for pleasure and the fear of pain, I may think it easiest to surrender my knowledge of what is right for the feeling of what is gratifying. I am hardly doing any violence to the Universe when I choose this, but I am certainly doing violence to myself.

When I see a difficulty looming ahead of me, I may think it more expedient to deceive than to practice integrity, to sacrifice truth for the sake of convenience. I am hardly doing any violence to the Universe when I choose this, but I am certainly doing violence to myself.

When I grow tired of effort, and I am tempted by the achievement of what is immediate at the expense of what is ultimate, I may think it best to neglect reflection on the meaning and purpose of my actions. I am hardly doing any violence to the Universe when I choose this, but I am certainly doing violence to myself.

Like they say, it only comes back to bite me.

2.17

Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing devoid of judgment.

And, to say all in a word, everything that belongs to the body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapor, and life is warfare and a stranger's sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion.

What then is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing and only one, philosophy.

But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without purpose, nor yet falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man's doing or not doing anything.

And besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from there, wherever it is, from where he himself came.

And, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than dissolution of the elements of which every living being is compounded. But if there is no harm to the elements themselves in each continually changing into another, why should a man have any apprehension about the change and dissolution of all the elements? For it is according to Nature, and nothing is evil which is according to Nature.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 2.17 (tr Long)

My own temperament can be subject to intense melancholy, so once I am reminded how frail, confused, and temporary my life is, I am easily prone to despair. That is the path I took too many times in the past, when the recognition that everything seemed like vapor would leave me only with sadness.

Stoicism offers me another path. I don’t need to wallow, nor do I need to deny that there is pain, or that life is so easily built on illusions, or that my existence is passing. Instead of succumbing to passion, or trying to excise it, I can also try to understand what all of this may mean, and to discover that there is purpose and beauty in even those things that appear the most fragile and delicate.

To say that philosophy is the solution will tempt the cynical and sneering man to protest. I spent many years in the formal study of philosophy, and many more years teaching in the academic world. I have seen people turn philosophy into a career for the pursuit of status and recognition, and I have seen philosophy become a means for trying to appear impressive. I am certain this is not what Marcus Aurelius is referring to, because these things are just another expression of vanity.

No, philosophy is not the act of pontificating about grand theory, but rather that critical point where thinking meets living. I have been given a time and a place on this earth to exist in, and a mind to make sense of it. Philosophy is when I embrace the opportunity to have these two things join together.

I attend rightly to my guiding spirit when I respect the power of my awareness and conscience to steer a safe course. I am not the master of the world, but I am the master of myself, through my own judgments and choices. My circumstances are beyond my power, but my response to them is completely within my power. What is good for me, or bad, for me, will depend entirely on what I decide I will make of whatever may happen.

Marcus Aurelius had just offered us a few guidelines for the life lived well, for an existence free from worry and violence, and he reiterates them here. I should rise above being frustrated with the world. I should not let pleasure or pain rule me. I should always, in things both big and little, remember the very purpose of the virtuous life. I should be absolutely dedicated to integrity. I should never allow my life to be determined by what others may or may not do.

But what about death and decay? The Stoic learns that death is not an evil. Just as a day will pass or a season will change, things come together, they come apart, and they then come together again into new things. In this way, Nature continually plays itself out in all its glory, the many parts in their many distinct ways serving the whole. I can certainly appreciate the beauty of this in the world around me, and I must now only accept that same beauty within myself.

3.1

We ought to consider not only that our life is daily wasting away and a smaller part of it is left, but another thing also must be taken into the account, that if a man should live longer, it is quite uncertain whether the understanding will still continue sufficient for the comprehension of things, and retain the power of contemplation which strives to acquire the knowledge of the divine and the human.

For if he shall begin to fall into old age, perspiration and nutrition and imagination and appetite, and whatever else there is of the kind, will not fail; but the power of making use of ourselves, and filling up the measure of our duty, and clearly separating all appearances, and considering whether a man should now depart from life, and whatever else of the kind absolutely requires a disciplined reason, all this is already extinguished.

We must make haste then, not only because we are daily nearer to death, but also because the conception of things and the understanding of them ceases first.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.1 (tr Long)

I have very fond memories of my great-grandfather. He would sing me Irish songs, tell me the most thrilling stories about his youth in Belfast, and reminisce about how he met my great-grandmother while traveling about England on his motorcycle. I especially remember the smell of his aftershave, and how he taught me to use silly putty to copy the comics from the Sunday newspaper. Mutt and Jeff was always his favorite.

Whenever he did something forgetful or foolish, my Nana would cry out, “Oh Huey!” He would turn to me with a grin, and say, “Ah, the mind is always the first to go with age!”

I hardly believed him, because I only noticed that older people appeared physically weaker, would lose their breath so easily, and had quite the time keeping up with my darting about here and there. His mind, however, seemed quite sharp, even as the frame of his body seemed worn and tired.

Decades after he passed away, I am beginning to understand what he meant. He had joked about it, as he did about most anything, but I suspect he saw how the clarity of his thinking was not what it used to be.

Though I am still quite younger now than he was then, I can sense something similar in myself. My thinking becomes sloppier, I forget what I should remember, and I make the most ridiculous errors of judgment. When I was younger, I made those mistakes because I was fiery and stubborn. Now I make them because I am slow and dull.

I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.

When I was young, I was foolish. I pursued the wrong trade, and I fell in love with the wrong girl. I will pay the price for both of those blunders until the end. In trying to turn myself around, and in striving to make something worthwhile of myself, I have also hesitated, made excuses, and put off what must be done. Regret in itself is pointless, but it does become worthy when it is a means for turning wrong into right, for fixing what I have broken.

There is never any guarantee that I have more time to make any good of those regrets. Yet the burden of age is not only that I will die, as much as I might want to deny it, or that I am getting weaker in my body, though they tell me there are apparently miracle pills for all of that.

The real burden of age is that my thinking itself becomes dull and hazy. The end of life for my body is hardly the point; the clarity of my mind is the key. Each day of procrastination and lazy excuses is a day of waste.

I saw my great-grandfather on a Sunday afternoon, and we watched a football game together. As was so usual way back then, the Patriots lost. He had a crippling stroke later that week, and the next time I saw him he seemed unaware of who I was, and he could not speak. They tied him to a bed or to a chair until his body died a year later. His soul had long been gone. Some company made quite a few bucks from maintaining a corpse.

I am myself a man sick in body. I was a bit surprised when fancy doctors told me that I had already gone through a few heart attacks, and that I was regularly suffering small strokes. I had always assumed it was just exhaustion, indigestion, or my usual bad mood. What the doctors told me worried me far less than the realization that my thinking was lagging well behind of my living.

Wise people always said I should never put off until tomorrow what I could do today. I get it now. I also get that it isn’t just about having a living body, but also about taking every opportunity I have to exercise a healthy mind.

3.2

We ought to observe also that even the things that follow after the things that are produced according to Nature contain something pleasing and attractive.

For instance, when bread is baked some parts are split at the surface, and these parts that thus open, and have a certain fashion contrary to the purpose of the baker's art, are beautiful in a manner, and in a peculiar way excite a desire for eating.

And again, figs, when they are quite ripe, gape open; and in the ripe olives the very circumstance of their being near to rottenness adds a peculiar beauty to the fruit.

 And the ears of corn bending down, and the lion's eyebrows, and the foam which flows from the mouth of wild boars, and many other things—though they are far from being beautiful, if a man should examine them severally—still, because they are consequent upon the things which are formed by Nature, help to adorn them, and they please the mind; so that if a man should have a feeling and deeper insight with respect to the things which are produced in the Universe, there is hardly one of those that follow by way of consequence which will not seem to him to be in a manner disposed so as to give pleasure.

And so he will see even the real gaping jaws of wild beasts with no less pleasure than those which painters and sculptors show by imitation; and in an old woman and an old man he will be able to see a certain maturity and comeliness; and the attractive loveliness of young persons he will be able to look on with chaste eyes; and many such things will present themselves, not pleasing to every man, but to him only who has become truly familiar with Nature and her works.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.2 (tr Long)

Over the years, this has become not only one of my favorite Stoic passages, but one of my favorite bits of writing ever. There is something wonderful about the language here, and that descriptiveness helps to highlight what can truly make things pleasant, attractive, and beautiful.

What I may or may not find appealing will ultimately depend on what I find most valuable in life. If I make pleasure the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to what excites the passions. If I make wealth the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to the thrill of acquisition. If I make honor the standard of my life, then I will be drawn to display and ostentation.

Yet if I choose to order my life around Nature, I can admire something not because it satisfies my lust, my greed, or my arrogance. I can perceive it as attractive simply because I recognize the effects of it doing what it is made to do, of fulfilling its own distinct part in the order of all things joined together. The beauty is in the evidence of its function and purpose, however unappealing it may seem in other ways.

Old age need never be repulsive, and youth need never be titillating. Each reveals through its actions what makes it noble in its own way. An earthworm is no less glorious than a sunset, or a tall oak more precious than a patch of moss.

While others call them filthy creatures, rats with wings, and diseased vermin, I have always enjoyed pigeons in the way Marcus Aurelius describes. The pigeon is not a peacock or an eagle, and is hardly admirable for its vibrant colors or its fierce strength. They may be pesky, a bit dirty, and unassuming, but they get the job done. I enjoy the sounds they make, the flapping of their wings, how they find comfort in swirling groups, and the way they bob and tilt their heads.

I once followed a girl around like a puppy because everything about her physical appearance and her social charms seemed irresistible. It did not occur to me that the mere cultivation of image was hardly beauty, and that real appreciation for another person should came through the measure of Nature, through the cultivation of character. Show me the consequences of a kind and noble soul, and you’ve shown me real beauty.

3.3

Hippocrates, after curing many diseases, himself fell sick and died. The Chaldean soothsayers foretold the deaths of many, and then fate caught them too. Alexander, and Pompey, and Caesar, after so often completely destroying whole cities, and in battle cutting to pieces many ten thousands of cavalry and infantry, themselves too at last departed from life. Heraclitus, after so many speculations on the conflagration of the universe, was filled with water internally and died smeared all over with mud. And lice destroyed Democritus, and other lice killed Socrates.

What does all this mean? You have embarked, you have made the voyage, and you have now come to the shore. Get out.

If indeed to another life, there is no want of gods, not even there. But if to a state without sensation, you will cease to be held by pains and pleasures, and to be a slave to the vessel, which is as much inferior as that which serves it is superior: for the one is intelligence and deity, while the other is earth and corruption.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.3 (tr Long)

I was once told that young people behaved like fools because they didn’t fear death enough, and that old people behaved like fools because they feared it too much. Though I will sometimes get funny looks for saying it, I’ve always thought that Stoicism has a very healthy sense of life and death, one that finds the balance between the vain pride of assuming I am immortal on the one hand, and the morbid horror of dancing with the reaper on the other.

I should hardly fear either living or dying, because each gives a necessary context for the other. Beginnings, middles, and endings ought to proceed naturally into one another. If I have lived well I should be quite glad to die well, and only if I have lived poorly will I shudder at the prospect of dying poorly.

I am well advised to always have my kit packed and ready at a moment’s notice. If I don’t feel ready to disembark from the ship to the shore, maybe I am afraid that I squandered the voyage.

I have my own thoughts on the question of life after death, but I make it a point not to bore others with the details of those musings. I also deliberately bracket the question for myself in a very practical sense, in that I try to live in a way where it would make no difference whether or not I will go on to another existence. I do this not because I think the question unimportant, but rather because it helps me to consider doing good for its own sake, and not merely for the promise of some later reward.

I see something similar in what Marcus Aurelius has to say here, which in turn mirrors the words of Socrates at the end of Plato’s Apology. If there is indeed another life, one where my individual awareness will continue, then I can see this as a way to continue to live closer to what is Divine. If there is no life beyond this one, and my individual awareness will cease, I will no longer be troubled by the weakness of the body, and in that way too I will be closer to what is Divine.

I should never worry myself about death, because whether it is followed by something or by nothing, it can always remind me of the importance of living well.

3.4

Do not waste the remainder of your life in thoughts about others, when you do not refer your thoughts to some object of common utility. For you lose the opportunity of doing something else when you have such thoughts as these: what is such a person doing, and why, and what is he saying, and what is he thinking of, and what is he contriving, and whatever else of the kind makes us wander away from the observation of our own ruling power.

We ought then to check in the series of our thoughts everything that is without a purpose and useless, but most of all the over-curious feeling and the malignant. A man should use himself to think of those things only about which if one should suddenly ask, “What have you now in your thoughts?” with perfect openness you might immediately answer, “This or that”, so that from your words it should be plain that everything in you is simple and benevolent, and such as befits a social animal, and one that cares not for thoughts about pleasure or sensual enjoyments at all, nor has any rivalry or envy and suspicion, or anything else for which you would blush if you should say that you had it in your mind.

For the man who is such and no longer delays being among the number of the best, is like a priest and minister of the gods, using too the deity which is planted within him, which makes the man uncontaminated by pleasure, unharmed by any pain, untouched by any insult, feeling no wrong, a fighter in the noblest fight, one who cannot be overpowered by any passion, dyed deep with justice, accepting with all his soul everything that happens and is assigned to him as his portion; and not often, nor yet without great necessity and for the general interest, imagining what another says, or does, or thinks.

For it is only what belongs to himself that he makes the matter for his activity, and he constantly thinks of that which is allotted to himself out of the sum total of things, and he makes his own acts fair, and he is persuaded that his own portion is good.

For the lot that is assigned to each man is carried along with him and carries him along with it. He remembers also that every rational animal is his kinsman, and that to care for all men is according to man's nature, and a man should hold on to the opinion not of all, but of those only who confessedly live according to Nature.

But as to those who do not live so, he always bears in mind what kind of men they are both at home and away from home, both by night and by day, and what they are, and with what men they live an impure life. Accordingly, he does not value at all the praise that comes from such men, since they are not even satisfied with themselves.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.4 (tr Long)

I have no idea how I survived it, but I once spent a good four years of my life obsessed daily with what someone else was doing and thinking.

I wanted to blame and accuse for what I thought was wrong, but I had to accept that I only needed to hold a mirror to myself. I should never condemn someone else for what I did. I began to see that people would be as they are, and I can do little about it. I will also be as I am, and I can do everything about it.

I had done exactly what Marcus Aurelius warned me against. I thought too much about the thinking of others, and I had paid absolutely no attention to my own thinking. Too much concern for what was outside of me made me neglect what was inside of me. It was a surrender of self-rule.

If I am to honestly examine myself, I see that it is my mind that is most fully my own, and that it is through the disciplined ordering of my own judgments that I can be my own master. All of my impressions, instincts, or passions may tug at me in this or that direction, and may ask me to run away with them, but it is my own estimation and choice that can harness all of those forces toward a life that is decent and worthy.

I suppose I have always known this in some sense, but I have clearly not always been living it. I think of how much time and effort I dedicated to the service of my body, my pleasure, my property, or my position, and how little time and effort I dedicated to cultivating my reason. I don’t mean merely the exercise of academic learning, which I perhaps did a bit too much of, but the daily practice of directed contemplation and orderly reflection on the priorities of living.

By all means, I should nourish and exercise the body to keep it healthy, but I should always dedicate my attention first and foremost to the good habits of my thinking. Everything else will depend upon this.

I have never really been able to develop any radical or clever methods for contemplation or meditation, but whenever I have been successful at this, I need to take my time and calm my nerves. I can certainly be doing something menial or relaxing at the same time, but my mind needs to untangle itself.

Now finding that interior peace and quiet will often meet with immediate opposition. Feelings and images will flash about and tempt me to distraction. I do know people who have built up the strength to swiftly nudge aside their passions when they are doing their thinking, and I admire them for it, but I have not yet managed to reach that stage. Instead I do something a little different. I catch hold of the feeling or image, and I gently pin it down.

I now look at it from different angles, and consider its different aspects. Though I may have been troubled by something that at first seemed frightening or harmful about it, I now deliberately look for something that is comforting or helpful about it. Instead of reacting to how much something may hurt, I try to calmly contemplate how much that same impression can be a tool for making myself better.

If I manage not to let myself be swept away through all this, I can arrive at a wonderful state of balance, where the pieces can fit together, and where I can discern just a glimmer of the power of my own judgment within the order of Providence. The exercise of my thinking can move beyond how something feels to what it means, and how it can provide purpose.

What I choose to think about will make a great difference to whether I am at peace or in conflict. My mind is often full of clutter, and it is often preoccupied with petty or shameful things. I need to follow the advice of Aurelius, and regularly ask myself whether the content of my thoughts is worthy of a man trying to be good. Like a muscle in the body, the practice of thought and choice becomes ever so much easier with regular practice.

As Aristotle suggested, habit is key, and I can become a good man by starting to do good things. Thoughts will perhaps seem to pop in and out of my awareness, but I do need to remember that I am ultimately the only one who decides what I will think about, and how I will think. What I allow my mind to be filled with will determine the merit of my living.

By reflecting seriously on how anything can be a means for wisdom and virtue, I can charge myself with a commitment to always rule my passions, but never to let them rule me. I can embrace that my life will be as fair and as just as I myself make it. I can find fulfillment in the simple act of loving my neighbor, because he and I are the same in nature.

Just as I must order my thoughts from within, I must also order what sort of people I choose to influence me from without. I cannot remove greed or malice from my own living if I am also seeking the recognition and approval of those who are themselves greedy or malicious. I am surely called to care for everyone, but I should never allow my own thinking to be inspired by just anyone.

3.5

Labor not unwillingly, nor without regard to the common interest, nor without due consideration, nor with distraction; nor let studied ornament set off your thoughts, and be not either a man of many words, or busy about too many things.

And further, let the deity which is in you be the guardian of a living being, manly and of ripe age, and engaged in matter political, and a Roman, and a ruler, who has taken his post like a man waiting for the signal which summons him from life, and ready to go, having need neither of oath nor of any man's testimony.

Be cheerful also, and seek neither external help nor the tranquility that others give. A man then must stand upright, not be kept upright by others.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.5 (tr Long)

I have often had a tendency to take something I perceive to be good, but then foolishly pursue it to excess, so this advice from Marcus Aurelius on seeking directed and balanced purpose is very welcome in helping me to steer the proper course.

To stand upright for myself is to discover meaning and happiness in my own thoughts and deeds, and not as dependent upon my circumstances. My own character is never defined by what others will think, say, or do to me, but what I will think, say, or do myself.

I have sometimes misinterpreted this, and I have falsely assumed this must mean distancing myself from others, living in as solitary a way as I can, and being wary of any support or assistance that may be offered. This sort of misguided toughness has led me to confuse standing for myself and standing by myself, to think that self-reliance assumes isolation.

I forget too easily that I do not live in a vacuum. My own virtue will never flourish if I hide all those nice principles away in a box, and it will only be properly lived when I can engage with the world around me, when I can give of myself, and when I can work together with others. Cooperation is not the surrender of self-rule, but a means by which we can all assist each other to be our own masters.

I have also slipped into an opposite extreme, and though fired by a commitment to be of service, I find I have unwittingly made my own value contingent upon appreciation. I may know full well that I should do something because it is right, not because it is convenient, and that a person thrives through giving instead of receiving. Somehow my wires are still crossed, however, and I still come to expect some sort of external reward for my efforts. If this does not happen, as will so often be the case, I become frustrated and resentful, and I can slide right back into isolation.

Despite occasional outbursts of Irish temper, I tend to be a shy and sensitive soul. I always feel anxious in reaching out, and I feel deeply hurt when I am rejected. The only way I can keep myself on the right path is to constantly remember, in the most ordinary of daily tasks, that my good is in what I do, and not in what is done to me. I can then find that balance, where I should never run from others, while others should never run me.

3.6

If you find in human life anything better than justice, truth, temperance, fortitude, and, in a word, anything better than your own mind's self-satisfaction in the things which it enables you to do according to right reason, and in the condition that is assigned to you without your own choice—if, I say, you see anything better than this, turn to it with all your soul, and enjoy that which you have found to be the best.

But if nothing appears to be better than the deity which is planted in you, which has subjected to itself all your appetites, and carefully examines all the impressions, and, as Socrates said, has detached itself from the persuasions of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods, and cares for mankind—if you find everything else smaller and of less value than this, give place to nothing else, for if you do once diverge and incline to it, you will no longer without distraction be able to give the preference to that good thing which is your proper possession and your own.

For it is not right that anything of any other kind, such as praise from the many, or power, or enjoyment of pleasure, should come into competition with that which is rationally and politically or practically good. All these things, even though they may seem to adapt themselves to the better things in a small degree, obtain the superiority all at once, and carry us away.

But to you, I say, simply and freely choose the better, and hold to it. But that which is useful is the better. Well then, if it is useful to you as a rational being, keep to it. But if it is only useful to you as an animal, say so, and maintain your judgment without arrogance. Only take care that you make the inquiry by a sure method.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.6 (tr Long)

Few things in this life have given me greater joy and comfort than the opportunity to reflect on who I am, and why I am here. I have learned that I am given a mind so that I may discover what is true and good through my own reasoning. I can knowingly rule myself, and need not just blindly allow myself to be ruled.

At the same time, few things discourage me as much as the bickering and bullying that can sadly come with the life of the mind. Ideologues try to rigidly impose their own thinking, and demagogues confuse philosophy with sophistry.

This is perhaps one of the reasons I have always felt at home in the company of Stoicism. The good Stoic, the one who pursues not merely the name but the task, does not insist upon his own way, and he does not impose his own rules upon others. He may come to know with great depth and certainty how to distinguish between what is true and false, and between what is right and wrong, but he also understands that he cannot force anyone else to understand. He knows that, however long and hard the road may be, we must all come to understand for ourselves.

Bagehot, in The English Constitution, said that the Crown in a constitutional monarchy did not have the right to dictate or to demand, but rather “the right to be consulted, the right to encourage, the right to warn.” Though obviously in a rather different context, I suggest that the true philosopher has much the same rights. He will feel a duty to offer his guidance along the way, but he will not tell us what we must think or decide.

I know it seems an old and hackneyed phrase, but we do still use it for a reason: you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. Indeed, you can show a man the truth, but you can’t make him think. Socrates understood this.

Marcus Aurelius follows in this same spirit. If I can think of anything more beneficial than the Stoic life, then I should by all means follow that other life. He asks only that I be sure I have made the most reasonable decision. Much as St. Thomas Aquinas argued, make certain you always follow your conscience, but also make certain your conscience is always informed.

Do I have good reason to think that the life of pleasure, power, or praise will make me complete and happy? If so, life should be lived that way with total commitment. Do I have doubts, however, that this is really the best life? Have I noticed how these things may seem helpful at some times, but can also become deeply harmful at other times? Might I suspect that there are greater goods to guide the way? Then I must surely reconsider the priorities I have set for myself.

I only need to think this through for myself, and not merely do what the world tells me to do, in order to see that pleasure, power, or praise are inferior to virtue, and that they will only become good or bad when they are ruled by prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude. My own honest estimation will show me the way.

Once I have made my decision, one way or the other, I must stand firm with it. Compromising the higher for the lower, or making excuses for the inferior at the expense of the superior, hardly shows a genuine respect for what I claim to value. If I wish to have it both ways, it becomes clear that I didn’t really know what I wanted to begin with. If I wish to sell out prudence for thoughtlessness, justice for greed, temperance for lust, or fortitude for equivocation, I am deeply confused about who is the rightful master.

It will be frustrating, but ultimately liberating, for me to make my choice. I must decide if I am a man ruled by character, or a beast ruled by gratification.

3.7

Never value anything as profitable to yourself that shall compel you to break your promise, to lose your self-respect, to hate any man, to suspect, to curse, to act the hypocrite, to desire anything that needs walls and curtains.

For he who has preferred to everything else intelligence, and the daemon and the worship of its excellence, acts no tragic part, does not groan, will not need either solitude or much company.

And, what is chief of all, he will live without either pursuing or flying from death, but whether for a longer or a shorter time he shall have the soul enclosed in the body, he cares not at all; for even if he must depart immediately, he will go as readily as if he were going to do anything else which can be done with decency and order, taking care of this only all through life, that his thoughts turn not away from anything which belongs to an intelligent animal and a member of a civil community.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.7 (tr Long)

We live in a society that quite rightly says we must have respect for ourselves, and we have television celebrities who make millions telling us all about how much that matters. I am then saddened by how we repeatedly miss the mark. I wonder how often we confuse respecting ourselves with gaining the respect of others, whatever the cost to ourselves may be.

I think of all the people I have known who have the most impeccable image of propriety in public, smiling for the camera, as they say, while in private they lie, cheat, steal, and treat other human beings as disposable commodities. It becomes the image of decency imposed upon a core of depravity.

I should hardly throw stones, because I have seen how easily I can be willing to sell my own dignity. I recall that episode of The Twilight Zone, “Mr. Denton on Doomsday”, where the town drunk will disgrace himself to entertain the bar patrons, only so they will toss him a free drink.

I know I have failed to keep my word because it would have been unpleasant or inconvenient. I have violated what I think is decent to cut corners. I have responded to others with hate instead of love, just because it was easier. I have doubted people I should trust since I questioned only myself, and I have trusted people I should doubt since it seemed to offer quick gratification. I have insulted others when I could not manage myself. I have said one thing and done exactly the opposite, thinking I could have it both ways.

Perhaps worst of all, I have assumed I can always retire behind a cloak of appearances, and be someone who gets what he wants, but who cannot bear to have others see him getting what he wants. Privacy triumphs over decency. A priest I once knew, one of the good ones, told me that we would never feel shame if we had nothing to hide, and we would hardly hide anything that is good about us.

I only need to stop playing, and to start living. Respect is not about being the cock of the walk, but about being able to look myself in the mirror without cringing. It doesn’t matter if I am alone or in a crowd, because I only need to follow the guidance of my own reason, and the integrity of my own character. Then there is no need for play acting, or pretending to be the victim.

Marcus Aurelius returns to the immanence of death time and time again, not because of any morbid obsession, but because he knows it is the ultimate test of human character. If it were to end right now, would there be regret? Would I try to change anything at the last moment? Would I have to be like the host who has unexpected guests, and must hurriedly tidy up before anyone can see the mess?

I will only fear death if my house is not in order. I can know that I am living well, in decency and order as wisdom and virtue demand, if I have nothing that is hidden away, nothing of which I need to be ashamed, and nothing that I have left undone. I can whistle as I walk down the street if I have shown respect to myself, and thereby shown respect to all of Nature.

3.8

In the mind of one who is chastened and purified you will find no corrupt matter, nor impurity, nor any sore skinned over.

Nor is his life incomplete when fate overtakes him, as one may say of an actor who leaves the stage before ending and finishing the play.

Besides, there is in him nothing servile, nor affected, nor too closely bound to other things, nor yet detached from other things, nothing worthy of blame, nothing that seeks a hiding place.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.8 (tr Long)

I have often wondered what part I am expected to play in life, whether I will manage to complete it, and how I might possibly know when the job is done. It can seem a bit like trying to assemble something without directions, or finding a destination without a map.

I may worry that I am playing a guessing game, uncertain if I have overlooked some important part, or if I took a wrong turn somewhere. I may fret about the whole outcome, and ask myself if it would be better had I only made different choices. Is this the life I was supposed to have, or did I botch it?

The very fact that I will worry in this way is itself a part of the hindrance. I am concerned whether, as Marcus Aurelius says, fate has overtaken me. This is only a problem, however, if I am defining myself by my circumstances, if I am enslaved by what goes on around me. It hardly makes a difference what the conditions of my life may be, or how all the pieces are lined up, but rather how I go about thinking and acting, whatever the situation is. I’m so obsessed with having my ducks in a row, that the ducks have made me forget myself.

This is why it doesn’t matter if my life is long or short, rich or poor, revered or reviled. I may play the lead, with my name in lights, or I may play a bit part. I may even just sweep the stage after the show. I shouldn’t bother myself with where I may be located, or if I am in the situation I’m somehow supposed to be in. Nature will take care of all of that on her own, and she only asks me to act with virtue, whatever comes my way.

I see this as being what is “purified” about a Stoic life. I can remove what is extraneous, whatever ties me down to worrying about having the world ordered in just the right manner. The world already is ordered as it should be, and I just need to order myself. I am not separated from other things, but I am also not ruled by them.

I sometimes think of a Stoic liberty like an artist who is able to work in any medium. He is able to make something beautiful, whatever he may have at hand.

I think of my wife, who has the knack of throwing together a delicious meal from anything that happens to be in the pantry. She doesn’t need a cookbook, and her instincts are such that she has long abandoned measuring cups.

I think of my father, who told me that an education doesn’t really depend as much on the school you go to, but on what you find for yourself wherever you attend.

I’ve heard it attributed to Yogi Berra, the Buddha, or Confucius, but I first learned it from Buckaroo Banzai: “No matter where you go, there you are.”

Some people tell me it’s all about “being in the right place” in your life, but I have started to think it’s more about doing the right thing, wherever I happen to be. I may not know how the plot will unfold, but I don’t need to. I have the moral equipment to manage myself however it may go, or whenever it may end.

3.9

Reverence the faculty that produces opinion. On this faculty it entirely depends whether there shall exist in your ruling part any opinion inconsistent with Nature and the constitution of the rational animal.

And this faculty promises freedom from hasty judgment, and friendship towards men, and obedience to the gods.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.9 (tr Long)

Everything else will proceed from our estimation, from the manner in which our judgments inform our choices and actions. It will be for us to decide if we follow opinion that conforms to reason and Nature, or if we let opinion be moved only by the push and pull of impressions and desires.

I was always deeply inspired by all sorts of stories as a child, and they didn’t have to be the popular ones from television cartoons or comic books. I remember the first time someone told me the story of the Judgment of Solomon, and my first response was one of complete horror. All I could initially see in my imagination was a mean and heartless king, who appeared willing to cut a child in half just to prove some point. 

It had been my uncle who told me the story, after I had asked about a painting in his rectory. I told him how I thought the decision seemed wrong, because it was built on fear. He kindly and patiently asked me to think about it from a different point of view. I can still remember his words: “Solomon looked at the disagreement between the two women, and he found where there was real love in all of it.”

Over the years, this worked on me in two ways. First, whenever I came across the story again, I began to have more of an understanding for Solomon’s dilemma. He was confronted with two rival claims, and with no apparent way to distinguish between them. It must all have looked like a jumble of accusation, anger, and jealousy. Yet in the midst of this, he discerned a way to determine the rightful mother. He uncovered the truth behind the appearances, what was just and fair beyond the emotions.

Second, I also began to see how my own reaction to the story itself underwent a change, from being overwhelmed by instinctive feelings, to reflecting on what those feelings meant. What looked to me like recklessness and cruelty was actually wisdom and compassion. It allowed the true thoughts and intentions of the women to come to light. Solomon had seen beneath the mask, and I was doing something similar within myself.

Feeling that rushes ahead of thinking will inevitably lead to careless action. Impressions are powerful, but understanding makes it possible for me to consider something from different sides, and to see the reasons for all of those possible perspectives. I could feel only my own desire or resentment, or I could go further and ask why I am feeling it, how another may be feeling, and what I can do to gain a mastery over myself.

I can surely only show respect for a friend, or a reverence for Providence, if I seek to see things as they are, not only how they feel to me at a certain moment.

3.10

Throwing away then all things, hold to these only which are few; and besides bear in mind that every man lives only this present time, which is an indivisible point, and that all the rest of his life is either past or it is uncertain.

Short then is the time which every man lives, and small the nook of the earth where he lives; and short too the longest posthumous fame, and even this only continued by a succession of poor human beings, who will very soon die, and who know not even themselves, much less him who died long ago.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.10 (tr Long)

When I first began to take an interest in Stoicism, many years ago, I would often find myself frustrated with the repeated insistence that most everything I thought meant something really meant nothing at all. My possessions were vanities, my honor was fleeting, and my life itself was brief and uncertain.

What I did not immediately recognize was that making less of such things was intended to help me find something else that could mean so much more. Instead of defining myself by how everything acted upon me, or by what had happened or could happen, I needed only to define myself by how I acted, right here and now.

Less is indeed more, in that I need very little to be happy. I need only myself, in whatever circumstances may come and go. I am well advised to leave behind anything that is an unnecessary diversion.

I remember one of those moments when it all clicked, when someone was telling me that I should feel proud that I would be remembered for doing this or that. It came to me that it was an illusion to think that reputation could last, and that it hardly mattered if it did. What would it help me if someone knew a few hazy things about me some day, if I didn’t even fully know myself in the brief time I was alive?

Fame can give me no satisfaction now, because it is all about what other people are thinking, and it will certainly give me no satisfaction later, because I will soon be gone. It passes into shadowy images and dusty footnotes, and is soon completely forgotten.

I recall a professor, who was a close family friend, honored and praised to high heaven upon his retirement, and when he passed away a few years later, very few seemed to know who he was anymore. A few pieces of art that were in his home are now in mine, and I treasure them because they came from him, but before too long that strand of memory will also come to an end, and they will be just pieces of canvas.

Thoughts such as these might have saddened me before, but I find increasing comfort in them now. This isn’t because they take something away, but because they reveal something beautiful. They allow me to nurture only my own character, with no worry for any ornaments or trappings.

Over the years, I have learned to travel light whenever I take any sort of journey. I carry only the bare minimum, and I improvise the rest. I can then zip here and there unburdened, while I see others struggling with their luggage and growing frustrated with finding room for all their accessories. Instead of taking photographs of everything I encounter, or buying souvenirs at every corner, I simply enjoy the act of being wherever I am.

To throw away what is unnecessary is not just about things, of course, but about an attitude of living, of finding joy in what is truly my own, and being freed from all of the rest.

3.11

To the aids that have been mentioned let this one still be added. Make for yourself a definition or description of the thing which is presented to you, so as to see distinctly what kind of a thing it is in its substance, in its nudity, in its complete entirety, and tell yourself its proper name, and the names of the things of which it has been compounded, and into which it will be resolved.

For nothing is so productive of elevation of mind as to be able to examine methodically and truly every object which is presented to you in life, and always to look at things so as to see at the same time what kind of Universe this is, and what kind of use everything performs in it, and what value everything has with reference to the whole, and what with reference to man, who is a citizen of the highest city, of which all other cities are like families; what each thing is, and of what it is composed, and how long it is the nature of this thing to endure which now makes an impression on me, and what virtue I have need of with respect to it, such as gentleness, manliness, truth, fidelity, simplicity, contentment, and the rest.

Wherefore, on every occasion a man should say: this comes from God, and this is according to the apportionment and spinning of the thread of destiny, and such-like coincidence and chance; and this is from one of the same stock, and a kinsman and partner, one who knows not, however, what is according to his nature.

But I know. For this reason I behave towards him according to the natural law of fellowship with benevolence and justice. At the same time, however, in things indifferent I attempt to ascertain the value of each.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.11 (tr Long)

It may seem superfluous, perhaps even a bit condescending, to ask that we be sure to know what things are. This reminds me of those moments when my parents were patiently giving me directions on how to complete a task, and I would stand there rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth, because I was certain that I didn’t need to be told again.

But I did need to be told again, because I hadn’t been listening, and I hadn’t done it right the last time.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I quite often haven’t a clue what something really is. I will only give attention to the impression, to the way it happens to feel to me right there and then, and I will respond to it only with desire or aversion. I will end up considering an object, or a place, or a person, hardly as something else at all, but just as a feeling that is pleasant or unpleasant, useful or useless, interesting or boring. It then enters into or passes out of my awareness only when it excites my passions, and I only see the aspects that appear relevant to my wants.

To know something is not only to see it relative to my perspective, but also to see it for what it is in its own identity, what it is composed of, where it has come from, and where it is going. Perhaps most importantly, it is to see that thing in its relationship with other things around it, and how its own specific purpose is bound and connected to the purpose of the whole.

This is suddenly not so easy a task, and it indicates to me that the process of coming to understand my world and myself is concurrent with the very act of living itself. It will only end when my experience has exhausted all the aspects of the pattern, or when my experience has returned back into the pattern, whichever may come first.

I do not know if it is a sign of progress or a sign of becoming slightly unhinged, but whenever I have the leisure of patient observations and reflection, I will often find myself looking at something from different angles, perspectives, shades of color, and strands of connections. My imagination sometimes takes on the qualities of an M.C. Escher print, but it is surely no accident that this passage from Marcus Aurelius also comes to mind whenever I do so.

To strive to know in this way has become most helpful for me when I try to consider another person. I try to go beyond simply the aspect of who that person seems to me, to who that person is for himself, for others, for Nature itself, as a vehicle of Providence, as a creature of God. I remember that no person is meaningless or disposable, and it is from this conviction that I can claim kinship with him. It is not necessary that he recognize it for me to recognize it.

3.12

If you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, but keeping your divine part pure, as if you should be bound to give it back immediately; if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with your present activity according to Nature, and with heroic truth in every word and sound which you utter, you will live happy.

And there is no man who is able to prevent this.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.12 (tr Long)

I barely know anymore what I can say about this passage, because it is now one of my dearest friends, and one of my greatest comforts. It is hard to describe or praise something that is so close. I refer to it most every day, and I no longer need to look it up, because every word of it is firmly fixed in my memory.

I used to arrogantly look down on people who fell back on the recitation of prayers and sayings, or those who glorified and enshrined the words of others from the past. It seemed so lifeless, and it seemed too much like a show of appearances, a reverence that only served to praise the self by striking a pose.

I still believe that this is true for far too many of us, but I can begin to discern the difference between the man who postures and the man who bows. Some people will abuse sacred words of wisdom to draw attention to themselves. Others respect sacred words of wisdom in order to serve what is true and good. By their fruits shall you know them.

When I feel overwhelmed by my feelings, or overtaken by my circumstances, I turn to a quicker version of what Marcus Aurelius says, to my own briefer summation:

If I keep my divine part pure, I will live happy. No one can prevent this.

Words have power, though not in and of themselves, since they are but signs. They are, in the narrow sense, scratches on paper and sounds in the air. They have power on account of what they signify, from the reality that they point toward. They are the tools that can help me to get the job of thinking done.

Still, an attention on the word alone can assist me in completing the task, as something that provides a framework and calms the spirit. There is a certain peace that comes from recitation and repetition, as it focuses a sort of thinking free of diversion. Even if I am not fully conscious of it at the moment, the word reminds me of what is worthy.

I may not have the time or luxury to go through all of the reasoning right there and then, when life has suddenly hit me with a ton of bricks. The word can trigger a memory, the memory can trigger a habit, and the habit can set me on the right path before I even know what I have done. Habits allow us to react without hesitation, and they can be quite good, as well as quite bad.

My silly amended version of Marcus Aurelius has helped me far more than I can explain. I may face something that is downright wrong, I may confront ignorance or malice, or I may feel flattened by the weight of uncontrollable events.

I take a deep breath, I close my eyes for just a moment, and I try to care little for what happens to be occurring outside of me. I repeat those words to myself, however many times is necessary, and I engage again.

This has rarely failed me. I usually fail myself when I neglect to do it.

I believe that the second part of the phrase is just as important as the first part. Not only am I my own master, but there is also no way that anyone can take that from me, as much as he can take anything else.

3.13

As physicians always have their instruments and knives ready for cases that suddenly require their skill, so you should have principles ready for the understanding of things divine and human, and for doing everything, even the smallest, with a recollection of the bond which unites the divine and human to one another.

For neither will you do anything well that pertains to man without at the same time having a reference to things divine, nor the contrary.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.13 (tr Long)

We naturally expect the artist or craftsman to be familiar with the tools of his trade, and we assume that he is trained in their use through constant practice. His tools become like an extension of himself. He will know what needs to be done, and what he will need at hand in order to get it done.

We would further expect this to be especially true for a physician, who must diagnose and treat ailments of the body at a moment’s notice, and at the most unexpected times, so he will always try to have his tool of the trades available. I could hardly expect my mechanic to fix my car if I were to show up at his door in the middle of the night, but I would never hesitate to ask my doctor to fix what ails me at any time of the day.

We should rightly be impressed at the training and skill that go into any trade, but especially with those where so much can be at stake so suddenly.

I now think of how much more is at stake, at every moment of our lives, when we make those ultimate decisions about what is true or false, right or wrong. Even the greatest medical skills will be useless if they are not ordered toward the service of the human good. So what are those even more crucial tools we need to pursue our highest meaning and purpose?

Many of us seem to go into the field woefully unequipped. We may have prepared ourselves for years in our professions, in the mastery of the means, but we have paid little attention to the vocation of Nature, to the achievement of the end.

I once had a moment of extreme frustration, resolved only with the application of the most profuse Stoic calm, when I was being repeatedly criticized by someone for wasting so much of my time on philosophy. Politics was the way to go, I was told, the practical arena where things got done, not some ivory tower filled with useless ideas and values.

Instead of feeling angry or hurt, I needed only to remember that we differed on the question of whether ends are superior to means, whether what we lived for should determine the merit of all of the rest of our living.

I will be the first to insist that life should be eminently practical, but I do not assume this excludes questions of meaning and purpose. I work from the premise that the life well lived must of necessity include these questions, because it is precisely what gives direction to every action.

To use a common Classical image, the best seaman, skilled in all the trimming of sails, will be useless without the art of navigation. A politician uninformed by a conscience would be quite similar. He may have all the tools of management and organization, but it will be his moral tools that determine if he employs his professional skills for justice or for tyranny, for service or for slaughter. 

I recognize that the tools I need at hand at all times are those that will allow me to consider myself, and everything that is around me, in relation to such guiding principles. I must try to understand the relationship of the whole and the part, of the unchanging and the changing, of the absolute and the relative, of what is divine and what is human.

Within myself, it is my mind that shares more fully in what is divine, and my body that shares more fully in things of the earth. To know myself is then to know how each aspect must play its part, not in exclusion of one another, but in harmony with one another.

Put another way, it isn’t about the forest or the trees, but about the forest through each one of those trees. The relationship goes both ways, from the top down and from the bottom up. As Marcus Aurelius had previously said, I will understand something more fully when I grasp how all of Nature works together, both the higher and the lower.

I don’t think I could ever have made a good physician, not only because I have a squeamish tendency, but also because I’m hardly clever enough to understand the principles or manage the tools. I maintain hope, however, that I can still muddle my way through becoming a good man, and gain some competence with the use of the tools I need to do so.

3.14

No longer wander at hazard, for neither will you read your own memoirs, nor the acts of the ancient Romans and Greeks, and the selections from books which you were reserving for your old age.

Hasten then to the end that you have before you, and throwing away idle hopes, come to your own aid, if you care at all for yourself, while it is in your power.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.14 (tr Long)

“That’s all right, no worries. I know it’s important, but I’ll get to it later.”

Few words have gotten me into deeper trouble. If I truly know something to be important, I will do it now, and not put something else in its place. It will only be as important to me as it stands in the priority of my own thoughts and actions.

Such a priority is certainly one about the time that is given to me, but it is also about the depth of the concern I have within that time. Whether or not there will be an opportunity down the road, I should strive to act with virtue now. A word may express an intention, but an action binds that word with true commitment.

I have foolishly told myself how much I may love and cherish someone, for example, and been content only with those thoughts in my head, planning vaguely to act on them someday. It is certainly too late for me when time, which never offers any guarantee other than the immediate now, finally runs out, but it is also already too selfish of me, at any time, to withhold anything that Nature asks me to give. If I care for someone, I must do what is in my power to assist him in his own struggles, and if I am sorry for the wrong I have done, I must do what is in my power to make it right.

Now. Not later.

In college, I smugly made myself a list of all the “Great Books” I had to read to be properly educated. I was so busy making the list that I often neglected to start reading them, and when I did read them, I was usually far more worried about giving the impression of a decent life than the real living of a decent life. College was great at teaching me the fine art of clever appearances.

I had always assumed that everyone eventually “got wise” to life, but I have seen that this is hardly the case. The weight of procrastination and poor habits has never made it any easier for me to be a good man.

Marcus Aurelius speaks of the “idle hopes”, what I have often experienced as the vain expectation that circumstances will somehow end up going a certain way, and then I can go about fixing everything I might have broken. I have found that a very silly end to aim for. It is sadly all about what happens, not about what I choose to make happen. As a creature with a body, I am acted upon, but as a creature with life and reason, I can also act for myself.

It is the interplay of these two active and passive principles that drives all the motions of Nature, and it’s time I played my own small part. Stoic physics and Stoic ethics go together.

I had a wonderful student, a few years back, who would often come to me just to unwind and bounce ideas back and forth, and I noticed that she often spoke of her relationship with her parents as “doomed”. Now I hope I was wise enough not to try and run her life for her, which would, of course, defeat the whole purpose of living, but I tried to respectfully suggest that nothing was ever doomed unless we allowed it be so.

“But you don’t understand, because I can never make them happy! They always want me to do something I can’t do, or expect something I can’t give them!”

I most certainly did understand. I have seen in my own life that I can never make others happy, but I have also seen that this does not doom my love for them. It is within my power to give that love, but not within my power to expect it in return. It is my duty to act, and not my duty to make others act. Perhaps the conditions will not work out as I may have preferred, but I do not consider that something doomed.

I have come to my own aid if I have done right, and Providence willing, I may even help someone else come to his own aid and get it right for himself. None of it is about what may or may not happen, or whether my memoirs are worth reading. There is no putting it off for some other time. I can practice the virtues right here and now, and trust Providence to take care of the rest.

3.15

They know not how many things are signified by the words stealing, sowing, buying, keeping quiet, seeing what ought to be done.

For this is not effected by the eyes, but by another kind of vision.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.15 (tr Long)

As with so many terms, especially those that concern our human actions, we speak of “seeing” both literally and figuratively. I will say that I see something with my eyes, and I will also say that I see it in my mind. Similarly, I will hear the words from someone’s mouth, and I will hear him when I understand what he is thinking. I will sense the object in my hand, and I will sense its meaning. I will get a package in the mail, and I will get something when I have figured it out.

If I say that I love strawberry ice cream, and that I love my wife, or if I say that I want to go to sleep, and that I want to be happy, I am using a word on two different levels. In one way, I am speaking of a desire within my body, and in another, I am speaking of a decision within my mind and will. These are reflections (see, there’s another one of those words) of two distinct but necessarily related aspects of our humanity.

Now Stoic physics generally argued that everything was “matter”, though I have always suggested that the Stoics understood matter in a much broader sense than we do. The unity of being in Stoicism, of a single Universe in which all things are emanations, avoids the difficulties of treating “matter” and “spirit” as two distinct or separate realms. Yet to say that the Universe is all matter is not to say that it is all sensible matter, but it also admits of intelligent matter, which is mind. There is lower matter that is moved, and higher matter that causes motion.

My reflection is becoming a bit too much like one of those annoying classes I have taught too often, and for that I apologize. I simply wish to propose that the materialism of our age is fixated only with the lower degree of matter, of that which concerns a sensible body. The Stoics, I think, saw something else behind it all. They knew that mind directed, ordered, and gave purpose to sensible bodies.

This is the other kind of vision that I believe Marcus Aurelius speak about. It is not seeing with the eye, but comprehending with the intellect. Perhaps I have been reading philosophy for far too long, or perhaps I am simply an odd fellow, but when I look at so many people around me, it often seems as if they are bodies without heads. It is indeed a grotesque image, but a fitting one nonetheless.

What Vedanta Hindu philosophy called “gross matter”, as distinct from “subtle matter”, is all we seem to care about, and we define our lives by the desires of our gross bodies. The mind has been all but removed from the picture.

We want pleasure, so we reduce love to a mere sexual act. We want possessions, so we reduce ownership to a mere collection of things outside of us. We want respect, so we reduce character to a mere reception of status and esteem.

Virtue, the act of choosing to live with excellence, is hard to find, and has been pushed aside, along with dignity, integrity, and conscience. Gratification replaces morality, and getting replaces giving.

A human being is no longer a who, a creature gifted with insight and freedom, but a what, a bag of instincts and nerves. Living is no longer about thriving in joy, but surviving in conflict. Engage others by insulting and demeaning them, and never consider that engagement is possible with care and kindness.

I have heard those stories about chickens running around with their heads cut off. I hardly think them ridiculous. I see it very often when I go to work, shop at a store, get on the Internet, or try to renew my license at the DMV.

Yet I will still always find the beauty of men and women who see not only with their eyes, but also see with their minds. They see what ought to be done with the vision of reason, and they understand that other people are not objects, but subjects. A man is made of lumps of flesh, that can be bought and sold as a commodity, but he also has a divine spark that makes him priceless.

Some people look at stealing, sowing, buying, keeping quiet, or seeing what ought to be done in terms of a utility of the passions. They see life as a balance ledger of profits and losses for their convenience. Other people look at these same things in terms of right and wrong. They see life as a limitless giving of the self.

Seeing can indeed mean very different things.

3.16

Body, soul, intelligence: to the body belong sensations, to the soul appetites, to the intelligence principles.

To receive the impressions of forms by means of appearances belongs even to animals.

To be pulled by the strings of desire belongs both to wild beasts and to men who have made themselves into women, and to a Phalaris and a Nero.

And to have the intelligence that guides to the things which appear suitable belongs also to those who do not believe in the gods, and who betray their country, and do their impure deeds when they have shut the doors.

If then everything else is common to all that I have mentioned, there remains that which is peculiar to the good man, to be pleased and content with what happens, and with the thread which is spun for him, and not to defile the divinity which is planted in his breast, nor disturb it by a crowd of images, but to preserve it tranquil, following it obediently as a god, neither saying anything contrary to the truth, nor doing anything contrary to justice.

And if all men refuse to believe that he lives a simple, modest, and contented life, he is neither angry with any of them, nor does he deviate from the way which leads to the end of life, to which a man ought to come pure, tranquil, ready to depart, and without any compulsion perfectly reconciled to his lot.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 3.16 (tr Long)

Man shares in the powers of sensing and desiring with the nature of other animals, but it is the addition of the power of reason that is distinct to human nature. Even then, it is not the presence of the intellect alone that makes us good men. I may choose to abuse my understanding in the pursuit of vice, just as I may choose to use my understanding well in the pursuit of virtue.

As a rational animal, it will be my judgment, and not only my instinctive desires, that move my actions. If, however, I judge it to be right and good to be arrogant, to turn on my friends, or to surrender to lust, I have surely judged, but I have not judged according to Nature. The power to think is a gift that can be nurtured or squandered.

When I consider the properties common to any good man, I always return to the fact that he does not demand that the world do anything extraordinary for him, but he is always ready to do extraordinary things himself. He worries far less about his rights, about what is owed to him, and far more about his responsibilities, about what he himself owes to others. He gladly comes to terms with what is beyond his power, and takes a firm hold of what is within his power.

When Marcus Aurelius speaks of being content with the thread that is spun for us, I think immediately of the image of the three Fates, the Moirai, who in turn spin the thread of life, measure its proper length, and then cut it at the right time. This may appear frightening, because it seems to take so much away from us, but it can also be an opportunity, because it can help us to make the most of what is given, whatever circumstances of life Nature provides.

My character will hardly be challenged when all the conditions of life are in accord with my preferences, when I am healthy, rich, or respected. My character is put to the test when what happens to me may be contrary to my desire or expectation. It is then that I can choose to rule myself, instead of trying to rule the world. It is then that I can show respect in the face of disdain, justice in the face of greed, or kindness in the face of anger.

I am not a good man when the Fates are spinning, measuring, and cutting only as I would wish them to. I can be a good man when I am reconciled to whatever outcome they have chosen.

4.1

That which rules within, when it is according to Nature, is so affected with respect to the events that happen, that it always easily adapts itself to that which is, and is presented to it.

For it requires no definite material, but it moves towards its purpose, under certain conditions however, and it makes a material for itself out of that which opposes it, as fire lays hold of what falls into it, by which a small light would have been extinguished. But when the fire is strong, it soon appropriates to itself the matter that is heaped on it, and consumes it, and rises higher by means of this very material.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.1 (tr Long)

The Stoics, like so many other traditions from around the world, would use the image of fire as a representation of the activity of Divine Reason, which gives order and purpose to the motion and change in all different things. Human reason, in turn, is an emanation of this Divine Reason, a sort of spark, by analogy, that proceeds from the Fire that charges the Universe.

However we may wish to understand or imagine it, the ruling principle within us is not merely something acted upon, but something that is itself a source of action. It is my own power of judgment that makes it possible for me to direct how I live, through the manner in which I think. Things will happen around me, but I can adapt myself, as Marcus Aurelius says, to whatever may happen.

It is not even the particular content of events that matters, because, in a sense, any old events will do. Raise me up or lay me down, put me here or there, in a crowd or all by myself, for all of those situations can be put in the service of what is good through the exercise of the mind.

It may even be those things that seem to oppose me most fiercely that can also be the most useful in helping me to become more virtuous.

In what was probably the lowest moment of my life, I frantically reached out for guidance from someone I trusted. Unlike most everyone else, he did not tell me I should ignore my plight, or grow hardened to it, or run away from it, or pray it away. He did not tell I was being too sensitive, or not strong enough.

“Yes, I’d call that some of the worst kind of hurt. Now what are you going to do with it?”

I expressed my worry that this would make me heartless, that I would become the very thing that had knocked me down.

“Oh no, it won’t make you heartless, though you could choose for yourself to go that way. But I have a hunch you won’t follow that path. How are you going to turn hate into love? Can you transform it?”

I began to understand what he meant, but it took me many more years to even start living it.

To employ the analogy offered by Marcus Aurelius, fire can be said to meet with things that will try to smother it, but a fire that rages and burns hot, properly tended, can consume or alter most any substance. It will not merely destroy the things that stand against it, but it will reshape and employ them to increase its own strength. Fire breaks down what it confronts, reconstitutes what it has reacted with, and thereby burns even hotter and brighter.

As a being gifted with reason, with that Divine spark, it is within my power to face what I fear might extinguish me, and to transform those conditions into moral growth. A properly tended mind can do just that. What is wrong may be rebuilt into what is right, and what I thought were bad things can then make me better. Then, in my own small way, I may participate in what is Divine.

4.2

Let no act be done without a purpose, nor otherwise than according to the perfect principles of art.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.2 (tr Long)

Now it may seem quite obvious to say that everything should be done with a purpose, or that everything should be done well. Surely we all have our reasons for acting as we do, and we all try to do our best?

Sometimes, however, we don’t appear to act for any real purpose at all, or at least not for one that can be clearly conceived or intelligently articulated. Our intentions may come only from surrender to instinct and desire, or we may embrace what seems to be easiest or most popular. We may act from thoughtless habit, or from the pressures outside of us, or from a hasty estimation of impressions.

Why did we do this or that? “I don’t know.” “Just because.” “I felt like it.” “Who cares?” We often associate these sorts of responses with younger people, though I have heard them just as often from those who are older. Those of us who should know better just sound more smug and clever when we speak this way.

Nor do we always strive to do things well. In fact, we quite often do as little as we can to scrape by. Indeed, having perhaps neglected to keep in mind a purpose, we also neglect to have our actions live up to any real goal or expectation.

The principles of art here are not just those of art in the narrow sense of the fine arts, but art in the broader Classical sense, techne, of using the powers of the mind to make or produce something that is or practical use and benefit. It is the skill of any fine craftsmanship. A man who makes something well will take pride in his production, because he knows what purpose it serves, and he knows what is needed to achieve that purpose. The means of his craft are always ordered toward a proper end.

Remove that aiming for a goal, and we remove our concern for how well we do the job. If we don’t care why we are doing something, we will hardly care about the quality of what we do.

The Stoic, I believe, will always keep in mind the ultimate purpose of everything that he does, in even the most commonplace tasks. Once he forgets this, his actions are unmoored and drifting without direction. How is the smallest deed assisting me to perfect my human nature, and how is this in turn serving the fullness of all Nature?

I often find myself frustrated with a chore, or burdened by doing something that seems pointless. It won’t make me rich, it isn’t making me feel good, and it certainly doesn’t get me any appreciation. Why bother doing it well, or even doing it at all?

When I feel that kind of resentment, I know I need to tune my thinking. I will make a deliberate decision to reorder my sense of purpose. I take a moment to remind myself that I am not here on this earth to make money, or to be gratified, or to win anyone’s respect. I am here on this earth to be happy by practicing wisdom, courage, temperance, and justice, and anything I do, however menial it may seem, can give me a chance to do all of these things. I am here for a reason, and everything I am faced with can share in that reason.

Practice can, of course, make this easier, but quite often, when I am distracted by false goods, I find myself having to start from square one. No matter. Like Hephaestus at his forge, the god of all craftsmen, I can strive to make something of the highest quality, in the knowledge that it improves me, and that it may assist others in improving themselves. That can be my purpose, and that can be my reward.

4.3.1

Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores, and mountains, and you too are wont to desire such things very much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men, for it is in your power whenever you shall choose to retire into yourself.

For nowhere, either with more quiet or more freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect tranquility.

And I affirm that tranquility is nothing else than the good ordering of the mind. Constantly then give to yourself this retreat, and renew yourself, and let your principles be brief and fundamental, which, as soon as you shall recur to them, will be sufficient to cleanse the soul completely, and to send you back free from all discontent with the things to which you return.

For with what are you discontented? With the badness of men? Recall to your mind this conclusion, that rational animals exist for one another, and that to endure is a part of justice, and that men do wrong involuntarily. And consider how many already, after mutual enmity, suspicion, hatred, and fighting, have been stretched dead, reduced to ashes, and be quiet at last.

But perhaps you are dissatisfied with that which is assigned to you out of the Universe? Recall to your recollection this alternative: either there is Providence or atoms, the fortuitous concurrence of things. Or remember the arguments by which it has been proven that the world is a kind of political community, and be quiet at last.

But perhaps corporeal things will still fasten upon you? Consider then further that the mind mingles not with the breath, whether moving gently or violently, when it has once drawn itself apart and discovered its own power, and think also of all that you have heard and assented to about pain and pleasure, and be quiet at last.

But perhaps the desire of the thing called fame will torment you? See how soon everything is forgotten, and look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of the present, and the emptiness of applause, and the changeableness and want of judgment in those who pretend to give praise, and the narrowness of the space within which it is circumscribed, and be quiet at last.

For the whole earth is a point, and how small a nook in it is your dwelling, and how few are there in it, and what kind of people are they who will praise you. . . .

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.3 (tr Long)

Some of us will go on a vacation to brag, to show how prosperous we are, by all of the exotic locations we visit. A woman I once knew was deeply angry about misplacing her holiday photos, and I’m not sure she quite grasped the meaning of what she said: “What’s the point of going abroad if I can’t show it off?”

That is simply another aspect of playing the game. It isn’t even about fun, but about appearing to have fun, so that others will be impressed, and will envy our fake blessings.

Others go on vacation to get away from it all. I can relate to this a bit more. Yet I have run away so many times, whether it is a journey, or a change of life, that I also begin to see how shallow this attitude can be. It is less a matter of where I might be going, but more a matter of what I might be fleeing from.

Where I grew up, working class men defined their success by the power to buy a summer home on Cape Cod. I was told that folks in Philadelphia think they have it made when they get a place on the Jersey Shore. In San Antonio, you need a cabin in the Hill Country. The fortunate might make their way to Hawaii for their fun in the sun. The absolute best of us go to the south of France.

Let us, by all means, enjoy all the pleasures of life. The Stoic should never oppose enjoyment. But flight can never make something right. Running from something offers no distance at all from who we are inside of ourselves.

I have far too often overlooked the greatest refuge Nature has given me, the comfort of my own mind and heart. When I have run away, I was really just trying vainly to avoid myself. I thought that moving away from the things that hurt would make it easier, but it didn’t. I thought that changing cities would make it easier, but it didn’t. I thought that moving from the city to the country would make it easier, but it didn’t.

I had everything I needed all along, but I had forgotten it.

What was really troubling me? It was my stubbornness in facing myself. I didn’t need to go anywhere else, or do different things. I didn’t need to retreat from myself, but I needed to retreat within myself.

What a treasure it is to find tranquility within oneself. It’s all there, because the value of my life depends on the soundness of my thinking. I will then be concerned only about the things that truly matter to me. Remove the foolish love of false things, and I remove the worry about what I perceived as being wrong.

Am I frustrated by the actions of others? I need only my own action.

Am I frustrated by what fate has given me? I need only the power of my own choice.

Am I frustrated by greed and lust? I need only the recognition that they do not rule me.

Am I frustrated by what others may think of me? I need only, in humble honesty, to think well for myself.

Going somewhere else won’t make it any better. Being someone better will make it better.

4.3.2

. . . This then remains: Remember to retire into this little territory of your own, and above all do not distract or strain yourself, but be free, and look at things as a man, as a human being, as a citizen, as a mortal.

But among the things ready to your hand to which you shall turn, let there be these, which are two.

One is that things do not touch the soul, for they are external and remain immovable; but our perturbations come only from the opinion that is within.

The other is that all these things, which you see, change immediately and will no longer be. And constantly bear in mind how many of these changes you have already witnessed. The universe is transformation; life is opinion.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.3 (tr Long)

I have often found myself amazed at the manner in which Stoicism not only provides me with sound principles, but also the way in which the most basic use of these principles can yield very concrete and immediate results. There can be a wonderful concurrence here between thinking and doing.

I may understand in theory, for example, that some things are within my power, and some things are beyond my power. But where am I to draw that line in everyday living? Pondering this ever more abstractly, which can be one of my grave weaknesses, may not help at all, and it may only confuse me even more.

So instead, I can just examine each individual thing, situation, or relation that crosses my experience, however simple or common, and I can put it to the test. Is this within the realm of my freedom, or do I need to strain and distract myself to try and bring it under my control? I realize then, of course, that I am not controlling it at all, but I am letting it control me. I can then clearly distinguish between what is mine, and what is not mine, and I can adjust my scope and intention accordingly.

The two guidelines Marcus Aurelius offers here can greatly assist me in doing this.

First, the things outside of me are not forcing me think in a certain way. They are what they are in themselves, but I am the one making the judgment about what they are for me. Someone may have acted poorly, and failed his own character, and he may even have intended to harm me. The vice or the harm will only reach me, however, when I permit them to do so from my own estimation, when I respond with my own judgment and action.

Second, what may seem so terrifying or unbearable is never lasting. I would often scoff at being told that “this too shall pass,” but I was never really considering how little power a past event itself possessed, as it had long ceased to be. The power came from what I still considered of it in my memory and attention. The world is always moving along, and what is at one moment is soon no longer. Why do I worry about something that does not exist?

The appeal to simple phrases sometimes helps me get through the day.

Am I facing frustration with something that has happened, moments ago or years ago? “Move along, nothing to see here!” It will soon transform into something else.

Am I confronted with fear, loss, or anger? “This is mine. That isn’t mine.” I will claim my own thinking, and leave the rest.

4.4

If our intellectual part is common, the reason also, in respect of which we are rational beings, is common. If this is so, common also is the reason that commands us what to do, and what not to do. If this is so, there is a common law also. If this is so, we are fellow citizens. If this is so, we are members of some political community. If this is so, the world is in a manner a state. For of what other common political community will any one say that the whole human race are members?

And from this, from this common political community, comes also our very intellectual faculty, and reasoning faculty, and our capacity for law.

Or from where do they come? For as my earthly part is a portion given to me from certain earth, and that which is watery from another element, and that which is hot and fiery from some peculiar source (for nothing comes out of that which is nothing, as nothing also returns to non-existence), so also the intellectual part comes from some source.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.4 (tr Long)

I grow frustrated with the divisions between persons, and then I remind myself that frustration is never an answer. Then I grow saddened with those divisions, and I further remind myself that sadness is never an answer. My anger, or my despair, are in my own estimation, so I need to attend to fixing myself, not lashing out and trying to fix anyone or anything else. I can only be of aid to anyone when I have mastered myself, and when I therefore have something of worth to offer.

That worth will never come from posing, posturing, or preaching. I remain convinced that a sincere Stoic, whatever other things he may also value, can never build himself up by tearing someone else down. I ought to define myself in relation to others by what is fundamentally common, not by any characteristics that draw attention to what is different.

What essentially makes me any different from any other human being on this earth right now, or from any human being who has ever lived? At our very core, we are all one and the same. What the Aristoteleans called accidents, or what the Stoics called the ways we are disposed, do not define us. Our race, age, sex, wealth, status, or position, here or there, then or now, makes no real difference.

I am a human being, not just any sort of being, and not just any sort of living being. I have within me a life of sensation and feeling. I also have within me a life of reason. I not only feel, but I can understand what I feel, why I might feel it, and the nature of the things I am feeling about. I can consider the why, not just the what. I can move beyond what it seems like to me, to what it is in itself. I can then act according to Nature, not merely to my particular preference.

I have come to avoid any “-ism”, even Stoicism, if we are to define it as some set school of which some are members, and from which others are excluded. Any and all truth, in any and all times or places, should surely be about finding what is common and universal. If it is somehow special and particular, I will choose to pass.

Is it primarily about being a member of a tribe, a club, a nation, a creed, a cult, or a political ideology? I will choose to pass. Is it primarily about race, gender, upbringing, rite, culture, or class? I will choose to pass. There are many things I may or may not prefer, but my preference should never outweigh my commitment to a shared human nature.

They told my grandfather that he wasn’t a good Austrian, because he didn’t believe in fighting a certain war. I was recently told I was a bad American, because I didn’t believe in torturing suspected terrorists. It all changes, yet it all stays the same.

All people are made of the same stuff, but most importantly, all people share in the same basic qualities, the second of the four Stoic categories of being. The power of reason makes us the same. This, in turn, gives us a shared nature, a shared purpose, a shared model of right and wrong, and a shared law. There isn’t just what is good for me, or what is good for you. There is what is good for all of us. We proceed from one and the same origin, and we are directed to one and the same end. 

I neglect this at my deepest peril. Once I oppose myself to my brother or sister, I reject that universal source and goal. I can certainly be a citizen of Athens or of America, of Rome or of Russia, but with Diogenes of Sinope, that iconoclast Cynic, I must first be a citizen of the world.

4.5

Death is such as generation is, a mystery of nature, a composition out of the same elements, and a decomposition into the same, and altogether not a thing of which any man should be ashamed, for it is not contrary to the nature of a reasonable animal, and not contrary to the reason of our constitution.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.5 (tr Long)

In my teenage years, I admired all sorts of books, films, and music that may now seem horribly cheesy. You will have to forgive my nostalgia for a moment, but even the things from way back then can still be of great use to me now, accompanied with both a wry smile and a slow shake of the head.

The movie Highlander, directed by Russell Mulcahy, starring the inimitable Christopher Lambert and the legendary Sean Connery, was one of those guilty pleasures. It later spawned a whole franchise, but I remain convinced there should have been only one. As corny and over-the-top as the film sometimes was, there were parts that genuinely made me think. The brilliant soundtrack by Queen certainly didn’t hurt. Who knows what effect it would have had on me if my favorite band, Marillion, had done the music, as was originally planned?

Few things could draw the attention of an adolescent male, already in love with Tolkien, Herbert, Howard, and Zelazny, as the premise that a breed of Immortals had been hidden throughout human history, fighting one another across the ages for some mysterious Prize.

From the dawn of time we came, moving silently down through the centuries. Living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the Gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last. No one has ever known we were among you . . . until now.

Sweet. What a wonderful gift it must be to be granted immortality, to never age, to never tire or grow ill, to constantly gain in knowledge, skill, and power, to have no limit of time to do what I might desire. I would only die if my head came from my body, and if I did that to the other Immortals before they did it to me, I would become like a god. As one of the songs by Queen said:

Here we are, born to be kings.

We're the princes of the Universe.

But with that immediate cool factor passing to the side, what seems so right becomes so wrong. The blessing of immortality is actually a curse. As the Universe changes, I remain the same. As other things are born, grow, and die, I am nothing but a static fixture. I can only sit there and watch others live their lives with purpose, struggle, risk, loss and gain, sadness and joy, while my own life is a husk. There is nothing I can love, nothing I can aim for, because my own permanence stands within the impermanence of my surroundings. It actually ends up sounding like a living Hell.

Another song by Queen ended up having it right:

Who wants to live forever?

Forever is our today.

Beginnings, middles, and ends are at the very heart of the flow of Nature. That’s the deal, and if I try to outrun death, I will find myself regretting it.

It was nicely appropriate when the nature of The Prize is revealed at the end of the film. I won’t spoil it if you haven’t seen it, but there are two parts to it. Each is fitting, and each is quite Stoic. There is the unity of all things, and there is the passing of all things.

Don’t lose your head.

4.6

It is natural that these things should be done by such persons, it is a matter of necessity; and if a man will not have it so, he will not allow the fig-tree to have juice.

But by all means bear this in mind, that within a very short time both you and he will be dead; and soon not even your names will be left behind.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.6 (tr Long)

I have felt angry when I see people act with greed, lust, or deception, and then I have felt even angrier when they continue to do so with impunity, or are even praised and rewarded for their deeds. In the simplest sense, it just doesn’t seem fair.

Whenever I feel this way, I must remind myself of two things, each of which is crucial to the peace of a Stoic life. First, Providence has a place for all things. Second, the things that look so big from one angle will become quite small when viewed from another.

Gifted with reason, every man will choose for himself what he considers to be best. His actions may be virtuous or vicious, and from this he will surely determine whether he lives in happiness or in misery.

Yet even when he has done wrong, Providence always offers a way for it to be rebuilt into something right. The reason, order, and purpose in all things will take our freedom, and include it as a part of a greater necessity. Nothing occurs in Nature without serving the good of the whole.

I may not understand exactly how each thing will be a means to that end, but I can be certain that it will be, because I know that nothing in Nature acts in vain. The beauty of such design is that something that seems so wrong will suddenly become the opportunity for something so right.

Instead of wanting to remove bad people from the world, or denying them their power to make their own choices, I can instead think of how even their disorder can be used to assist in achieving harmony. I should hardly want to remove all the qualities of Nature that are necessary for things being what they are, and for the fulfillment of what they must become.

Now the benefit of time, and the possibility of a better perspective, has shown me many ways in which what I thought seemed unbearable could actually become the source for something better. This may not remove the wrong, but it will transform the wrong.

Yet I also face suffering that doesn’t seem to budge at all, or pain that will still haunt me, either when awake or asleep. It may even seem to grow bigger and stronger.

Even then, I remind myself that however insurmountable the obstacle appears, the only thing that keeps it in my way is when I try to make something permanent of what is really passing. It is my false estimation that attaches importance to what is ultimately unimportant in the scheme of life, and I am making more of it than I need to.

Has someone insulted me, disposed of me, or manipulated me, to the point where I can hardly bear the agony? I must recall that another’s skewed perception of gain, and my shallow perception of loss, both come from thinking that false goods, like power, pleasure, wealth, or esteem, are themselves lasting, or worth anything at all. Their roots never grow deep, and so they are washed away in the next rain.

I can rest assured that what feels bad can always be made good, and it only feels so bad because I am forgetting how to rightly distinguish between what is bad and what is good in the first place.

4.7

Take away your opinion, and then there is taken away the complaint, "I have been harmed."

Take away the complaint, "I have been harmed," and the harm is taken away.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.7 (tr Long)

This is another one of those classic Stoic passages, and for very good reason. The insight strikes to the very heart of what I like to call the Stoic Turn, and it does so with clarity and simplicity. It helps me to recognize how it is necessary for me to shift the weight I had assumed was in the power of things, to the power of my own thinking about those things.

This has become for me not just a question of theoretical reflection, but something I have slowly but surely been learning to do in daily practice. I am continually amazed at the influence my estimation has on my impressions, such that after I have mentally stripped away the context of my own assumptions, I am left with only the bare bones of something external acting upon my awareness. How little actually proceeds from what is outside of me, and how much is imposed by what is inside of me.

I am faced with an impression, and I must immediately take care. The impression will contain within it certain qualities, but I must not confuse them with the qualities of my own thoughts. As soon as I say that something is frightening or appealing, disturbing or desirable, I am already making judgments about what it becomes for me.

To help me with my own discipline, I think of a dog, and then I think of whether he is a “good dog” or a “bad dog”.

Now I can certainly say that simply by being a dog, by existing and by sharing in a certain nature and purpose, the dog is in himself already good. But what I usually mean by calling him good or bad is actually whether I myself approve or disapprove of what he has done, whether it is pleasant or unpleasant, convenient or inconvenient to me.

I can laugh at myself when I remember that a dog must do his business, and that this is good for him. But just because I was too lazy to let him out, and he has now done his business on my carpet, does not make him bad at all. The bad is entirely in how I see it.

Now I do not wish to make light of the seriousness of our human experience, but even the things that move and affect us the most deeply are different not in kind, but only in degree.

When I say, “she broke my heart,” I must be careful to distinguish between what she may have done, and what I did with what she may have done. These are not the same thing.

Again, it may only be an image that helps me remember the deeper concept, but I often think of an early scene from David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia:

Potter: [trying to copy Lawrence's snuffing a match with his fingers] Oooh! It damn well hurts!

Lawrence: Certainly it hurts.

Potter: Well, what's the trick, then?

Lawrence: The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.

4.8

That which does not make a man worse than he was, also does not make his life worse, nor does it harm him either from without or from within.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.8 (tr Long)

We are, quite understandably, concerned about being wronged, and with finding ways to protect ourselves from being hurt. I only need to observe all the ways that we are expected to shield our property, our livelihoods, and our social standing from threats and losses. The more I can keep control over what is mine, the story has it, the better my life will be.

In contrast to conventional wisdom, the conclusions of Stoicism may seem downright ridiculous to many, but this is surely only because we may have never really considered the premises from which they proceed. To decide what will determine a life that is better or worse requires nothing less than understanding the true nature of human benefit or harm.

The conventional wisdom will tell me that I am better when I have more, and worse when I have less. If I add to what is mine then I benefit, and if I take away from what is mine then I am harmed.

Now up to this point, I imagine the Stoic could actually agree. The radical difference will reveal itself, however, when I consider what should rightly be considered “mine” to begin with. This, in turn, will decide what it is that truly helps me or hurts me.

Some will tell you that having more means possessing more of those things that are external to us, those things that provide power, pleasure, or position. I become a better man, by this model, the more I am secure in my circumstances.

The Stoic, in contrast, will tell you that having more means possessing more of those things that are internal to us, those things that provide wisdom and virtue. I become a better man, by this model, the more I am secure in my character.

If I define myself by Fortune, I will think myself worse off when my conditions no longer conform to my desires, and I will think myself harmed when I lose those wanted things outside of me. I can plan for the future and scheme all I want, but the dice will fall where they may.

But if I define myself by Nature, none of that ever needs to happen.  Whatever external circumstances I must live under, whether through their presence or absence, will never determine my true worth. Give me more or less worldly success, make me richer or poorer, praised or reviled, and it will all offer me the exact same opportunity to improve the dignity of my thinking and actions.

My circumstances won’t make me worse, or make my life worse, because they won’t harm me, unless I choose to let them do so. I can always maintain what is really mine, through thick and thin, because what is mine is within me.

There is a good reason the Stoic can be supremely confident in his happiness, as long as he is sincerely reverent in his commitment to Nature.

I will only become the author of my own tragedies.

4.9

The Nature of that which is universally useful has been compelled to do this.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.9 (tr Long)

I look at the world, and I will perhaps think that some bits are quite good, while other bits are just downright bad. I will assume that I must begrudgingly take the bad with the good, much like buying a fancy new home or car, while also paying the crippling interest rates.

If I want to wallow in drunkenness, I will have to bear the hangover.

If I want to cheat on my wife, I will have to go through the rather inconvenient effort of covering my tracks.

If I want to make it in my profession, I will need to leave behind a few mangled bodies.

This is apparently how we do it, and I am regularly advised that I should simply accept it.

I can sadly begin to think of my life as a sort of balance sheet, where the debits and credits are all fine, as long as I’m still in the black, and never in the red. The wrong I suffer, or the wrong I do, is perfectly acceptable as long as I still come out on top. Is someone else in the red? His loss is now my gain. Those are the ropes, or so they tell me.

In trying to think and live in a Stoic manner, I have begun to see things quite differently. I don’t need to tolerate an evil, commit an evil, or look away from it.

I do not delude myself. There is grave injustice in this world, and there are terrible abuses that always seem to be there in some form. What matters is what I will do in the face of such evil. Will I turn a blind eye, allow it to increase for my own gain, or actually participate in it myself? That decision is on my watch, and on no one else’s.

Nature, and the Divine Providence that rules her, will always act for the good of the whole. It is never the good of the whole at the expense of the part, but the good of the whole for the sake of each and every part.

There is certainly disharmony in this world, but it is made to give us all a chance to change it into harmony. It serves a very real function, and the tension exists for the sake of a resolution.

Evil can never be committed for the sake of a good end. Evil can, however, be transformed for the sake of a good end.

I may complain about all the injustices and abuses, about the drunkards, the adulterers, or the corporate killers. I can, to mix my metaphors, yell myself blue in the face until the cows come home.

Or I can embrace the fact that Nature has allowed all of it, not to sanctify it, but to permit it so that I, and everyone else, can help to make it right. She knows what she is about, and she cherishes all of her aspects. She does not act in vain, because everything is what it is to serve a purpose. However mysterious it may seem, there is a perfectly good reason it is there.

That things are allowed to be wrong is not a justification of evil. It can rather be a calling to do well.  Nature consents to such things because, like the mixture of the elements, each piece has its own part to play in what is universally useful, for everyone and for everything.

Do I feel that I can never do anything to make it right? I most certainly can, because I can change myself. I have now made one small part of what is universal truly useful. Nature offers that opportunity everywhere.

4.10

Consider how everything that happens, happens justly, and if you observe carefully, you will find it to be so.

I do not say only with respect to the continuity of the series of things, but with respect to what is just, and as if it were done by one who assigns to each thing its value.

Observe then as you have begun, and whatever you do, do it in conjunction with this, the being good, and in the sense in which a man is properly understood to be good. Keep to this in every action.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.10 (tr Long)

This can be one of the most difficult parts of Stoicism to come to terms with, though I suggest it is also one of the most important parts.

It might seem rather foolish to suggest that everything happens justly, when all around me I can see such clear evidence of injustice. I see people who abuse, who steal, who deceive, who take possession of what is not theirs, who do violence to others. Especially when I am myself the target of such misdeeds, I might even be angered at the idea that what I am going through is somehow quite fair.

My own way of working through such a problem has always involved two parts. First, I reflect on how everything does indeed happen for a reason. Second, I consider what is truly good for my human nature.

I have come to understand the Stoic Universe as a single whole, subject to rule and order, in which all the parts are related to one another within the perfection of the whole. Motion and rest, action and reaction, combination and division are all aspects of this structured balance. Something comes to be through something else, and effects proceed from causes under the guidance of Providence.

I leave it to the theologians to consider, far more clearly than I can, what it is that we really mean by God. For the specific purposes of Stoic practice, I find it sufficient to simply say that order necessitates design, and design necessitates awareness. The order present in the perfection of all things is, in turn, an activity of perfect reason. Name or define this in whatever way is most helpful to you.

This surely means that everything that is, is what it is for a very specific purpose within that unity. I may look at the events and changes around me and see no pattern, and I may call it chance or randomness. But this is only in the limitation of my perception, because to say that an occurrence is in itself random is to do nothing less than contradict the logical principle of causality.

All the fancy metaphysics aside, I can trust that if it happens, there was a very distinct reason why it happened, and that this reason participates in the reasons behind all other things. Nothing happens without meaning or in isolation. I will hardly always know the specifics of the why, but I can certainly know that there is a why.

I might still protest. It hardly makes me feel any better to think that injustice happens for a reason, when what is most apparent to me is that it seems to be making me miserable. So Nature always acts with purpose, but now my own unjust suffering is a part of that purpose? Does the Universe somehow want people to do me wrong? As one of my students said many years ago, “Wait! That means God just wants people to step all over me?”

This, in turn, calls for a second Stoic principle. What is it that actually makes something good or bad for me? We are quite familiar with the usual idea that the things that happen to us are good or bad, that events are either fair or unfair toward us. Stoicism, of course, turns this assumption on its head.

Instead of defining my worth by what happens to me, I need to rather seek it in what I do. The circumstances of my life are morally indifferent, and only become good or bad by the manner in which I use them, according to virtue or vice, good or bad action. What is good for me is living well, and anything that occurs to me can give me a chance to do so.

This means that every situation, every event, every condition, however unpleasant it may at first appear, is an opportunity to act with virtue. Anything that happens is in this sense just, because it can always be a benefit, if only I wish to take it. It only becomes harmful when I neglect to use it well.

Can my own action be bad? Yes, but that essentially does harm to my own character, and this is on me. Can the action of another be bad? Of course, but that essentially does harm to his own character, and that is on him. It is never unjust for any man to receive what he deserves, and by seeking to do harm, he makes himself the victim of his own vice.

But people seem to take things from me all the time, when they seek to gain control of my money, my property, or my reputation. This is what can so easily trip me up, because I will forget that whatever is good for me is never measured by the events, but by what I do with the events. It is never itself just or unjust, fair or unfair, to gain or to lose such external things. Whenever I am complaining about an unfair world, I am reducing myself from an active to a passive being, and I am forgetting where true happiness lies.

The beautiful irony can be that when I try to be unfair to someone, I am only taking away my own virtue, and giving someone else a chance to improve his. Those outside possessions will come and go, but a good man will know how to estimate his circumstances, and a bad man will let himself be ruled by them. From this perspective, the world actually seems quite fair.

Everything that happens is just, because everything in Nature exists for the good of the whole, and everything in my life will be as good as what I make of it.

4.11

Do not have such an opinion of things as he has who does you wrong, or such as he wishes you to have, but look at them as they are in truth.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.11 (tr Long)

One of the many comforting things about becoming familiar with Stoicism was that I never had to seek the approval of a narrow and trendy social group. I didn’t have to join a club, pay any dues or tithes, or pledge allegiance to any particular dogma, and I certainly had no need to prove myself to anyone but myself, and, ultimately, to what Nature herself asked of me.

Yet I would be quite mistaken to think that Stoicism should simply make a better hermit of me, because self-reliance is hardly about separation or isolation. Learning to rule myself should surely help me to live well with others, to guide me in that essential social aspect of my nature.

As we all know, this isn’t always so easy, especially when I am faced with the opposition of others. Yet as with all things Stoic, I can turn this around, and transform the perception of a burden into the reality of an opportunity.

I find that one of the biggest dangers I face is becoming just like the things I hate. When I see malice, I am tempted to be malicious myself. When I face ignorance, I might simply want to close my own mind. When I have been played, I begin to scheme about my own clever games. When I have been hurt, I itch to cause hurt right back.

It is precisely when I begin to feel this way that I can adjust my estimation. I do not need to think or to act like the person who has done me wrong, and if I do indeed think and act as he does, I will have surrendered to him. I have then accepted that his way was right by following his example.

Instead, I can do something right in the face of something wrong. I can meet hatred with love. By doing so I am the most sociable of creatures, because I am sharing something good from within myself.

When someone insults me, or wishes to do me harm, why am I judging myself by his standards? Why do I engage in bickering, instead of communication? Why do I degrade, instead of uplift? Why do I insist on what is different, instead of finding what is shared? Why do I destroy, instead of trying to understand?

I might feel angry about a wrong, and I then might start obsessing about why I was treated that way. I need have no worry about any of that, because who I am is never determined by what someone else might propose.

I should be concerned about what is right in itself, and not about how others tell me I am wrong. I should love truth, and not whatever someone else happens to think. I should dedicate myself to the improvement of my own actions, and leave the actions of others where they are.  When I define myself by those who might oppose me, I define myself by something quite outside of my power.

4.12

A man should always have these two rules in readiness:

The one, is to do only whatever the reason of the ruling and legislating faculty may suggest for the use of men.

The other, is to change your opinion, if there is anyone at hand who sets you right and moves you from any opinion.

But this change of opinion must proceed only from a certain persuasion, as of what is just or of common advantage, and the like, not because it appears pleasant or brings reputation.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.12 (tr Long)

Just as I face a dangerous extreme of surrendering my self-reliance to the judgments of others, I also face an equally dangerous extreme of twisting my sense of self-reliance into nothing more than a close-minded arrogance.  I should hold firm to a principle because I am convinced that it is true and good, not assume that is it true and good because I happen to hold firm to it.

A closely connected wisdom is the advice from St. Thomas Aquinas that I do my best to regularly commit to and share with others: I should always follow my conscience, but I should also make certain my conscience is informed.

It can be difficult to distinguish when I am being principled, and when I am just being stubborn or obsequious. It certainly helps when I look to the example of others. If I see someone who is gladly willing to change his mind when faced with sound reasoning, and will thus alter his perspective without conflict or resentment, I am very likely to be in the presence of someone I can look to for inspiration.

If however, I find myself confronted by a totally inflexible mind, or a mind that is so flexible that it bends with every trend or fashion, I should exercise the greatest care. In either case, I must wonder whether a commitment follows from the love of wisdom and virtue, or from an attachment to gratification, self-importance or popularity.

If I am truly honest with myself, I can discern the same things in my own motives. It is often just as easy to lie to myself as it is to lie to others, but I only need to examine my intentions as if no one else is looking, and as if I have no need to impress myself. I can begin to practice some integrity when I remove all the images and distractions from a discernment of my own character.

Why am I doing this? All sorts of justifications, excuses, and extraordinary circumstances may rush into my thinking, and the fact that they rush, and that they like to be so loud, is one sure sign that I should be wary of them.

No. Why am I really doing this? I can carefully work my way through the illusions to the reality. If there is even a hint of concern for saving face, or for making an impression, or for gaining any sort of power over fleeting and shallow things, I need to look elsewhere.

How will my thinking and my actions benefit my own virtue, or encourage the virtue of others? It needs to be about what is right, not about what is vain or convenient.

4.13

Do you have reason?

I have.

Why then do you not use it? For if this does its own work, what else do you wish?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.13 (tr Long)

If I am willing to claim that something is complete and sufficient for my happiness, then I should also be willing to be content with that, and only with that, and demand nothing in addition to that.

I see all sorts of conditional Stoicism around me, just as I see many other systems of meaning and value compromised by people trying to force other things into them that are hardly necessary for that model, or even downright contradictory to that model.

I also recognize that I am best served in focusing my attention on my own failings, because I will certainly not improve myself by dwelling on how often others get it wrong, when my only calling is just for me to get it right. It will be useless to worry about helping others when I can’t even help myself.

That is the dilemma I face most every day, and I imagine it is the dilemma any struggling Christian, or Hindu, or Buddhist, or any other person trying to become wiser and better, also faces. I tell myself, with all apparent conviction and sincerity, that this is all I need. Then I immediately turn around and pursue something else, or I crave for something that leads me in a completely different direction.

I know for myself that I do this not out of a weakness of intention, but a weakness of totally applied awareness. I tell myself that I know, but I don’t really know at all, like when I told my parents I knew I had to do things a certain way, but I didn’t really grasp all that this entailed. I rise up for the word, or for the grand ideal, but I stumble when faced with the task.

If I look at myself honestly, this is because I am not bringing the theory into practice. I love the concept, yet I neglect the living. I vaguely know it in abstraction, but I am not applying it to daily exercise. It would be as if I admire all the achievement in running a marathon, but never bother to actually train for it.

I will recognize the degree of my commitment to what I say is true by what I am willing to give for the sake of what is true.

Something I always loved about Ancient and Medieval philosophy was the concurrence of ideas and actions. Socrates told me that he would not let me go until I put my money where my mouth was, and St. Augustine reminded me that all the fancy knowledge there ever was would be useless if I lost my soul. That is usually where I have to begin when I wake up.

The Stoic understands that his own human nature is only perfected when he rules himself rightly, and all he ever needs to do this is the light of his own reason. Anything can happen to him, and he can still be his own master. I am only failing to do this when I still believe that more money, power, or influence will somehow add to this one purpose. Not only will that not help me, of course, but it will also encourage me to love all the wrong things.

Adding completely different things, all sorts of accessories and options, will just get in the way. It isn’t about possessing more in quantity, but doing better with what I already have in quality. When I stumble and fall, I pick myself up, and try again to take what’s in my head and place it in my hands.

4.14

You have existed as a part. You shall disappear in that which produced you; but rather you shall be received back into its seminal principle by transmutation.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.14 (tr Long)

As I write this, just as our new millennium has begun, people who describe themselves as “Modern” Stoics will bicker and argue, at conferences and on the Internet, as to whether there is any form of a God, or whether there could possibly be any life after death. Too many of them end up defining themselves by their petty and hateful disagreements.

These are indeed essential questions, and the use of reason, not prejudice, should be at the root of any answer. Yet I usually see only fallacies and insults, on all sides, so I stay well clear of such conflicts. I find it disturbing that people who say they follow reason, and believe in human solidarity, will behave with such terrible prejudice, and with such spite for their fellows.

Here’s my trick for bearing my compass. Once I’m told that something is an “of course”, or that “only an idiot would believe it”, you have lost my interest. The rise of the quick “sound bite” answer to life’s question has become a serious hindrance to our sanity. Thinking can never be replaced by arrogant presumption.

I should never begin my own reasoning with a conclusion, but rather with the true premises that can in turn lead to a sound conclusion. I choose to approach Stoicism as a philosophy, and not as a theology.

At the same time, I never assume that Stoicism excludes religion, or that reason excludes faith. That is a false dichotomy. There are things I may know, and then there are things that may well also be quite reasonable to believe, if I have good grounds for trusting their authority. Faith is simply trust, and trust can be quite reasonable. I will never know if my wife will betray me, but I have good faith that she won’t.

What will become of me when I die? All I do know with any certainty is that my own existence is a piece of the whole of existence. I do know that I have my own part, however small, and I also do know that anything and everything in this Universe plays its part within a complete and ordered unity. I do know that things in themselves are never reduced to nothing, and that things in themselves never arise from nothing.

Who or what I am will never cease, in whatever form, and I know that it will change, that it will be rebuilt, and that it will be transformed. Whatever it was that made me also made certain that I will return right back into whatever it was that made me, and to be wherever I need to be, however I might be transmuted.

I never took an interest in Stoicism because I wanted to justify whether I already did or did not believe in any God, or whether I did or did not believe in any specific sort of afterlife. Stoicism, like all good philosophy, is about reason, not rationalization.

Marcus Aurelius has it quite right. What I am now will certainly end, and then I will be something else, flowing back into whatever I came from, and becoming something new. I will most certainly feed the worms, and I may even perhaps feed into many other things.

I leave it to powers greater than myself to decide what that might be. I do not presume to tell Providence how to do her business.

4.15

Many grains of frankincense on the same altar: one falls before, another falls after, but it makes no difference.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.15 (tr Long)

I have heard a few different interpretations on the meaning of these lines, and I am hardly qualified to choose which is the most fitting. Perhaps that is one part of the appeal of the Meditations, a book written to assist the author in his own private thoughts, and which in turn can offer many different ways to assist us in ours.

I had always taken it as indicating how just as some pieces of incense may burn away more quickly, and others may burn away more slowly, so too our lives may be longer, or they may be shorter. This hardly matters, because both the incense and our lives all end in exactly the same way, crumbled into dust. Memento mori.

I was once reading this together with someone, and she read “falls” in terms of where the incense was placed on the altar, in front or in back. This, she suggested, could mean that all the circumstances of position in our lives really won’t make a difference. She then used an image she said her father was quite fond of: At the end of the game, the king and the pawn both go back into the same box.

I am hardly a Greek scholar, so I was uncertain in what ways the original could admit of either reading, but for the purposes of our personal reflections, I saw both as variations on a theme. More or less, here or there, greater or lesser, it ends up all the same.

Her comment sent me on one of my Proustian musings. I remembered a moment in college, when a memorial was held for a student who had died. People were asked to bring some sort of reminder of her life, and a table up front was filled with all sorts of photos, cards, poems, and mementos. I recall a young lady who placed a small stuffed teddy bear on the table, but as more items were added, they covered up the bear. Three times she stood up, went up to the table, and moved the bear to the front.

A friend later said he thought that was rather selfish, but the moment was impressed in my mind, because I think I understood how she felt. Where that bear was placed, front and center, right where she could see it, was perhaps helping her to make sense of something painful. It gave her some comfort at that moment. I assumed no selfishness on her part.

At the same time, it made me think in general about whether where anything was placed, or how long it was there, or how many people could see it, really made any difference in the bigger picture. I have often, for example, felt a tinge of sadness when I see a fine work of art hidden away in a corner, or when I see an ice sculpture melting, or when no one shows up at a brilliant concert, but that does not really detract anything from their beauty at all. What made any of those things worthy had nothing to do with place, time, or recognition.

And this is what happens when you let a young man dedicate himself to philosophy, and when you encourage him to read Marcel Proust.

4.16

Within ten days you will seem a god to those to whom you are now a beast and an ape, if you will return to your principles and the worship of reason.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.16 (tr Long)

Man rises to the level of the Divine when he freely embraces his nature as a creature of mind, and he falls to the level of the beasts when he allows himself to be ruled by the pursuit of his passions. The former is a life of wisdom, of loving what is right and good, while the latter is a life of gratification, of wanting to possess and consume.

I may well be missing the significance of a period of ten days, but it certainly seems to be a rather short time. I can’t help but first think of all the advertising that tells me how I can become rich, lose weight, transform myself into someone attractive, or learn to impress others so very quickly. I then realize that those sorts of things are about gaining gratification, and not about gaining wisdom at all. I really don’t know if I could become a millionaire in a week, but could I become a better man in a week?

Yes, if only I truly and sincerely reorder my values to listen to what reason tells me, and if I act according to what is right instead of what is convenient. To change my thinking is always within my power, because it just requires my conviction. Becoming rich, whether overnight or over a lifetime, is a far trickier thing, because it depends on everything outside of my power. I will become a good man when I act like one, but I won’t become a rich man just because I act like one.

A reason I have always been drawn to eccentric friends is their ability to cut right through the illusions at the most wonderful of times. Many years back, a small ragtag group of us would spend time in a local coffeehouse, and almost every day this fellow would slide his way over to our table. After some light conversation, he would remind us that he had an investment opportunity waiting for us that would make us rich by the end of the year. I would patiently smile and nod.

One of my friends, however, once had enough of it. “I’ve got something better than that,” he said. “I can offer you inner peace and moral fulfillment by the end of today.”

“How’s that?” the huckster asked, slightly taken aback.

“All you need to do is to stop telling people you can make them rich right now, and you’ll be a good man by tonight.”

I have often seen people’s circumstances change from one moment to the next, but that is really neither here nor there, because those things themselves do not make us who we are. I have also seen people change their own attitudes from one moment to the next, and I have seen those changes as being profound and lasting when they rest on the insight that we can master ourselves, regardless of the circumstances.

A godlike man makes the decision to follow the reason and the principles within him. The beastly man has chosen to abandon them, though there is nothing outside himself that is keeping him from nurturing what is inside himself.

4.17

Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you.

While you live, while it is in your power, be good.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.17 (tr Long)

When we repeatedly hear the Stoic reminders of our mortality, we might begin to resent them, or consider them too abstractly, or grow numb to their daily meaning.

I have been told, for example, that Marcus Aurelius seems quite a morbid fellow, because he always seems to be discussing death. I have never taken this as morbidity at all, but actually as the opposite, an insistence on not wasting the beauty of life, and on making the most of every opportunity.

I try not to approach this question from the top down, but from the bottom up. I don’t just consider the idea of death and dying, but how that reality relates to my daily choices and actions. It isn’t just a matter of knowing that I will die one day, or even that today could be that day. It concerns how I will use that knowledge to make myself better right here, and live my life to the fullest.

When I am immediately aware that I have only the guarantee of this very immediate moment of now, I should not panic, but I should commit. What should I care about most in life? However I answer that question, that is what I should be doing now, first and foremost, whatever else may be going on around me.

If I know I should seek the truth, why am I telling myself to look the other way now, but to figure it out later?

If I know I should be brave, why am I telling myself to run away now, but to find the strength later?

If I know I should practice self-control, why am I telling myself I will live in excess now, but to find moderation later?

If I know I should be fair, why am I telling myself to neglect my neighbor’s needs now, but to find a solution later?

I may not literally think that I will live for ten thousand years, but I might as well be thinking it. When I cannot face the needs of right now, I might as well be putting them off forever. When I cannot show love and concern for someone else right now, I might as well be putting it off forever. When I cannot ultimately face the fact that I will not have infinite opportunities of circumstance to make my life right, I have already gotten it wrong.

I try to think of it not as fearing the concept of death, but as valuing the activity of life. Death should never be feared, because it is not an evil. But life should always be cherished, because however much of it is given to me is all that I will have within my power.

4.18

How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbor says, or does, or thinks, but only to what he does himself, that it may be just and pure.

Or as Agathon says, look not around at the depraved morals of others, but run straight along the line without deviating from it.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.18 (tr Long)

This passage calls to mind something from my childhood. I never understood it at the time, but my parents gave everything of themselves to help make my own life better. I was five years old, and we moved to a new house.

Until that point, we had lived on the top story of what Bostonians call a two-decker, renting from the family who lived below us. It all seemed wonderful to me at that age, but I also remember my mother being yelled at for accidentally flooding the washing machine. I stood there as an older lady cursed cruelly at my mother, the best Irish expletives of all possible sorts, and I watched my mother cry.

Somehow, there was suddenly a different home. The new house was a terrible mess, but it was all my parents could afford. This time they owned it. It was close to where my father worked, but I suspect it was also about the school I would soon be attending. My parents didn’t want me at a public school where stabbings were the norm, but at a public school where at least the appearance of learning was the norm.

The new neighborhood was classier, but it was no less malicious. A while later, when I was first allowed to stay at home alone for a few hours during the day, I overheard a neighbor gossiping with our mailman. It was right outside our open window.

“Look at all the terrible things they’ve done to the house! It was so much nicer when the Urdang’s lived here. That’s what happens when we let in the trash.”

I suddenly realized I was considered trash. Years later, I learned the same thing, when the mother of a girl I loved also told me that I was disposable.

“You’re no good, because you won’t give her any success. I won’t let my daughter marry a waste of life.” That still burns.

I’m not sure if people understand the effect they have when they speak that way. It all boils down to our sense of values. What do we care for? Why do we assume less of others, while also neglecting the dignity within ourselves?

It’s very difficult to try to be a good man, when others tell me that I am trash.

It should then come to mind that what others may think is quite irrelevant. It does not define me.

I am the measure of what I do, not of what others may think or say about me. 

4.19

He who has a vehement desire for posthumous fame does not consider that every one of those who remember him will himself also die very soon, then again also they who have succeeded them, until the whole remembrance shall have been extinguished as it is transmitted through men who foolishly admire and perish.

But suppose that those who will remember are even immortal, and that the remembrance will be immortal, what then is this to you?

And I say not what is it to the dead, but what is it to the living? What is praise except indeed so far as it has a certain utility? For you now reject unseasonably the gift of nature, clinging to something else.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.19 (tr Long)

A desire for reputation, in all of its possible variations and combinations, begins to appear all the more vain and shallow when I closely consider its true colors.  This in turn confuses me, because I wonder why there is still such a powerful and immediate attraction to acquiring fame. Why can I still be so easily misled?

Perhaps it is because fame offers the gratification of appearing to be important, without necessarily demanding the work of actually being good. It gives the illusion of character by means of a shortcut, whether or not character is actually present, and unlike virtue, it seems to be something I can quite easily buy and sell. Recognition has a certain intoxicating effect, quick to satisfy, easy to crave, and always offering the prospect of gaining more.

Fame is fickle, however, and she likes to pass on to someone else once we have had our fifteen minutes. Honor depends on the changing opinions of others, and will come and go as suddenly as fashions change, and as quickly as one generation is replaced by the next.

But let us, for the sake of argument, imagine that honor is permanent and lasting. Men could live forever, and they could always be in awe of my greatness. What difference will any of that make to me if I am gone?

We might further suggest the possibility that I too could live forever, and then I could bask in glory for all time. Even if such a permanent state of appreciation were possible, it would still leave me wanting. Fame has nothing to do with the fulfillment of my own nature, because it does not proceed from what I may think or do, but only from what others may think or do.

The error of pursuing fame follows from having the human good backwards, from falsely thinking that merit is a passive, and not an active, measure. Once I tell myself that action exists not for its own sake, but for the sake of recognition, I have defined the very dignity of people by how they are perceived from the outside, and not from what they truly are from the inside.

The problem with praise is not whether or not I may happen to receive it, but whether or not I think it worthy of attention to even want any of that attention. If I already have virtue, I won’t need to be admired for it, and if I lack virtue, no amount of being admired can replace that absence. I am the only one who can make myself worthy.

4.20

Everything that is in any way beautiful is beautiful in itself, and terminates in itself, not having praise as part of itself. Neither worse then nor better is a thing made by being praised.

I affirm this also of the things that are called beautiful by the vulgar, for example, material things and works of art. That which is really beautiful has no need of anything, not more than law, not more than truth, not more than benevolence or modesty.

Which of these things is beautiful because it is praised, or spoiled by being blamed? Is such a thing as an emerald made worse than it was, if it is not praised? Or gold, ivory, purple, a lyre, a little knife, a flower, a shrub?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.20 (tr Long)

I often notice how discussions about the merit of anything, whether something is true, good, or beautiful, will seem to end when someone asks that question: “Well, who decides what’s beautiful anyway?” It is always understood as a rhetorical question that has no answer, and we are left to accept that it’s just relative to popular opinion.

That we have likes and dislikes, preferences and aversions, is not in doubt. What I do challenge is whether we are justified in reducing meaning and value to only our own approval or disapproval. Why are we assuming anyone at all “decides” what is beautiful? Perhaps it is simply beautiful in itself, regardless of what we decide or do not decide?

If all things share in existence, and each thing possesses its own distinct qualities, how is it that my own praise makes something beautiful, and my own blame makes it ugly? My estimation certainly changes how I judge something, but it does not change what something is. I am better served to make certain my perception conforms to what is real, instead of demanding that what is real conforms to my perceptions.

A man is no better or worse by whether he is honored or reviled, but by whether or not his own actions are in harmony with Nature. So too, something shares in beauty when it fulfills its purpose in the order of things, in its own specific way, and in a right proportion to what is around it. Whether or not anyone recognizes this will not change what is inherent in being itself.

When I first began to take an interest in all sorts of art, including music, film, painting, or literature, I was already very much aware that quality and popularity were not always the same. People would encourage me in this approach, and tell me that a true artist would strive to see things as they were, stripped of all the unnecessary assumptions and blind prejudices of life. This certainly spoke to a young soul trying to discover beauty.

Yet some of the people who spoke this way did not always end up acting this way. I might take an interest in the manner a certain shade of color was used, or a note was played, or a word was written, and I would quickly be directed to some source to set me straight. I realized that for some people beauty was still defined by praise, just not by the praise of a certain school or approach they disliked. I found that that there was quite a reputation to be made by being unpopular with some, but popular with others. It was the same game, just with different players.

I hope I learned from it all and moved on, and I hope I can live my life in such a way that I never expect to find truth, goodness, or beauty only in what happens to be praised by the right people. I should always seek to discover the beauty already within someone or something, and not see Nature as subject to anyone’s whims.

4.21.1

If souls continue to exist, how does the air contain them from eternity?

But how does the earth contain the bodies of those who have been buried from time so remote? For as here the mutation of these bodies after a certain continuance, whatever it may be, and their dissolution make room for other dead bodies, so the souls which are removed into the air after subsisting for some time are transmuted and diffused, and assume a fiery nature by being received into the seminal Intelligence of the Universe, and in this way make room for the fresh souls that come to dwell there.

And this is the answer that a man might give on the hypothesis of souls continuing to exist.

But we must not only think of the number of bodies which are thus buried, but also of the number of animals which are daily eaten by us and the other animals. For what a number is consumed, and thus in a manner are buried in the bodies of those who feed on them.

And nevertheless this earth receives them by reason of the changes of these bodies into blood, and the transformations into the aerial or the fiery element. . . .

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.21 (tr Long)

I very much enjoy considering passages that particularly address Stoic physics and cosmology, and I am especially interested in how these accounts of the greater order of the Universe relate back to the questions of ethics in everyday life.

At the same time, I can find myself feeling frustrated with them, not because of what the Stoics themselves have to say, but because of the disagreements that can arise from our contemporary reading of them. I suggest that we are often too quick to reject what seems unfamiliar to our modern sensibilities, and we are tempted to point only to differences, and not first to what is shared in common.

In particular I have often been told, from the perspective of secular materialism, that Stoic physics is outdated, and has apparently been refuted by modern science. I have also been told, from the perspective of traditional spirituality, that Stoic thought is too quick to reject the immortality of the soul. I find that reflecting on this passage by Marcus Aurelius can give me some insight on both concerns.

When the Stoics, or other Classical sources, speak of the four elements, we can recognize this as a way of describing different states of matter, and the awareness that matter constantly changes its form through an ordered causality, by the balanced tension of opposing forces. What is passing returns back into its source, and it proceeds to be transformed into something new.

Things do not randomly come to be, or cease to be, but they are varied emanations and modifications of existence. When a body dies, it does not simply disappear. It will break down into other forms, and eventually be subsumed into the bodies of other living things. Or when one living thing consumes another, it can be said that there is a direct continuity from one life to another.

Now just as bodies, which the Stoics associated with the more condensed matter of earth, move on into other states, so too souls, which the Stoics associated with the more rarefied matter of air and fire, will surely move on into other states. Like all things, each of them according to their own qualities, they return back to their Divine source. I should not think that my consciousness just ceases, but rather that it becomes quite a different form of consciousness.

I try not to assume that one manner of explaining the physical Universe necessarily contradicts another, just as I try not to assume that one manner of explaining the permanence of mind necessarily contradicts another. I maintain that the Stoic, the modern physicists, and the traditional Christian can get along, and can learn from one another.

4.21.2

. . . What is the investigation into the truth in this matter?

The division into that which is material, and that which is the cause of form, the formal.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.21 (tr Long)

The Stoics often distinguished between different degrees of a higher and lower existence, of logos and ousia, of that which acts and that which is acted upon. Matter, simply in and of itself, is only given a formal identity through the action of the Divine, whether we choose to speak of it as fire, or as living breath, or in any number of other ways.

Whatever model of physics or metaphysics we may choose to employ, the distinction is a universal one. There is what something is made out of, and then there is the form that it takes upon itself. In practice, that something exists is inseparable from in what way it exists, but in abstraction we can understand these two distinct principles at work together. What are the shapeless parts, and then how are all the parts joined together in a certain way, to produce a shaped and distinct whole?

I was first educated in an Aristotelian approach to form and matter, with a fancy name called hylomorphism, where there is a distinction between the potential stuff things are made of, and the actual way that they are ordered and organized. I have come to see that the primary difference here between the Aristotelian and the Stoic is that while the former stresses the identity of individual substances, the latter stresses the unity of all substances.

This may seem a bit too much for daily life. I hardly disagree. Consider the theory put into concrete practice. By analogy, a house is made of many bits and pieces, including concrete, metal, lumber, and, it now seems, lots of toxic plastics. The parts are not the house. The parts must be assembled and arranged, in a certain way according to a blueprint, in order to make a house. The matter has now been given form.

Take a box you bought from Ikea, that is full of pieces of wood, a variety of screws, nuts, and bolts, and some mysterious bits that make no sense at all. But follow the multilingual instructions, and you may, God willing, end up with a piece of furniture. The matter has now been given form.

A cooking recipe is not simply a list of ingredients. How, when, and to what proportion are they prepared, mixed together, cooked, and what I must I do to them to present a brilliant dish? The matter has now been given form.

For those who love their history, take melted wax, and add the impression of the signet ring. The matter has now been given form.

Analogies are by definition weak, but I wish only to distinguish between the pieces, and how the pieces end up working together.

I have learned the hard way that I will only begin to make sense of anything in my life when I first begin to discern the stuff from the shape, the parts from the order of the whole, the bits from the pattern.

Truth, goodness, and beauty in our lives will not arise by lining up all the necessary components. They must be structured, through the use of reason, and directed toward our proper end.

4.22

Do not be whirled about, but in every movement have respect to justice, and on the occasion of every impression maintain the faculty of comprehension or understanding.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.22 (tr Long)

When I was still very young, our family would often spend time during the summer in Watch Hill, Rhode Island. I have fond memories of an old general store that sold all sorts of amazing things, as well as a place on the beach that had the best ice cream I ever tasted. My favorite by far, however, was an antique carousel, apparently the oldest in the country.

It was hardly one of those insane rides we are now used to from the big amusement parks, but I still recall being a bit frightened the first time I sat on one of those carved wooden horses. As I spun around, I felt anxious, and grabbed on tight. It was only when I realized I could keep my eye focused on a single unmoving spot that I could relax and enjoy the ride.

Life will often whirl us around, and we lose track of our position and direction. We become dizzy from all the motion, and one doesn’t have to be a child to be frightened by that. This passage, when I read it many years later, immediately made me think of the old carousel, and how I learned not to worry about being tossed in the air.

I am often guided by a strong sense of right and wrong, but this can quickly fade when I get befuddled and confused by my circumstances. I can often have a calm and keen mind, but my thinking can get all tangled up very suddenly if I am faced with something overwhelming.

The trick, however, with apologies to the great Douglas Adams, is not to panic. I can remember to firmly keep my attention on the things that matter the most in daily living, on always treating others with concern, decency and fairness, and on always using the gift of my mind to find meaning and purpose in the many bewildering appearances life will hurl at me.

It is easy to look at another person, and to see only opportunities for my own gratification. Instead, I can choose to focus on the fact that my neighbor is just like me, made with the same dignity and function as myself. He is not disposable, and he always deserves justice.

It is easy to face the broad range of my experience, and to act only on how something at first seems. Instead, I can choose to focus on the fact that impressions alone will often deceive me. Understanding requires moving beyond what something may look like to me, to knowing what something is in itself.

A careful and orderly grasp of reality will often show me that things are usually quite different, and often completely the opposite, of what I first perceived them to be. I do not need to view any man as my enemy, or wish him harm, and I do not need to let my circumstances rule over me, or decide the value of my life for me.

4.23

Everything harmonizes with me, which is harmonious to you, O Universe. Nothing for me is too early nor too late, which is in due time for you.

Everything is fruit to me that your seasons bring, O Nature. From you are all things, in you are all things, to you all things return.

The poet says, “Dear city of Cecrops”, and can you not say, “Dear city of Zeus”?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.23 (tr Long)

I may be used to thinking of my world as the small confines of those things immediately around me, and that all is right in my own world when I have those things in accord with my wishes.

But the insistent Stoic within me promptly suggests there are two problems with such a view. I should never see my place in the world as being narrow, and it is never my place to ask anything to harmonize only with me. I should rather consider my own role, however humble, within the context of all things joined together, and I should always strive to freely harmonize myself to that whole.

We sometimes speak of thinking in the big picture, and then we assume this casts aside the small picture. Instead, can I not speak of the latter only becoming fully actualized through the former? My own particular concerns will have a complete sense of meaning and purpose when I understand their relation within a universal order.

Classical Stoicism always viewed Nature as a whole, not merely as a jumbled collection of parts. This is one reason why I, in my own experience, cannot separate, either in theory or in practice, Stoic physics from Stoic ethics. How I try to live a life of virtue asks me to live according to Nature, and this in turn is only possible with a profound respect for the Providential harmony of that unity.

This means that every time something happens, it is also the right time for it to happen, and for every circumstance that comes my way, it is also the right circumstance. This may often be mysterious, and I will not always grasp how and why it has come to pass, but I know it has come to pass for a perfectly good reason, or also through Perfect Reason, if you will.

My place, then, is not to try to rearrange the pieces to suit my preferences, but to rearrange my thinking and my choices to participate in the good of what exists around me. Nor should I do this begrudgingly or resentfully, or simply as being resigned to cold fate, but I can do so with liberation and joy, confident that I am embracing my own part in a beautiful arranging and unfolding.

How can any event or circumstance be timely and appropriate? Because the role I have is to turn anything and everything toward improving my character, and thereby also the benefit of everything around me. My power of estimation allows me to draw out what is good, even from what may at first appear to be evil. What happens may not be in my power, but what I do with what happens most certainly is.

The poet Aristophanes was proud to be a citizen of Athens, of the city of Cecrops.  This was surely a good thing, just as every man should love his home or his country. Should I not, however, be even more proud of being a citizen of the whole Universe, of the City of Zeus? My home is not just where and when I happen to be, but the harmony of the way all things should be together.

4.24

Occupy yourself with few things, says the philosopher, if you would be tranquil.

But consider if it would not be better to say, do what is necessary, and whatever the reason of the animal that is naturally social requires, and as it requires.

For this brings not only the tranquility that comes from doing well, but also that which comes from doing few things. For the greatest part of what we say and do being unnecessary, if a man takes this away, he will have more leisure and less uneasiness.

Accordingly on every occasion a man should ask himself, is this one of the unnecessary things? Now a man should take away not only unnecessary acts, but also, unnecessary thoughts, for thus superfluous acts will not follow after.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.24 (tr Long)

We are often told that simpler is better. Some people do take this seriously, because they understand that simplicity has much to do with purity. Others may use it only as a slogan, and continue as usual with their complex lives. The concept of a simple life can become only an image, often useful for promoting a product. An old friend used to describe this as “selling you less, so they can have more.”

Marcus Aurelius understands that quantity is less important than quality, that how much we have is secondary to how well we live with what we have. He also offers a modification to the rule, so that we will not be deceived into thinking that we should simply want less for its own sake. We should rather ask ourselves what it is that we truly need, and the rest will take care of itself. Pursue an essential life first, and you will then also find this to be a simple life.

I have long had the weakness of hoarding far too many books, and every so often I will purge the collection to keep it manageable. At times, I have taken this exercise too far, and a few months later I regret having passed on a volume I shouldn’t have. The mistake I have made is assuming that a smaller library is always a better library, instead of asking myself which books were actually the ones to keep, the necessary ones. In both cases I end up with fewer books, but in the second case I end up with fewer books that happen to be the right ones.

If I honestly consider what is necessary for living well, I will find that I require very little to be happy. The simplicity that follows from this, not tossing out the meat but cutting away the fat, is hardly a sacrifice. It is liberating, because it removes a concern for diversions, and a worry about what is extraneous.

The theory sounds wonderful, but the practice can at first be deeply painful. My apprehension and struggle are good for me, as they allow me to truly distinguish between what is necessary and what is excessive. My vanity tells me I need to fill up my coffers, and constantly keep myself busy with tasks and chores, while my honesty reminds me that I can walk along with empty pockets, and simply enjoy a fine day.

Do I really need to acquire big house, a fancy car, a prestigious job, or a sparkling reputation? I need none of these things. I squirm when I think of all the wasted time and effort dedicated to these illusions, but I am also relieved to remember that I need only to be good in my thoughts and deeds, whatever the circumstances. Let the chips fall where they may, I depend only on my own character.

Less isn’t more just because it is less, but less is more because it focuses only on what is required, and disposes of the clutter. This is a peaceful life.

Frank Lloyd Wright said it best:

Less is only more when more is no good.

4.25

Try how the life of the good man suits you, the life of him who is satisfied with his portion out of the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and benevolent disposition.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.25 (tr Long)

Stoicism can be full of profound reflection, but it is ultimately a philosophy that is firmly grounded in practice. My happiness will not be measured by the cleverness of my abstract formulations, but by the excellence of my actions.

Many people in this life will tell you why you must embrace a certain creed, or subscribe to a very specific ideology. You may not understand all the mysterious concepts they are offering you, but you are expected to trust their authority, and be impressed with their qualifications for telling you how to live.

Genuine Stoicism will have none of that. I don’t need to take anyone’s word on what a good life is supposed to be, because I can simply try it out for myself. I won’t listen to a philosophy that doesn’t offer concrete results, just as I won’t trust a car salesman who won’t let me take a test drive.

As long as I am acting with complete sincerity, with no second-guessing or any concern for mere display, I can start living in a Stoic manner right now. Only I can know if I am being honest with myself, so I don’t have to worry about anyone telling me that I’m doing it all wrong.

Marcus Aurelius suggests following two simple guidelines. I should practice being content with whatever life sends my way, and I should practice being content with the quality of my own thoughts and deeds. As soon as I resent my circumstances, or as soon as I look to anything someone else does to define my worth, I have strayed from the path.

I often notice how angry I get at the way things have happened, and I complain about all the things other people have done wrong. Neither of these really have anything to do with me. This doesn’t mean I should not care, but it means that my concern for the world or for others doesn’t reduce to having them determine me.

How will I know I am on the right track? When I choose not to worry about what is beyond my power to control, I will have removed anxiety from my attitude. Old habits may die slowly, but the effects of self-reliance can begin showing themselves from the very start. I will begin to find peace and contentment by having redirected my attention from what is outside of me to what is inside of me. This will be quite discernible and measurable in my everyday life, and the results will speak for themselves.

I have often been told that what I don’t know can’t hurt me, but I’ve found that is only true when it comes to knowing about things that aren’t my business. Being ignorant of right and wrong, for example, which is most certainly my business, has hurt me many times.

For Stoic purposes, I rather tell myself that what I don’t worry about can’t hurt me. If I choose not to be concerned with controlling what happens, or what other people think or do, I am not permitting these things to cause me harm. I can respect that everything has its place within the whole, and I only need to concern myself with doing my part as well as I can.

I shouldn’t simply read the books, or listen to the music, or eat at the restaurants recommended by fancy critics. I should read the books, listen to the music, and eat the foods that give me the greatest joy. I suggest that a philosophy of life should be no different. Try it on for size, and don’t let a salesman convince you to buy something that doesn’t fit.

4.26

Have you seen those things? Look also at these. Do not disturb yourself. Make yourself all simplicity.

Does any one do wrong? It is to himself that he does the wrong.

Has anything happened to you? Well, out of the Universe from the beginning everything that happens has been apportioned and spun out to you.

In a word, your life is short. You must turn to profit the present by the aid of reason and justice. Be sober in your relaxation.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.26 (tr Long)

The Stoic life is simple, because it asks me only for what is necessary, and it asks me not to worry myself about anything unnecessary. I have only the responsibility to care for my own character, and this is always within my reach. Anything good in how I live, or in what I achieve, or how I might improve the world, flows only from this. Other things will be as they may, and I should be content to ask myself only how I must change myself in relation to them.

I return quite regularly to the Platonic version of this rule, equally direct and straightforward. Justice is minding my own business. I will only get myself into trouble when I impose my preferences where they don’t really belong.

This distinction, between the things within my power and the things beyond my power, is indeed simple, and it would also seem to be easy to pursue, at least in and of itself. But not all simple things are necessarily easy things, and I suspect this is precisely because I can’t help but muddle up that very simplicity. Somehow my influences and habits want to add what is extraneous, thereby making it all the more complex, and so I also only make it harder for myself.

The Stoic life does not become difficult from what it asks of me, but because I am still drawn to all the things it doesn’t ask of me. What I shouldn’t be doing gets in the way of what I should be doing.

I may, for example, commit myself to keeping my thinking in harmony with Nature, and seeking to act only in such a way that it improves the virtue within me. Still, I am so used to being a busybody, to feeling important, and I see most all the other folks also rushing about, trying to become masters of their circumstances.

So I somehow know I need to be a good man, but I start adding all other sorts of goals, and I begin including all other sorts of schemes. Suddenly, I’m no longer just asking how to live well, but how to also become successful, rich, powerful, and esteemed. I no longer look at my neighbor and ask how I can show him justice, but I consider how I can gain leverage over him, and how to make him a means for getting me what I want.

I’ve now made it harder for myself, once I try to rule over things I have no place to rule. I have also made myself anxious, distracted, and frustrated by all these false idols. I am assuming I need more to be happy, but I have only made myself more miserable.

Has another tried to hurt me? I should only remove the judgment of being hurt. He has acted for his own reasons, and he has really only hurt himself through his vice. I can act for my own reasons, and benefit myself through my virtue.

Has the world gone in a way that disturbs me? I should only remove the judgment of being disturbed. It is what it is for its own reasons in the order of all things together. I am what I am for my own reasons within that same order.

Without a sense of sober relaxation in my living, I should recognize I am doing something wrong.

4.27

Either it is a well-arranged Universe or a chaos huddled together, but still a Universe.

But can a certain order subsist in you, and disorder in the All? And this too, when all things are so separated and diffused, and sympathetic.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.27 (tr Long)

The question of order and disorder in life never seems to go away, nor should it. Some things appear to follow a plan, and other things appear to follow absolutely no plan at all. All theory aside, this problem influences our daily lives in so many ways. I may wake up one morning, and everything is just as I expected. I may wake up on another morning, and nothing makes any sense at all. How I face this will determine how I face the coming day.

I believe there are two different questions here, though they are of necessity very closely related. First, what is it to me? Second, what is it in itself?

If you think you don’t want to proceed from the former to the latter, by means of honest observation and sound reason, please stop reading now, because this reflection may not be for you. You have probably already decided it’s about you, not about you in harmony with Nature. I wish you the best.

Stoicism, Classically understood, is about finding solidarity on our human level, and about finding harmony with the Universe on an ultimate level. The horizontal fits into the vertical. Narrow theists try to tell you it’s all about God, and narrow humanists try to tell you it’s all about man. It’s about both, and you can’t separate them.

The part only makes sense within the context of the whole. The Stoic is a theist in all things, however broadly understood, because he sees the power of Divine Reason present immediately in all of his life. The true Stoic is also a humanist in all things, however he may express it, because he joyfully loves the dignity of each and every one of his neighbors.

I can explain Divine Reason, the Logos, in various ways. I can explain the dignity of my fellows, through what Marcus Aurelius calls my social nature, in various ways. But as soon as I neglect either, I am straying from Stoicism, Classically understood.

The way my world works doesn’t always seem to have purpose. This is where I need to follow the guidance of reason, not of my impressions. Truth is never about cherry picking. I need to take all of it, not just the bits I happen to prefer.

Even as many things appear so chaotic, they are still parts of everything together. Effects cannot proceed without causes, and causes must admit of order. I do not always understand the causes, and I do not always perceive the order, but I must admit that both are present, unless I wish to reject reason itself.

Yes, it may seem pointless, and yes, it may seem without any design. I can, however, choose to think, not just to feel, and I can see that nothing comes from nothing, and that nothing ever could. My apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Tell me that anything happens for no reason, and you have told me to reject logic itself. That may be clever marketing, but its also terrible thinking.

It may all seem quite diffused, quite contrary, and quite inconvenient. It isn’t. Even an apparently chaotic Universe is still a Universe. It isn’t my place to tell Nature how it should work, but to find my own place in how Nature works.

4.28

A black character, a womanish character, a stubborn character, bestial, childish, animal, stupid, counterfeit, scurrilous, fraudulent, tyrannical.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.28 (tr Long)

A very intelligent student once surprised me by saying this passage was proof that all white males are racist and sexist. When I tried to explain the context, he immediately reported me to the Dean for what he called a “hate crime”.

Philosophy will inevitably be offensive to ignorance, and it should never bow to the fashions of the age. Show others a respect for their point of view, if you wish you own point of view to be respected. Censorship will solve nothing, if we still want to encourage people to do their own thinking.

If the fine fellow had bothered to read the whole assignment, instead of only the bits that fit his preconceptions, he would have seen that the true Stoic is probably the most fair, egalitarian, and cosmopolitan person you’re ever likely to meet. The Stoic never judges you by what you are, but by who you are.

Blackness here has nothing to do with race, and femininity is quite fitting for a woman, but hardly fitting for a man such as our author, Marcus Aurelius himself. Inequality isn’t the issue. The development of moral character, regardless of race, gender, creed, or class, is the issue.

I have never found a passage by any Classical Stoic author that tells me how the Greeks are any better than the Romans, or how men are any better than women. I have, however, found many Stoic passages that tell me how a good man, or a good woman, is better than a bad man, or a bad woman.

The Stoics believed in the universality of humanity, and they believed, as all decent people do, that what comes first is the content of character.

In school I was once taught to love people for their own sake, beyond any accidents. But the times they are a changing, once again, as they always do. I choose to ride it out. This too shall pass.

My point is most certainly not political, because the politics of our age is primarily about ideological posturing and power, whether from the right or from the left. My point is moral. I try to define people by how they think, and by how they act, not by where they happened to be born, or what they happened to be born with. Man is a social animal, and he is always called to live with justice.

I believe this is precisely the point Marcus Aurelius has in mind. I should observe all the people around me, who have darkness in their souls, who make of themselves something they are not, who spout lies and hatred, who want only their own way, who seek gratification, power, and control, and who live in conflict with the harmony of Nature.

Now, I have only one task.

Don’t be like them.

I shouldn’t breed hatred where there should be love, and I shouldn’t breed division where there should be unity.

It’s easy for me to love people who agree with me. It’s hard for me to love people who disagree with me. I need to work on loving those people, the ones that all the important folks now tell me I’m supposed to hate.

Everyone is worthy of love, even the tyrants, but I don’t have to be one to show my care for one.

4.29

If he is a stranger to the Universe who does not know what is in it, no less is he a stranger who does not know what is going on in it.

He is a runaway, who flies from social reason. He is blind, who shuts the eyes of the understanding. He is poor, who has need of another, and has not from himself all things that are useful for life.

He is an abscess on the Universe who withdraws and separates himself from the reason of our common Nature, through being displeased with the things that happen, for the same Nature produces this, and has produced you as well.

He is a piece rent asunder from the state, who tears his own soul from that of reasonable animals, which is one.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.29 (tr Long)

We are right to pride ourselves on all the ways modern science has taught us more and more about how the Universe works, and though I have never been terribly gifted in the natural sciences, I try to go out of my way to keep up with all the most recent observations and theories. They always leave me with a sense of awe and wonder.

At the same time, I notice how often the depth of our knowledge, and the rapid growth in the technology that comes with it, are in stark contrast to what I can only call a personal alienation from Nature. Please forgive my poetic side, but I feel it in the air. Too many of us are no longer tied to a sense of all the beauty and harmony in the way things work together. We isolate ourselves from the changes of the seasons, from the wide diversity of life we are a part of, and we stare mindlessly at the steel and concrete we have cobbled together around us, far too rarely with appreciation at the firmament above us.

We also grow cold and distant from one another. We are tied together all the more by new means of communication, but we are increasingly separated in our hearts and minds. Images abound, but understanding is too often absent. Utility overpowers human concern. What should be community gives way to loneliness. We are crammed closer and closer together, but all of us in our own little isolated corners.

The Police, one of the old greats, said it well:

Another working day has ended,

Only the rush hour hell to face.

Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes,

Contestants in a suicidal race.

Though I may perceive it so prevalently in our days and age, such a separation is hardly anything new. Marcus Aurelius noted centuries ago how we alienate ourselves when we abandon reason, and we thereby cut ourselves off from the harmony of Nature and from our social bonds with other people.

I have been a stranger to life and an abscess on the Universe most when I do exactly what the Philosopher-Emperor describes. Instead of taking responsibility for myself, I will try to cast blame outwards. Instead of trying to live well through my own power, in harmony with all other things, I will try to make good living something that I expect to be given to me. All the recriminations, and all the resentment, lead only to discord. I have torn myself away from unity.

Surely, I wasn’t the only stubborn child who would try to hold his breath until he was given exactly what he wanted? Our adult version is more refined, but no less ridiculous.

If I am unhappy with the state of affairs, I can do one of two things. I can vainly try to make the world fit my demands, or I can wisely adapt my own action to becoming better. I can only be a good influence on others when I have mastered myself. I can work with Nature, and with my neighbors, or I can work against them. Either way, Providence will unfold as it should, though I will make myself happy or miserable by my cooperation or my arrogance.

4.30

The one is a philosopher without a tunic, and the other without a book. Here is another half naked.

Bread I have not, he says, and I abide by reason. And I do not get the means of living out of my learning, and I abide by my reason.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.30 (tr Long)

Some people may define philosophy as a trade, in which case I have known folks who have managed to pay the bills with it, and even a few who found a bit of fame and fortune along the way. One clever trick I have observed is the use of a degree in philosophy to gain an edge in more profitable careers, like law, business, or politics.

But for the Stoic, and for anyone who understands philosophy in the perennial sense of the love of wisdom, philosophy isn’t a means for acquiring money or reputation. It is the pursuit of understanding true from false, and right from wrong, for its own sake, for the purpose of living well.

“What use is it, then?” many will ask. The question is hardly unimportant, even if the intent behind it may be quite dismissive. It rather points straight to the most important question we can ask ourselves, and thereby itself reveals the necessity of philosophy: What is the highest good in life?

For the Stoic, virtue is itself that highest good, because it fulfills the very function of a rational being. I should look at everything else, and ask myself how these things will either aid me or hinder me in pursuing a life committed to my own moral character. Indifferent to externals for their own sake, the Stoic asks only how they might be ordered toward internal excellence.

By all means, let me make money if it can help me to be a better person, but I should be just as willing to embrace poverty if that condition can improve me. While some people will define their very lives by the presence or absence of certain circumstances, the Stoic will only view these circumstances as relative to a very different end, by what he thinks and by how he acts.

Whether I have on decent clothes, or I own the best books, or I even have food on the table will not be the measure of a Stoic life. Simply and purely, with all other things relative and subservient to it, abiding by reason, and thereby living in harmony with Nature, is the measure of the Stoic life. It isn’t about working for any wealth, gratification, or honor, but about working on myself.

This may seem like terribly bad advertising for the pursuit of philosophy, but that would only be the case if we think that advertising ought to be dishonest. It also reveals that, since many people will be horrified by the prospect of not loving fortune first, philosophy has her job cut out for her. She should encourage people to care for far better things.

How useful is philosophy? Useful for what? The life of a philosopher demands dedicated and honest reflection on what I should even be living for, and in doing so can reveal a whole new way of managing the things that are more or less important.

If I don’t think that looking sharp, or even staying warm, are all that high up on the priorities of life, I won’t really miss that tunic all too much. Keep me stylish and cozy, if you wish, but not at the expense of dedicating everything to being a good man.

4.31

Love the art, poor as it may be, that you have learned, and be content with it; and pass through the rest of life like one who has entrusted to the gods with his whole soul all that he has, making yourself neither the tyrant nor the slave of any man.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.31 (tr Long)

I have never had any great skills, and only a very few passing competencies. I had always felt the calling to be teacher, but my eccentric method was never in line with the fashions of the age. I would always, as they say, push the envelope, like some crazed test pilot, in the hopes that this might jar people out of their assumptions. I never wanted people to think like me, but to think for themselves. This novel concept usually does not go over very well.

Though most everyone had given me a list of things I needed to achieve in this life, it was never in me to sell myself out. That left me only one possible goal: Let me do my best to improve myself, regardless of what anyone else may think.

This is, after all, the only kind of art in life that will really make any difference. It can be a lonely art, a neglected art, an art that will not get me any respect from others, but I have learned it is the only one that I need.

What strengths has my aptitude given me? What opportunities has Fortune tossed my way? Whatever they might be, however humble, Providence has provided them for me to use as best I can. It will not matter if I am one of the big men, or one of the small men who clean up the trash left behind by the big men.

Character and integrity don’t admit of status or bragging rights. Put a big fancy hat on the head of a buffoon, and you still have a buffoon, just slightly taller. Put a big fancy hat on the head of a thoughtful man, and he is rightly annoyed that his head now feels too hot.

The way Marcus Aurelius expresses this truth sums it up very nicely for me. I need nothing beyond my own actions, so there is no reason to seek contentment elsewhere. I can accept whatever circumstances may bring, because I trust in the order of Nature. I should give myself completely only to this one task, of serving the true and the right.

I am called to use whatever skill I have to never be the tyrant, to never demand another to be at my pleasure, and to never be the slave, to never be at the pleasure of another. Consider how beautiful a world we would all live in if we chose to take that advice to heart. Living, and letting others live, is only so seemingly impossible when we habitually impose our own preferences upon others, or when we allow other to impose their preferences upon us.

If I choose not to be the bully, will this keep someone else from bullying me? It doesn’t do that at all. Because he loves acquiring power over external things, at the expense of his own soul, the tyrant can often take from me whatever he wants. It is what he doesn’t want, and what he can never take away from me, that will keep me from being a slave. The Universe does not always give us economic or political justice, as much as we may want it to, but it always gives us the chance for moral justice.

Can I build business empires, media conglomerates, or political alliances to push people around and feel important? There may be great art in me, but it is then being used for all the wrong things. This will never make me content. I must offer fully and gladly of whatever I may have, and never demand anything more.

4.32

Consider, for example, the times of Vespasian. You will see all these things, people marrying, bringing up children, sick, dying, warring, feasting, trafficking, cultivating the ground, flattering, obstinately arrogant, suspecting, plotting, wishing for some to die, grumbling about the present, loving, heaping up treasure, desiring consulship, kingly power. Well then, that life of these people no longer exists at all.

Again, remove to the times of Trajan. Again, all is the same. Their life too is gone. In like manner view also the other epochs of time and of whole nations, and see how many after great efforts soon fell and were resolved into the elements.

But chiefly you should think of those whom you have yourself known distracting themselves about idle things, neglecting to do what was in accordance with their proper constitution, and to hold firmly to this and to be content with it.

And herein it is necessary to remember that the attention given to everything has its proper value and proportion. For thus you will not be dissatisfied, if you apply yourself to smaller matters no further than is fit.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.32 (tr Long)

Few things are as helpful for overcoming our vanities than seeing how passing their true nature is. Time can often give us a new perspective on what we thought was so terribly important, impossible to ignore, or absolutely necessary to address above all else. In the heat of the moment, our priorities can be quite scrambled, because we are acting on the magnitude of how something feels to us then and there, not on what it is in itself.

It is when the force of impressions has faded that things are once again revealed in their proper proportion. Shadows often make things look more frightening than they really are, and clever staging often makes things look more desirable than they really are.

An old saying has it that if I don’t like the weather, I should just wait a minute. Much the same applies to making decisions in the face of certain appearances and circumstances, and the habit of thinking in a bigger context is the key to not confusing greater and lesser goods.

History, of course, is full of such lessons. People spent so much of their energy worried about the most shallow and petty things, none of which offered any peace or contentment then and there, and then they were gone.

I spent much of my childhood surrounded by history, and sometimes I felt a bit overwhelmed by it all, but it always helped me to reflect on distinguishing the things that were temporary or lasting. If my family passed an important monument, grave, or portrait, my mother would often repeat a very Austrian sort of phrase, roughly translated as “Well, his old bones aren’t hurting him anymore!” There was a good bit of sympathy in those words, and then a bit more of a friendly reminder that nothing really stays the same.

One of my own versions has long involved observing how a street or a neighborhood will change, and how what I assumed was an immovable landmark of life might disappear at the moment I look the other way.

An old friend would regularly watch as many of the weekday afternoon soap operas as she possibly could, even if they were just on in the background. This hardly seemed to fit her personality at all, and I had to ask why she found them appealing.

“The stories are ridiculous, the characters are selfish and arrogant, and the stakes are all about useless things,” she said. “I like to be reminded about how not to live, and how much worse my own life could be.”

Well, that actually seems quite sensible. Seeing how people sadly waste their dignity on diversions can soberly remind me to do a better job of ordering my own attention.

4.33

The words which were formerly familiar are now antiquated.

So also the names of those who were famed of old, are now in a manner antiquated, Camillus, Caeso, Volesus, Leonnatus, and a little after also Scipio and Cato, then Augustus, then also Hadrian and Antoninus.

For all things soon pass away and become a mere tale, and complete oblivion soon buries them. And I say this of those who have shone in a wondrous way. For the rest, as soon as they have breathed out their breath, they are gone, and no man speaks of them.

And, to conclude the matter, what is even an eternal remembrance? A mere nothing.

What then is that about which we ought to employ our serious pains? This one thing, just thoughts, and social acts, and words which never lie, and a disposition which gladly accepts all that happens, as necessary, as usual, as flowing from a principle and source of the same kind.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.33 (tr Long)

I am still a man in middle age, and I already feel like people use different words, or the same words with rather different meanings, than they did only a few decades ago. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but simply a sign of how our human circumstances are always in a state of flux. I can choose to understand these differences, and I can then dedicate myself not just to the meanings of words, but also to the meaning of the Nature behind all of those words.

Most of my students struggle to make sense of Wordsworth or Shakespeare, and one frustrated young fellow told me he felt like the characters in a Twain or Dickens novel were speaking in a different language. I often confuse them even more when I offer anything by Chaucer, and the Old English of Beowulf seems no different to them than Greek. I can hardly blame them.

The names and reputations of those once considered the great men and women of history are no different. I was still given a certain Classical framework in my youth, though that was already quite rare, so every one of the names Marcus Aurelius lists means something to me. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised if only one of those names, Augustus, was even vaguely recognized.

Cato, who? I would ask if we mean the Elder or the Younger, but it is now the name of a women’s fashion retailer.

As I have grown closer to Stoicism, I have increasingly thought that there is no point in teaching the words and names, the places and events, of the past as things to be memorized just for their own sake. We lose our awareness of them once we have filled out the worksheet or taken the test.

Instead, I ask what the thoughts, words, and deeds of any time or place can tell us about human nature as a whole, about the order of Nature of which we are a part, and of the Logos that gives Nature that order. Those are, I believe, the principles that truly matter. Words and names are only as good as the reality they help us to comprehend.

On a moral and personal level, this also helps me remember that status and fame will always come and go, and are useless indicators of any lasting value. I don’t even need to have a Classical education to see that. I can look over the Billboard Charts since they were started in 1936 to see the vanity of recognition.

Most of us are hardly given a second glance even right now, though some of us may be esteemed for a time while we live, about outside qualities that have little to do with who we are on the inside. Only a very few of us will ever be thought of again once we’ve been put back into the ground, and those legends die perhaps a bit more slowly, even as the stories about us are far removed from who we actually were.

Again, this is not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a moment of enlightenment and relief. My name doesn’t matter one bit, even if, by some strange fluke of history, I happened to become one of those folks respected later on for something I may or may not have done. The enlightenment and relief come from allowing me to live well for its own sake, and for absolutely nothing else.

I should think good thoughts, act with love, and respect everything in the world for what it is, by means of the only thing within my power, my own character, and within the only moment I have within my power, the right here and now.

4.34

Willingly give thyself up to Clotho, one of the Fates, allowing her to spin your thread into whatever things she pleases.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.34 (tr Long)

Marcus Aurelius has already employed the symbol of the thread of life, and here he makes a more specific reference to the Fates, the goddesses of destiny. Clotho spins the thread, Lachesis measures it, and Atropos cuts it.

There does not need to be any terror or despair in considering the concept of fate, because the Stoic understands that what makes life worth living isn’t really determined by externals at all. I might worry that willfully giving myself to destiny is a complete surrender of everything I am, but it is rather an acceptance of the conditions out of which I will determine who I am. It isn’t giving up my will, but being grateful for the tools my will can employ.

Clotho crafts the very fiber out of which I am made, and in doing so she represents all the circumstances of life that I am given. Such things are outside of my power, and while they may seem to be so much of what defines me, what will matter is what is fully within my power, my own choices and actions.

I had a rather Stoic moment about freedom and fate long before I even knew what Stoicism was. In my elementary school library, I was leafing through a book about gangsters, and as I turned the page, there was a striking image of the victims of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. A real scene of death was far more frightening than anything I’d seen in the movies.

I noticed how they were all wearing nice suits, and one fellow had a sand-colored fedora perched on his chest. For some reason, I suddenly wondered what these men were thinking when they got dressed that morning, and whether it could possibly have occurred to them that this was the last time they would ever do so.

My reflection arose not from heartlessness, but from a certain sympathy. They may have been hardened criminals, but they were still people like everyone else, and something like this could happen to anyone. If life was that precarious, and even the immediate future so unknown to us, what could ever be reliable?

As my own life unfolded, many things seemed routine, but there were also these sudden explosions of completely unexpected events. I would look back at them in shock, and tell myself, “If I had only known!” I would sometimes remember that photograph.

But it wasn’t my place to know, just as it wasn’t my place to decide what would happen to me. That had already been set by other causes. The only comfort I could ever find was remembering that it was still up to me how I chose to think and live, at any given moment, regardless of any of the circumstances.

Let the thread be spun, measured, and cut however it may, but I can still be myself.

4.35

Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is remembered.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.35 (tr Long)

I can still precisely remember her every word, every aspect of the room, how the sun shone into the space, and just how the branches outside swayed in the breeze.

“You’ll always be my best friend. I love you. Nothing will change that. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just you.”

Two weeks later, after my aborted marriage proposal, all bets were off. The only time I ever sat down with her again, after my failure, she said that taking my own life was the best option for me.

What was said on one day was most certainly not remembered on the next.

My experience is hardly unique. Too many of us believe in all the shallow promises and commitments, about forever and ever, that we are given by those who are disloyal and dishonest. The world is full of the dismayed, the dismissed, and the heartbroken. They are cast aside and forgotten, while those who treated them poorly smile for the camera.

Thinking of this hurts, but the hurt serves a purpose. Mourning about a loss need never be about hopelessness, but the loss can itself become a means for hope. It’s all about what I choose to care about, and why I might choose to care.

Love matters, but it isn’t about being loved. I was my own victim, by depending on a false promise of eternal devotion. It was certainly within my power to offer love, without condition, but it was not within my power to expect love, without condition.

In the end, none of these passing things make any difference at all. I hoped for something timeless, but nothing is timeless. My own promise is only as good as much as I renew it, through my actions, for each and every second I am alive. It isn’t my place to speak for anyone else’s promises or actions.

Everything is only for a day. This doesn’t mean that we cannot be committed, but that a commitment must be forged at every moment, in every changing circumstance, until we meet our end. Promises are easy to make, but hard to keep. A promise only makes sense when we act it out, right here and now, and then over and over and over again. Tomorrow is easy, but today is hard.

What has happened, what is remembered, becomes meaningless in the face of what I am actually doing. Reputation means nothing. Action means everything.

My rambling thoughts help me to realize how insignificant it is to worry about how anything will be remembered. It matters only how my life was lived, when it was lived.   

4.36

Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom yourself to consider that the nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change the things which are, and to make new things like them.

For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.

But you are thinking only of seeds that are cast into the earth, or into a womb; but this is a very vulgar notion.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.36 (tr Long)

I have quite a few weaknesses of disposition and character, and one of my greatest is surely my sense of nostalgia. I like things the way I remember them, at some ideal moment in my mind. Change will therefore often frustrate me.

I accordingly need to remind myself every day that it is never best for anything to be preserved in some static state. Transformation is never the destruction of something, but the beginning of something else, and the order of change is precisely how being expresses itself most fully.

Everything is a seed for something else, and not just in the narrow sense of how living things reproduce. Each circumstance, relation, or state of affairs is, in turn, the grounds out of which all things are renewed. It helps me to think of the stages of change itself as harmonious and beautiful, where existence is actualized and perfected in becoming.

Whether I may find anything pleasant or painful, I need to look at it from the side of its own purpose. It was something different, it is even now being altered, and it will soon be something else. It is right and good that the Universe is constantly active, and not merely passive. After all, it would hardly be much of a Universe if it didn’t do anything.

A distinctly human flaw can be wishing for something to be different than it is now, and either looking to the past for relief, which is always my temptation, or hoping for something else in the future. I can’t be thinking of these different aspects as being separate from one another, or being able to exist independently, for each is a part of the whole.

Many years ago, I would resent being young, and I wanted to be older, and now I will equally resent being old, and I want to be young again. Like any good story, the beginning, the middle, and the end, all work together, and it hardly makes sense to read only one chapter over and over, or to read them out of order. Even as the players change, no story ever really ends at all, and it becomes the start of a whole new story.

I can certainly appreciate the past, though I serve myself very poorly when I think only of the past. The past can still be good for me, but only in the sense that it made possible what I can be now, and what will ultimately become of me. It is a package deal.

I used to think it quite sentimental when people advised me to always tell the people I love how much they matter, because what was said before had become distant, and what can be said in the future is never guaranteed. I appreciate this far more lately. As with all things in Stoicism, there is no time like the now, even as it will never be the same the next time I look at it.

4.37

You will soon die, and you are not yet simple, not free from perturbations, or without suspicion of being hurt by external things, or kindly disposed towards all; nor do you yet place wisdom only in acting justly.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.37 (tr Long)

It hurts to hear it, but it is completely true. Marcus Aurelius is, of course, speaking to himself, but he might as well be sitting down with me over a very strong cup of coffee.

The Stoics will often speak of “the sage”, the man who has finally come to rise above all the shallow and petty things in this life, and who now chooses, with joy, tranquility, and complete self-giving, to dedicate his entire existence to wisdom and virtue. Nothing else may touch him, or if a longing for externals reaches out to touch him, he can gently put them aside. Circumstance and fate no longer harm him, because he does not allow them to rule over him.

He may have something in common, I suppose, with the bodhisattva of Buddhism, or the rishi of Hinduism. In the Catholic faith I was raised in, we informally called such people living saints, as much as that troubled the more precise theologians.

I leave aside, for the moment, the question of whether there are such truly perfected people in this life, or whether they it is noble ideal for our aspirations. I do know, however, that I have been blessed by knowing people, only a few, who come at least mightily close to achieving that complete goal. I keep them in my heart and mind every day as an inspiration.

Now I might complain about how many obstacles stand in my way, or I may choose to do my best to overcome those obstacles. Most of us are dedicated to wealth, fame, and a long life. The Stoic is dedicated to understanding, character, and a good life. Each of us can channel all that energy committed to externals, and redirect it to internals. The choice is right here, right now. Then, we would have far fewer important people, but far more decent people.

Simplicity? Less is more, not because less is itself better, but because life needs no more than what Nature provides.

Free from perturbations? Worry only about what is within my power, and never about what is beyond it. Nature manages the rest.

Without being hurt by external things? As a being of reason, choice, and action, I will only harm myself by abusing my reason, choice, and action.

Kindly disposed towards all? There is never a reason to hate anyone or anything. There is only a reason to correct my own hatred for anyone or anything.

Acting justly? I may be treated unjustly, but that is neither here nor there. The grasping of others need not make me grasping within myself.

4.38

Examine men's ruling principles, even those of the wise, what kind of things they avoid, and what kind they pursue.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.38 (tr Long)

I started learning long ago how helpful it could be to simply observe the way people behaved. This perhaps came easier for me, because I was usually the awkward and quiet fellow, and I was very rarely noticed by others. I may have often felt neglected, but this gave me a priceless opportunity to figure out what made people tick.

I could look around to see what people said and did, but I could also begin to see patterns of why they may have said and done those things. It was never about reaching into their minds to reveal their motives, but about considering how their words and deeds on the outside indirectly reflected what they wanted on the inside. This, in turn, could give me a sense of what was important to them, what they both desired and feared.

I can learn just as easily from both the foolish and the wise, from the vicious and the virtuous, and from all the degrees in between. It is as helpful to see all the warnings of how not to live, as well as the inspirations for how to live.

Their ruling principles become apparent in their actions. If they work to increase their possessions, or their reputations, or the satisfaction of their passions, and employ all other things in the service of those ends, this tells me much about them. They are quite different from those who work to improve themselves, regardless of whether there is some external payment, or if anyone else is looking, or if an immediate pleasure has to be surrendered for what is right.

I will sometimes make three sorts of mistakes when examining others, and each of these errors will hinder me from learning about how I, in turn, should live.

First, I should not confuse how people wish to appear in their words and actions, from what they actually want from their words and actions. This may be difficult to unravel, but true character, and not merely the illusion of character, will usually reveal itself quickly where the rubber meets the road, when there is a true test of priorities.

Second, I should not confuse understanding others with condemning or dismissing others. Once I observe a harmful or ignorant principle in any action, I immediately make it useless for my own improvement if I am harmful or ignorant within myself.

Third, no amount of observation will be of any use to me if I do not apply what I have learned, whether it is about what is good or bad, to my own decisions and actions. I cringe to think of how many times I knew full well that people were acting out of selfishness or in bad faith, but I trusted and followed them anyway, because my own principles were still disordered.

The best education in living will always be watching how people live, and learning from this what meaning and purpose is best for living.

4.39

What is evil to you does not subsist in the ruling principle of another, nor yet in any turning and mutation of your corporeal covering.

Where is it then? It is in that part of you in which subsists the power of forming opinions about evils. Let this power then not form such opinions, and all is well.

And if that which is nearest to it, the poor body, is burnt, filled with matter and rottenness, nevertheless let the part which forms opinions about these things be quiet, that is, let it judge that nothing is either bad or good which can happen equally to the bad man and the good.

For that which happens equally to him who lives contrary to Nature and to him who lives according to Nature, is neither according to Nature nor contrary to Nature.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.39 (tr Long)

Having come into this world at the height of Flower Power, I was quite familiar with the many appeals to having a “positive attitude”. I found, however, that this was often not considered with much depth, and I was never satisfied being told that it required “just having good thoughts.” What made the thoughts good, and how should I go about forming them? I know, nobody likes the annoying fellow who asks the awkward questions.

I also noticed that for many, the purpose of a good attitude was seen as a means of receiving good things, and not about a means for doing them. I immediately wondered if I should expect the quality of my thinking or wishing to somehow directly change what happened in the world, or whether it more properly served to change me?

I remember some of the business gurus of the 1980’s arguing that if I only thought rich hard enough, I would then become rich. I naturally asked if making money would make me truly rich at all, and if there were better things at which to direct my willpower.

Yet there is something deeply Stoic about the idea that my happiness depends on my thinking, if only I understand the context rightly. I need to clarify for myself what form my thoughts should be taking, and what I might expect in return for modifying my thinking.

Once my estimation shifts from seeking the good in the thinking of others, or in the circumstances of my body and my surroundings, to seeking the good in my own judgment itself, I have made the most necessary change in my attitude. From this, I can proceed to recognizing how anything that happens to me will only be as good or bad for me as I decide to make it. What is usually understood as gain or loss, triumph or tragedy, is all equally an opportunity for making myself better.

For all the effort I can put into planning and execution, the world will unfold on its own terms. I am left with only one thing that is distinctly mine, and that I can rely upon without question. This is the merit of my own actions, how anything I can do reflects my love for my own nature, within the harmony of all of Nature.

I need not think of my circumstances defining me, or wishing them to be one way or another. Things around me may seem to fall apart, I may be surrounded by malice, and my situation may seem hopeless. It is hardly so, because the hope isn’t from the situation, but in what I can make of myself in the situation.

I deeply appreciate how Marcus Aurelius observes that both good and bad men will confront exactly the same things in life, and will only differ in how they make sense and use of them. Good and bad folks can both be rich or poor, healthy or sick, loved or unloved, have the world handed to them a silver platter or struggle to hang on by their fingernails.

If Providence had wanted such things to be our measure, she would have made the good guys worldly successes, and the bad guys worldly failures. She could perhaps have ironically done the exact reverse. She did neither, but it is all mixed and blended together, each of us with our distinct baggage.

A positive attitude isn’t about changing, by power or cleverness, the cards I have been dealt, but playing that hand with integrity and justice. I believe this should be the form of my own thinking, and also itself the reward I can hope to expect. Whatever is fully good asks for nothing beyond itself.

4.40

Constantly regard the Universe as one living being, having one substance and one soul.

And observe how all things have reference to one perception, the perception of this one living being.

And how all things act with one movement.

And how all things are the cooperating causes of all things that exist.

Observe too the continuous spinning of the thread and the contexture of the web.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.40 (tr Long)

This is a passage charged with metaphysical meaning, and it is the sort of thinking that can reveal deep disagreements from different perspectives and schools. A traditional theist may object that this is pantheism, because it fails to distinguish between God and creation. A modern secularist may object that the very idea of an ordered Universe, under one Divine Mind, is unscientific. So the different sides take their corners, and they fight it out.

The division about such matter stands in a sharp contrast to the very unity of all things to which Marcus Aurelius is appealing. 

Questions about the ultimate order, purpose, and cause of the entire Universe may be difficult to approach, but they are hardly beyond the sound consideration of reason, and they are the necessary foundation for how our own lives find a place together with all other things.

I once found a very small, oddly shaped piece of metal under my bed. I had no idea what it did, and I could have easily just tossed it away, but I put it aside. It was only many months later that I realized what it was, a part of the end clasp for a watch chain I had inherited from my great-grandfather. The clasp and the chain were reunited, and not only was a whole object brought back together, but my heart was brought back together.

One piece of metal played a part in a chain, the chain was there to carry a watch, the watch was there to tell time, the measure of time helps me to live my life well, and living my life well can hopefully serve anything and everything. One piece of metal also played a part in something else, how much people can mean to one another, and how a tiny part of something can remind us of all the bigger things in life that matter the most.

I could try to write a whole book about the one and the many, about unity and diversity, about the whole and the parts, about God and creation, about transcendence and immanence. I could try to reference the Bible and the Upanishads, Parmenides and Heraclitus, St. Augustine and St. Thomas, Spinoza and Leibniz. How are things the same, and how are they different? Do they share in the very same identity, or do they participate with one another? I could speak of atheism, theism, pantheism, and panentheism.

That task is far beyond my own ability, and while I often ponder the theory, I leave its expression to the more gifted. What remains most important to me, in humble daily practice, is how I should consider the one and the many in the way I choose to live.

What I do certainly know is that while I am different from the pen and paper in front of me, or the neighbor laughing loudly next door, or the cat just now asking to be let into the yard, all of these things are also one and the same. They are different because they express different qualities, but the substance, existence itself, as understood in the original Stoic sense, is identical.

The existence of any one thing, however I choose to philosophically understand existence, is inseparable from the existence of any other thing. They have no being apart, but only being together. There is no me without everything around me, and there is no everything without all the bits that compose it. That even includes me.

However we may choose to understand it, we are all one. There is one joined perception that makes us the same, one joined movement that makes us the same, and one joined cooperation that makes us the same. We may kick and fight and protest all we like; in doing so, we only end up playing the part we wish to reject.

With all respect, to the traditional theist: By all means, look to the benefit of what you say is somehow up there. Now consider how what is up there, by the order of causes, is also present within everything down here.

With all respect, to the modern secularist: By all means, look to the benefit of what you say is somehow down here. Now consider how what is down here, by the order of causes, is also present within everything up there.

With all respect, to each and every one of us: By all means, define yourself as yourself. Now consider that the only reason the “you” and the “I” are ever in conflict is because we have forgotten how we are one.

4.41

You are a little soul bearing about a corpse, as Epictetus used to say.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.41 (tr Long)

I notice how often we all swing from extreme to extreme, from thinking far too much of ourselves, to thinking far too little of ourselves. At one moment, I may think I am the source of everything worthy, and at another I may consider myself to be totally worthless. The estimation can even change at a moment’s notice.

One part of this may well be how familiar we are with playing a part, and so we are used to modifying an image to fit the circumstances. In hindsight, I realize how much of what I was being taught in school was about actually maintaining an appearance to others, turning on the confidence and bravado, or toning it down with humility and deference, whatever the situation required.

Yet another part, the one that is completely sincere and within our own minds, can be just as variable. My own experience suggests that this is because we may have no real foundation or measure by which to understand our own value, no anchor to keep us from being swept this way and that by the changing currents. We allow our sense of self to depend upon the Fortune that will come and go, and not upon the Nature that is always there.

I may feel like a giant when things around me are pleasing and convenient, and like a worm when things around me are troublesome and inconvenient. That sense of self, however, is not about the self at all, but about what happens to the self.

I am far better served by considering myself on the merits of my own nature, and its place within the whole of Nature. Pride and humility do not need to be so variable, and they need not be about putting on a show. I can then be deeply confident in what is within my power, and deeply humble about the things outside of my power.

I have always loved the language of this classic Stoic phrase. The body I carry with me, and all the possessions, and honors, and diversions that go with it, are already dead things, with no life in themselves, and with nothing lasting or reliable.

What then is left of me? It may well be little, only one small part within a much greater whole, but it is my soul, that power to understand, to choose, to be the master of my own actions. My thoughts and actions are only my own, they do not determine the whole Universe, and that is why my soul is little. But it is still a soul, a vital principle that can freely participate in the activity that binds everything together. That is itself something noble, and something wondrous.

The beauty of any and all consciousness is its power to come to know itself, and to proceed beyond itself to know its own purpose within the order of other things. True humility and true pride, about the right aspects and in the right way, are only possible in conjunction with one another.

4.42

It is no evil for things to undergo change, and no good for things to subsist in consequence of change.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.42 (tr Long)

I’ve been, at various times in my life, on different sides of this matter. I’ve sometimes desperately wanted things to change, and I’ve also sometimes desperately wanted them to stay the same. In either case, my error has always been in thinking that my own preference for one state of affairs or another should determine anything at all.  

Back when I measured my life in weeks or months, everything seemed so static, and I craved something new. When I gained the benefit of a broader perspective, I would complain that nothing was ever constant. Once I measured my life in years or decades, it was very different.

We will sometimes try to push the world to change faster, and we will sometimes try to slow it all down. Our eagerness may take on ridiculous proportions. I’ve heard it said that “it must happen now, without delay!” I’ve also heard it said that “it must stay as it is, whatever the cost!”

I can no longer count the times that I have done the same thing twice, and either been disappointed that it was exactly the same, or been disappointed that it wasn’t exactly the same. If I consider change and constancy as relative to my own desires, I will most likely be unhappy. If, however, I can allow things to change as they will, on their own terms, in their own time, and in their own way, and if I can adapt my own thinking and living to them, I may find some peace for myself.

Heraclitus had it right, in one sense, to say that change is a constant, and that something will be different the moment you look at it twice. Yet at the same time, even as all the circumstances are altered, the order ruling them, and the harmony behind the variations, is always stable and secure. Parmenides offered the other side of it. These two aspects of early Greek thought balance and complement one another for a reason.

Nature will always modify her form, because her glory is expressing herself in so many different ways. Throughout it all, the changes act for the whole, where each and every part rightly comes and goes, but the pattern is always there at each and every moment.

Life is not a static and passive state, but a dynamic and active unfolding. That is the very beauty to the whole picture, and the work of art is always a work in progress. There is no final stroke of the brush that finishes the picture, only constant growth, addition, and transition.

I will demand change when I despise existence in its own terms, and I will only fear change when I despise existence on its own terms. It will be as it should, and my only responsibility is to determine the balance of change and constancy within myself.

4.43

Time is like a river made up of the events that happen, and a violent stream.

For as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.43 (tr Long)

The image of a river to represent time and the passage of life can be seen over and over again, from a variety of different sources, and so for many of us it has sadly become a platitude. As common as its expression may be, we can still learn much by considering its specific aspects.

We speak of a river as a “something”, just as we speak of life as a “something”, though in both cases they are hardly static states at all, but the constant motion of the ever-changing parts acting and being acted upon. The course, depth, and speed of the river itself will change with time, and at no given point is the water within the river the same.

As it is also in many Eastern traditions, specifically that of Taoism, water itself serves as such a wonderful likeness for the activity of Nature. Water is subtle as it adapts its shape to what surrounds it, but it is also powerful, capable of sweeping away anything before it. What is at one moment a quiet stream can become a raging torrent, and what is at one moment carried along gently can be smashed in an instant.

When water slowly erodes a rock in a stream, we may not even notice the gradual transformation, but when water crashes across the land in a flood, we are shocked by the sudden destruction. In either case, however, whether it is slow or fast, small or great in it scale, the passage of water leaves nothing the same.

The changing circumstances or our own lives are very similar. We may float almost effortlessly on water that is calm, and feel threatened by drowning on water that is rough. It seems like a friend here, an enemy there. I may think that the world around me will always stay as it is, but it is already something different as I take it for granted. Time will not always treat me the same, and one day, perhaps unexpectedly, time will carry me away as well, as it carries away everything else.

Only a profound respect for that constant transformation of Nature can make life intelligible and meaningful.

I was once hiking alone in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and I came to a stream I would need to cross. I was tired, I was impatient, and this surely affected my judgment. I didn’t fell like adding another miles or so to a bridge. The water hardly looked all that deep or fast from the shore, and I figured that if I tread slowly and carefully, I’d manage my way to the other side without a problem.

A single misstep half way across changed my mind. The current was stronger than I had thought, and I found myself submerged, being pulled downstream, and knocked about on rocks and fallen branches. I somehow managed to grapple my way out of the water to the other side, but the moment remains firmly stamped in my memory, as a reminder that things in Nature are far deeper, stronger, and faster than I might think.

This time I got away with thoroughly wet gear and a few bruises, but the next time I won’t underestimate the power of a stream. I need to respect that.

4.44

Everything that happens is as familiar and well known as the rose in spring and the fruit in summer.

For such is disease, and death, and calumny, and treachery, and whatever else delights fools or vexes them.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.44 (tr Long)

I often struggle with how I would wish the world to be, in stark contrast to how I know I should be in the face of the world.

In daily practice, nothing will trip me up more than not getting my way. The only resolution lies in the Stoic Turn, where it’s never about shaping reality to fit my wants, but in shaping my wants to fit reality.

I find this is something like the Taoist concept of wu wei, action within inaction, effortless doing, the proper sense of “going with the flow”. Live with all your might, but live with things, and never against things.

Common sense alone, without any reference to profound philosophy, will surely tell me that things will be as they are. The seasons will always change, other people will always follow their own hearts, and Nature will give to me what I need, but not always what I think I deserve. Surely that can be enough for me?

I once despaired because a woman I loved didn’t love me. I once went into a dark hole because I didn’t get a job I was certain would make everything right. I have sadly spent too many hours praying to a God I thought would give me what I desired, and I hadn’t bothered to ask Him what He desired of me.

The natural world itself, free of the illusion of human dominance, should surely give us a clue. Everything has its time, and everything has its place. Let it be, as it was meant to be, and don’t try to fix the world to suit you. Fix yourself first.

Man was not made to conquer Nature, but to be a part of Nature, in all of its glory.

I may seek only gratification in something that pleases me, and I may find only frustration in something that vexes me. Neither of these responses is the correct response. Only acceptance, and the love that must go with it, are the correct response. A man who responds to life only with his passions is a puppet on a string.

Roses bloom, and fruits become ripe. Then they will whither or rot. In either case, they will return again, in a new form, much alike, but also different. Loss, and death, and betrayal play the same sort of role in the cycle of things.

Finding satisfaction or misery never depends on what happens. Nature has already taken care of that, while I am asked to take care of myself. Mere delight or vexation in circumstances is my greatest weakness.

4.45

In the series of things, those that follow are always aptly fitted to those that have gone before.

For this series is not like a mere enumeration of disjointed things, which has only a necessary sequence, but it is a rational connection, and as all existing things are arranged together harmoniously, so the things which come into existence exhibit no mere succession, but a certain wonderful relationship.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.45 (tr Long)

We observe that events occur, but we rarely reflect on why these events occur, and the manner in which they are all connected to one another. They may seem isolated and independent, or they may appear to be random and chaotic, yet each is there for a specific reason, and that reason is joined together with the reasons for everything within the whole.

It isn’t simply a matter of one thing following after another in time, a temporal order, but that one thing proceeds on account of another, a causal order. Such a view of what happens isn’t based on blind faith or wishful thinking. Rather, the principle of causality is itself necessitated by the consistent use of reason.

That which is moved, is moved by another, and whatever comes into being does so through something else. Motion or change is always from one state to another state, with each cause and effect joined to together, proximately or ultimately, with every other. I cannot fully think or speak, therefore, of anything that happens without reference to all the things that happen.

The Stoic concept of a Universe ordered by Providence is built upon this axiom. While one aspect of Epicurean physics was the concept of randomness, the Stoic will scratch his head at this, recognizing that chance can never logically be in things, but only in our limited perception of things.

To admire the beauty within the harmonious relation of all things is not just a matter of romantic sentiment. I can find joy in the balanced connection of things through an appreciation of the mind, just as when the understanding of how and why anything works can give a profound satisfaction.

There are few things more wondrous than a moment of insight, where we see how an event fits a pattern, how the effect follows from the cause, and how a part works within the whole. Then, place and purpose are revealed.

This may all seem too deep or abstract for some people, yet I find time and time again how it plays itself out in daily practice, and serves as a foundation for how I choose to live. When I am completely honest with myself, and temper my presumptions and attachments to desire, I can begin to see things for themselves, and as they are joined to other things, as links in a chain or strands of a web. My own meaning and purpose can gradually become apparent through my intrinsic connection to what surrounds me, from where I have come and where I am going.

4.46

Always remember the saying of Heraclitus, that the death of earth is to become water, and the death of water is to become air, and the death of air is to become fire, and conversely.

And think too of him who forgets where the way leads, and that men quarrel with that with which they are most constantly in communion, the reason which governs the Universe, and the things which they meet with daily seem to them strange.

And consider that we ought not to act and speak as if we were asleep, for even in sleep we seem to act and speak, and that we ought not, like children who learn from their parents, simply act and speak as we have been taught.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.46 (tr Long)

I have always been a rather reflective person, though clearly not always reflective in the best way. Merely dwelling on impressions, or aimlessly pondering about speculations, or obsessing about how I might want something to be, is hardly the same thing as seeking to understand myself and my place in the world.

We may take the distinction between the Classical four elements in different ways, as literally or as figuratively as we like, but the principle behind what Heraclitus expresses remains the same. Any change of state is always into something else, from old to new, the matter within one form being rebuilt in a new form. In this way, all transformation serves an ordered purpose within the balance of the whole. As trite as it may at first sound, endings are always new beginnings.

This is true not just in some grand cosmic scheme, but also in the most immediate and humble aspects of daily life. I have forgotten where the way leads, as Marcus Aurelius says, when I no longer listen to reason, and I no longer recognize the balance and pattern of coming to be and passing away. Each and every event is like that, because everything that happens plays a necessary part.

My own reflection should never just consider how it feels to me at the moment. I should look behind the appearance to how my relationship with other things and with other people allows for the possibility of improvement and growth. Any new happening, however unconnected it may at first seem, is another expression of that constant unfolding.

Nothing is really ever completely new or strange, just the same harmony played in a variation.

I have, in fact, thought of this in terms of the analogy of music quite often. An orchestra may play a new piece with a different order and sequence of notes, yet it remains an orchestra. Players come and go, yet it remains an orchestra. Each musician may be doing something very different at various times, even as each musician is contributing to the same goal of expressing beauty.

We all follow a grand score, so to speak, though our place is never intended to be one of blind conformity. I was often told to never play my own musical part mindlessly. Instead, I should try to understand why those specific notes mattered, how the way they were played made a difference, and in what way they related to what everyone else was playing.

If I start thinking about ensemble music, or about life itself, in such a manner, I am playing my part with active awareness. I am no longer just doing what I’m told, as if I were asleep. My participation, informed by free understanding, now makes me a conscious and active agent, not a passive piece of fate.

4.47

If any god told you that you would die tomorrow, or certainly on the day after tomorrow, you would not care much whether it was on the third day or tomorrow, unless you were in the highest degree mean-spirited.

For how small is the difference? So think it no great thing to die after as many years as you can name, rather than tomorrow.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.47 (tr Long)

After years of ever worsening chest pains, shortness of breath, terrible exhaustion, and then finally sudden unpredictable bouts of passing out, I was advised that I had perhaps six months to live.

My heart, they said, after all the fancy tests, was just failing. Various hugely expensive surgical options were suggested, of course, all of which involved ripping me open, putting me under for many months, and all of them with absolutely no guarantee of doing anything at all.

I think, perhaps for the first time in my life, I actually managed to show even a little bit of courage. Thank you, I said. Please give me whatever you can to make it easier, and to make the end come more smoothly, but I’m not going to try to extend my meager life in quantity, at the expense if its quality.

I know that choice is not for everyone, but I made my own choice based on Stoic principles. I would rather live well, with whatever little time is given to me, than lie there having been chopped up like a piece of meat, with tubes in me, numbed by drugs that cloud my thinking, a faceless number in a sterile hospital room. Whatever will come, will come, but I will not choose to die to the chirping of machines, covered in plastic. I’d rather die with the chirping of birds, surrounded by fresh air.

And here I am, now over two years later, still alive. The esteemed doctors squirm when I show up for a renewal on my prescriptions. I know it could end at any moment, and I no longer have any fear of that. Perhaps it is just my tough Irish constitution, or the fact that I am just generally a stubborn bastard. None of that matters.

I do know it will end sooner rather than later. It no longer troubles me. I at least suspect it will end quickly, and quite unexpectedly, whenever it happens, and though there are things I will miss most terribly, I hope that I will have done my part.

I learned that I needed to come to terms with who I am, not how long I have happened to be here. We are always told, by the big moneymaking machine, to invest in our future. I realized there is nothing more important than investing in my present.

It hasn’t been an easy path. The physical pain is far outweighed by the way the situation makes the Black Dog bite me emotionally all the more. There are times I will want to surrender completely. I even developed a little mantra for myself, whenever I went to bed in a very foul mood:

Close your eyes. Fall asleep. Don’t wake up.

I was saddened by how few people showed any concern at all, but that was itself the test that Providence offered to me. It has helped me to rely on my own thinking, and to recognize when there is actually compassionate thinking in others, however few those others might be.

How much? Meaningless.

How well? Priceless.

Not how a credit card company means it, but how a genuine Stoic means it. Our currencies are rather different.

4.48

Think continually how many physicians are dead after often contracting their eyebrows over the sick; and how many astrologers after predicting with great pretensions the deaths of others; and how many philosophers after endless discourses on death or immortality; how many heroes after killing thousands; and how many tyrants who have used their power over men's lives with terrible insolence as if they were immortal; and how many cities are entirely dead, so to speak, Helike, and Pompeii, and Herculaneum, and others innumerable.

Add to the reckoning all whom you have known, one after another. One man after burying another has been laid out dead, and another buries him. And all of this in a short time.

To conclude, always observe how ephemeral and worthless human things are, and what was yesterday a little mucus tomorrow will be a mummy or ashes.

Pass then through this little space of time conformably to Nature, and end your journey in contentment, just as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature who produced it, and thanking the tree on which it grew.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.48 (tr Long)

This is the sort of passage that may seem depressing to some. If it all passes away, what is any of it worth? Only one aspect of life is worthy, that of living comfortably with Nature, at any point, whatever the circumstances, however long it may last. The rest need not trouble me if I have that one goal constantly in mind.

I don’t mean having my fun, or pursuing my pleasure at the expense of others. I don’t mean getting rich, regardless of who I might end up stepping on or discarding. I don’t mean making a name for myself, however much I must lie and cheat to do so.

I mean acting with integrity, with a sincere care for how I should respect myself, and thereby respect others who are exactly like myself.  We are all made for that same end.

Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, killing thousands in Pompeii and Herculaneum. Further back, in 373 BC, an earthquake and tidal wave completely destroyed the Greek city of Helike, with untold lost. Were all of these lives useless, and were all of their achievements wasted?

Define achievement, and define waste.

Imagine how the man who had committed his whole life to getting all the gratification he could, or making money, or improving his name, or finding political power must have felt as the burning ashes rained down, or the waters swept him away.

Now imagine what a decent man, the man who defined himself by his character, who only offered love and concern to his neighbors for all of his life, regardless of his position, felt at that same point.

The difference would be like night and day. One would surely die with fear and dread, and the other could die with acceptance and contentment.

Death will indeed come to us all. What matters is what we do in the time, however long or short, that is offered. Do we try to improve ourselves, or try to improve our station?

Someone once told me that life was about grabbing all you could out there, and being strong enough to get it. I instinctively knew this to be wrong. Life isn’t about getting anything at all out there, but about being strong enough to get a hold of myself in here. I have only a fleeting moment to live well, and adding anything out there will not make me any better.

We’ll all be ash, like those corpses at Pompeii. Now did I manage to seek truth and justice, before I become that ash?

Instead of grasping to possess more, I could be like a grateful olive. What a wonderful image.

4.49.1

Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break, but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it. . . .

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.49 (tr Long)

The central tenet of Stoic ethics is that our happiness rests in our own actions, and that we never need to allow ourselves to be ruled by our circumstances. This is sometimes seen as a sort of inner toughness, though it hardly means that the Stoic does not love. It is also sometimes seen as a sort of indifference, though it hardly means that the Stoic does not care. They key lies in learning how to love, and what to care for.

The image of the cliff standing against the sea is, as they say, an oldie but a goodie. It can do much to remind us that we need never be cast down by what smashes into us, and that a fury without doesn’t have to lead to a fury within.

My own attempts at Stoic self-reliance were often less than satisfactory, and though all of us will develop our own patterns of thinking that help us through, I found that, in my case, I was falling short because I was misunderstanding the nature of strength.

I would look at something outside of me, something I felt hurt or threatened by, and I would be intimated by the power that it had. “How can I possibly be strong enough to defeat that?” In some cases it was someone with incredible influence, or a circumstance that would surely never budge, but most often it was about the force of feelings that seemed to flow off from horrifying events.

I would wince, shut my eyes, and expect the worst to hit me. I was convinced I needed to fight things off to be strong, though I was also convinced I didn’t have the strength to do the fighting. There seems little point in holding one’s hand up in defiance of a steamroller. My body was too weak, my resources were too meager, and my own will could hardly stand up to the will of so many others.

I was confronting the wrong enemy. I somehow assumed all of it meant controlling the sea, instead of just being a cliff. Let the water swirl around me as it wishes, but it is my own immovability that can make me strong. In the simplest of terms, it was never about conquering the ocean, but about conquering myself. The situation was not the problem. My own fear of the situation was the problem.

No, in most cases I am not at all strong enough to defeat someone else, or change the state of affairs, or determine events. Even the feelings that follow from events may not be subject to my conscious choice. They happen to me, like other things happen, which is why they are called passions, and not actions.

I always like to remind myself that analogies are inherently incomplete, but notice that the promontory doesn’t stop there from being any waves. By standing as it does, it redirects the waves around it. The taming is from being strong within myself, and by taming my own thoughts, I can then make myself strong in the face of whatever may come my way.

4.49.2

. . . I am unhappy, because this has happened to me.

Not so, but I am happy, though this has happened to me, because I continue free from pain, neither crushed by the present nor fearing the future.

For such a thing as this might have happened to every man, but every man would not have continued free from pain on such an occasion. Why then is that rather a misfortune than this a good fortune? And do you in all cases call that a man's misfortune, which is not a deviation from man's nature? And does a thing seem to you to be a deviation from man's nature, when it is not contrary to the will of man's nature?

Well you know the will of Nature. Will then what has happened prevent you from being just, magnanimous, temperate, prudent, secure against inconsiderate opinions and falsehood? Will it prevent you from having modesty, freedom, and everything else, by the presence of which man's nature obtains all that is its own?

Remember too, on every occasion that leads you to vexation, to apply this principle: not that this is a misfortune, but that to bear it nobly is good fortune.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.49 (tr Long)

Even the most initial stages of making the Stoic turn can have profound effects. I would find myself concerned about completely different things than I had been before, and I would find myself stared at with confusion, and sometimes even disgust, by those who were still more tightly bound to circumstances. I began to see that a Stoic transformation could never be merely cosmetic. Either I am becoming a completely different sort of person, or it is of no use to me at all.

We have been told for so long how happiness or misery depend upon what happens, that we can hardly imagine it any other way. This passage summarizes the radical alternative. It isn’t what happens, but whether we bear what happens with nobility. It will only hurt me as much as I permit it to hurt me.

This claim is often met with jeers of derision. Surely the loss of property, or honor, or the health of the body is painful? Doesn’t it hurt to be hungry, sick, or rejected? Yes, such states will bring with them various feelings of pain, sometimes quite severe. The question is what I will make of it, whatever the feeling, whatever the fortune. I will only be able to understand this if I begin with the premise that a person is, by his very nature, a creature of thought, choice, and action, and cannot at all be hurt by what is outside of him.

Define a man by his circumstances, and he will suffer from pain quite often. Define a man by his character, and he does not need to suffer any pain within himself at all. Because he has rebuilt what he values, he can no longer consider the presence or absence of fortune as itself a gain or a loss.

What we usually think of as “good” or “bad” fortune can, and will, happen to anyone, and that is why fortune is not the distinguishing mark of someone who is good or bad, happy or unhappy. Give me this, or take away that, and I can be completely myself, with no obstacle or hindrance.

This needn’t be seen as some mysterious, mystical state. Observe that all the things that make my life worth living can be done in any state of fortune. Look only to all the noble actions, those at our human core, and how they can always remain unhindered.

I can be generous, practice self-control and conscience, and not have to worry about what others may think, or how much they may deceive. I can be humble, content with myself, and totally free to be my own master. No situation can halt me from being virtuous within myself.

I can be complete through myself at any given instant. Fulfillment does not proceed from events, but can subsist through any events.

4.50

It is a vulgar, but still a useful help towards contempt of death, to pass in review those who have tenaciously stuck to life. What more, then, have they gained than those who have died early?

Certainly they lie in their tombs somewhere at last, Cadicianus, Fabius, Julianus, Lepidus, or any one else like them, who have carried out many to be buried, and then were carried out themselves.

Altogether the interval is small between birth and death; and consider with how much trouble, and in company with what sort of people, and in what a feeble body this interval is laboriously passed. Do not then consider life a thing of any value.

For look to the immensity of time behind you, and to the time which is before you, another boundless space. In this infinity then what is the difference between him who lives three days and him who lives three generations?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.50 (tr Long)

Marcus Aurelius calls it vulgar, because I suspect that there is the implicit temptation to gloat. A good man never gloats. He shows appreciation.

At the same time, there is something that can be learned from the vanity of others. I will only become vain if I start to think I am somehow superior, or if I become just like those very people who think they are somehow better than me.

Three days or three generations? There is no real difference. In the face of what is Infinite, it means absolutely nothing.

But isn’t it all about me, getting what I want? It is about me, but not all about me. I need to think of myself as a piece of everything else, not of everything else as being a piece of me.

I have struggled to make so many things timeless, or to take what was passing and try to make it forever. I remember all the pop songs, the ones that told me that one more night would somehow make it all last. I would repeat things, hoping they would bring back what was lost. Now that was my vanity.

Only Nature itself, and the Divine Mind that rules it, are timeless. I am a part within the whole, and I can change my ways, to be happy as a part within that whole. It is never about gloating, but always about appreciation.

I once saved from three months of my paltry paycheck to take a girl to a fancy dinner. In hindsight, I know it meant little to her, because her father’s credit card could have paid for it in a moment, without any problem. But it was about me trying to do my own part, not about me asking to receive. I even understood that bit back then.

I put on my only tailored suit, with a pressed white shirt and fancy silk tie, and Italian shoes I’d only worn once before. I shaved twice with a proper blade, and splashed myself with cologne well beyond my price range. My mother told me how handsome I looked, and my father reminded me that I should always be a gentleman.

I still have the fondest memories of that dinner, until the end of it, when it all went a bit wrong, even as I learned something very right.

“Thanks. That was really nice! It’ll be even nicer when we can do this all of the time. It’ll only be a few more years until we’ve got it made!”

She meant it as an encouragement, though I suddenly saw it as a discouragement.

“How will we have it made?” I asked.

“You know, good degrees, good jobs, it’ll work out forever.”

“How will that make anything forever?”

Well,” she said quite seriously, “we need to pay for forever.”

There it was, two of the biggest obstacles to my own living, laid out for me as clearly as they could ever be. The idea that I could make anything forever, and the idea that I could do it all by finding a way to pay for it.

I had always enjoyed strolling down Newbury Street in Boston, lined with all the best stores, selling all of the best things, to all of the best people. As I glanced at them now, they looked more like tombs in a neat little row. We somehow become convinced that we can buy eternity, and we are buying into the biggest scam there ever was.

Observe all the human monuments to immortality, and then how those who paid for them and built them are no longer here to appreciate them. I realized how that was such a waste of living, clinging to what is never meant to be permanent.

4.51

Always run to the short way, and the short way is the natural way.

Accordingly, say and do everything in conformity with the soundest reason. For such a purpose frees a man from trouble, and warfare, and all artifice and ostentatious display.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 4.51 (tr Long)

This doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the scenic route, or follow the road less traveled, or take the long way home, or find pleasure in a winding path. It’s too easy to mix up all of the different road analogies. It’s just about staying on task, and not allowing ourselves to be diverted from our awareness of what is true and the good in this life.

The short way is the most natural, in the sense that it removes whatever is unnecessary, and frees us from distraction. If I always keep my mind directly focused on my goal, whatever else may be happening around me, I will not be tempted to confuse lesser things for greater things. If I can always relate my every thought and action directly to the purpose of a life well lived, I will avoid becoming lost in the confusion.

What is it that really gets us into trouble? Wanting all of the things we do not need.

What is it that brings us into conflict with others? Assuming that our own happiness requires a control over the lives of others.

What is it that tempts us to put on a show? Thinking that it is more important to be seen than to simply do.

The short way always points toward the goal. When asked what is most important in life, people offer a befuddling range of answers. A career, success, security, friends and family, health, a long life, or just having fun. Now the Stoic may well have these things, or he may not have them, and he recognizes why they might be preferable. But he will never confuse them with what he should desire above all else, always living with virtue.

I once confused a girl I knew when she asked me whether I’d rather be rich or handsome, and I told here I’d rather be a good man.

“That’s not the question!” she said.

“Exactly,” I replied. “It isn’t the question at all. It’s a diversion from the question.”

As soon as I start thinking about becoming rich, or spend my time trying to appear handsome, I am no longer keeping my eyes on the prize. Shallow people may be drawn to shiny things, but people of conviction are drawn to things that are true and good, however dull they may appear.

Becoming busy with all the accessories of living will keep me turned away from the task. I will then find that I am out of time, because life is short, and I didn’t run the short way.