Seneca, Moral Letters 84.2

We should follow, men say, the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in; these bees, as our Vergil says,
 
“pack close the flowing honey, 
And swell their cells with nectar sweet.” 
 
It is not certain whether the juice which they obtain from the flowers forms at once into honey, or whether they change that which they have gathered into this delicious object by blending something therewith and by a certain property of their breath. 
 
For some authorities believe that bees do not possess the art of making honey, but only of gathering it; and they say that in India honey has been found on the leaves of certain reeds, produced by a dew peculiar to that climate, or by the juice of the reed itself, which has an unusual sweetness, and richness. And in our own grasses too, they say, the same quality exists, although less clear and less evident; and a creature born to fulfil such a function could hunt it out and collect it. 
 
Certain others maintain that the materials which the bees have culled from the most delicate of blooming and flowering plants is transformed into this peculiar substance by a process of preserving and careful storing away, aided by what might be called fermentation—whereby separate elements are united into one substance. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 84 
 
I have long been fascinated with bees, though I am also a bit frightened by them, thanks to some unfortunate encounters as a child. As a moody teenager, I hastily brushed aside an offer to work as an apprentice to an Austrian beekeeper; in hindsight, this would probably have been a calling ideally suited to my peculiar temperament. 
 
I am only an amateur when it comes to biology and chemistry, so, like Seneca, I can’t precisely explain the process of producing honey. But, also like Seneca, I do know that the bees are making it into something of their own, whether it be at the levels of collection or of fabrication. A schoolyard chum used to call it “bug barf”, and I suppose that’s as good a way as any to describe the nectar being treated with enzymes and bacteria in a special stomach. 
 
Nature expresses herself in patterns, and just as a body lives and grows by digesting its food, so a mind understands by abstracting and combining from its experience. While it begins with an act of receiving, it is completed by an act of transformation—do not treat living and learning as if they were simply about what is given, when they are all about a development from what is given. 
 
I can admire the tiny bee for the way it labors in an approximation of our social nature, and for its ability to build and to produce with such remarkable beauty and efficiency. Even though the insect does not possess judgment in the same way that we humans do, the power of reason stands behind its design, in the same way that Intelligence brings order and purpose to the entire Universe. 
 
It is tragic when a bee can do the work of Providence without the gift of consciousness, and a man abandons the work of Providence by neglecting the gift of consciousness. We are presented with all of the pieces, and yet we stubbornly refuse to assemble them into a whole, willing to settle for a state of idleness instead of rising to the exercise of creativity. 
 
Three decades as a teacher have unfortunately shown me how our “best practices” in education reduce the student to a sponge, expecting little more than rote memorization and blind conformity. In this case, it might be better to follow the example of the constructive bee than that of the mimicking parrot. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Hans Thoma, The Friend of Bees (1853) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 10.2

When persons are in mourning, or fearful about something, we are accustomed to watch them that we may prevent them from making a wrong use of their loneliness. 

 

No thoughtless person ought to be left alone; in such cases he only plans folly, and heaps up future dangers for himself or for others; he brings into play his base desires; the mind displays what fear or shame used to repress; it whets his boldness, stirs his passions, and goads his anger. 

 

And finally, the only benefit that solitude confers—the habit of trusting no man, and of fearing no witnesses—is lost to the fool; for he betrays himself.

 

I often find that my eagerness can lead to hastiness, and that my intentions will rush far ahead of my capacity to fulfill them. When I first read from the Stoics about the importance of self-reliance, I was relieved to learn how my life did not have to be determined by the thoughts and actions of others, but I jumped the gun by foolishly assuming that it would be enough for me to just go it alone. 

 

I was mightily confused about the difference between still living completely in the world, while finding strength from my own convictions, and frantically running away from the world, while wallowing in my own self-pity. Solitude is quite bearable, even peaceful, when I know who I am and what I am about, though it becomes a miserable loneliness when I lack a sense of inner purpose. 

 

I will always have the power to act with understanding and with love, whatever circumstances may surround me, and so I need not believe that being cheered or jeered must make or break my happiness. What I think and what I do, the sum of my own actions, is what completes me. 

 

It will not go so well for me, however, if I am somehow expecting the world to fix me, and I then only turn to isolation when I have been bitterly disappointed by the fact that the people around me will not always act as I prefer. What they think and they do, which is entirely for them to determine, becomes an excuse for my own failure of personal accountability. 

 

There is perfectly good reason that any caring and compassionate person will do his best to offer support and encouragement to someone who is overwhelmed by sadness or despair: he knows that solitude will only magnify the confusion that is within the soul of the sufferer. Being alone is not what is needed right now. 

 

You will also notice that any cold and calculating person will leave the sufferer to his own devices, because he only offers his company when he expects to receive something useful or gratifying in return. 

 

The man at peace with himself knows how to use his seclusion as a blessing, but the man at war with himself will see it as a curse. 

 

Similarly, the virtuous man gives of himself when company is needed, but the vicious man takes for himself when company is convenient. 

Written in 5/2012

IMAGE: Hans Thoma, Loneliness (1880)