Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.8

 

I have now, my beloved Serenus, given you an account of what things can preserve peace of mind, what things can restore it to us, what can arrest the vices which secretly undermine it: yet be assured, that none of these is strong enough to enable us to retain so fleeting a blessing, unless we watch over our vacillating mind with intense and unremitting care.

 

I can be offered all the most profound insights, and be armed with quivers full of clever trick arrows, and read all the most esteemed books, the ones the talking heads said were life-changing, and none of it will do me any good at all if I won’t take responsibility for myself.

 

I might think it easier and more gratifying to embrace a way of thinking that casts blame far and wide, wallows in self-righteous indignance, and demands constant recognition and compensation. Yet none of that addresses who I am, or what I choose to do, and it merely passes the buck. I become morally lazy, a man who makes excuses instead of owning himself.

 

I like owls not just because they are viewed as symbols of wisdom, but also because they are ever watchful, surely itself a property of acute awareness. I once slept in a barn where an owl gazed at me constantly from the rafters, and instead of feeling weirded out, I felt oddly safe. He looked out for me far better than I could look out for myself.

 

My calling to a watchfulness over myself does not require worry, or anxiety, or constant struggle. It can be calm, and restful, and secure, safe in the knowledge that nothing can harm me on the inside if I don’t let the fretting or the fear enter into my own estimation.

 

It won’t be enough to speak of it in theory, because on any given day, at every possible moment, I need to maintain a conscious commitment to my character. Activity, and not mere passivity, are suitable for any creature that has life, and a life of action that follows from deliberate judgment is most suitable for a creature endowed with reason and choice.

 

The peace of mind will not come to me of its own accord, but is rather something I must take a hold of for myself. It will not follow from accumulating things, or winning praises, or wallowing in brutish pleasures; those are hardly achievements in any way, because they have very little to do with me. No, the transformation comes from a mastery of my own thoughts.

 

With time, that attentiveness and watchfulness take on the form of a habit, and yet even if it becomes easier, it must still remain conscious at all times. Doubt creeps in when I’m not looking, and my convictions become weak when I’ve let down my guard. If I know what life is about, I will be just as willing to be dedicated to my own wisdom and virtue as I was once dedicated to running after vanities.

 

“Why am I not happy, at peace with myself and my world?” There is no secret formula to be discovered somewhere out there; if I am honest, I will know that it is because I haven’t been taking care of myself.

 

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.7

The mind cannot use lofty language, above that of the common herd, unless it be excited. When it has spurned aside the commonplace environments of custom, and rises sublime, instinct with sacred fire, then alone can it chant a song too grand for mortal lips: as long as it continues to dwell within itself it cannot rise to any pitch of splendor: it must break away from the beaten track, and lash itself to frenzy, till it gnaws the curb and rushes away bearing up its rider to heights whither it would fear to climb when alone.

I suppose Plato was on to something, when he recognized the need for a sort of intoxication to bring forth insight, and Aristotle wasn’t far from the mark, when he said that a great mind flirts with a kind of madness.

I need not assume that intense passions must be in conflict with reason; when the fires of the heart are in harmony with wisdom, they can surely inspire us to ascend to the loftiest of heights. It isn’t that I shouldn’t be feeling, but rather that my feeling shouldn’t be without the sight of awareness.

It is perhaps that very need to rise above the humdrum conformity of everyday life, which is itself an expression of narrow thoughtlessness, that will make the poet appear as if he is drunk, or the philosopher come across as a lunatic.

Words of beauty will sound like the chattering of animals to someone who won’t really listen, and words of truth will sound like the mumbling of a fool to someone who won’t really think. Always there is this dull sense that if it is unfamiliar or uncommon, it must be the result of insanity, perhaps even something deeply dangerous. Stray just a bit from the acceptable norms, and they will look at you with profound worry.

If I say to someone that the voice of a Muse is speaking to me, what are the chances that they will eventually lock me away? What if I said I was struggling to hear God?

I think of the enlightened man who has escaped from the confines of Plato’s Cave, who has ripped himself not only from the shadows but also from the very objects that cast those shadows, upward and onward to a world above ground, illuminated by the sun itself. He would only wish to return back into the darkness to liberate his friends, even though they will look at him as a man possessed.

Yet if I am ever to make any sense of myself, I can only do so when I see myself within the context of the whole, and for this I will need to be swept away, to be lifted up.

I have rarely had the blessing of being consumed by such a rapture, though I will never forget a day when I was chatting with a grubby street musician back in Boston. I’m not sure what came over me, but for a brief moment he seemed like the only person in the whole city who was sane, and all the yuppies rushing around him, desperately trying to avoid meeting his eyes, were the ones who were deranged.

Sometimes the veil is torn apart, and that means either I have finally lost my marbles, or I have possibly been gifted the glimmer of a higher point of view. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

Written in 1/2012

IMAGE: Gustave Moreau, Hesiod and the Muse (1891)

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.6

It does good also to take walks out of doors, that our spirits may be raised and refreshed by the open air and fresh breeze: sometimes we gain strength by driving in a carriage, by travel, by change of air, or by social meals and a more generous allowance of wine: at times we ought to drink even to intoxication, not so as to drown, but merely to dip ourselves in wine: for wine washes away troubles and dislodges them from the depths of the mind, and acts as a remedy to sorrow as it does to some diseases.

The inventor of wine is called Liber, not from the license which he gives to our tongues, but because he liberates the mind from the bondage of cares, and emancipates it, animates it, and renders it more daring in all that it attempts.

Yet moderation is wholesome both in freedom and in wine. It is believed that Solon and Arcesilaus used to drink deep. Cato is reproached with drunkenness, but whoever casts this in his teeth will find it easier to turn his reproach into a commendation than to prove that Cato did anything wrong.

However, we ought not to do it often, for fear the mind should contract evil habits, though it ought sometimes to be forced into frolic and frankness, and to cast off dull sobriety for a while. If we believe the Greek poet, "it is sometimes pleasant to be mad”.

Again, Plato always knocked in vain at the door of poetry when he was sober; or, if we trust Aristotle, no great genius has ever been without a touch of insanity.

Stoicism has an unfortunate reputation for repressing emotion, and the Stoic is often perceived as a fellow incapable of enjoying himself. I can only think that such a misapprehension comes from people who enslave everything else to their passions, and who do not think that gratification should ever be moderated. They perhaps assume that if good judgment should rule, this must somehow negate feeling.

I, for one, have found myself grateful for Stoic thought during times of great struggle, and yet I have appreciated it just as much during times of quiet repose. Stoicism has not only helped me to give order to my thinking, but also to become profoundly grateful for the deepest of joys.

It seems to have this powerful effect on all aspects of my experience, where a change of estimation in my own mind also allows me to feel at ease with everything else around me. The balance in my emotions proceeds from the dignity of my thoughts; I feel better because I understand better.

This is especially difficult for someone who walks with the Black Dog, subject to a regular burden of doubt and despair, and yet I can still manage to appreciate the simplest of pleasures, and find beauty in the most mundane of things, when I consciously choose to recognize the meaning in Nature. It may only require taking a deep breath, or enjoying a good view, or going for a leisurely walk, or savoring a humble meal.

As someone who has desperately needed to heal his heart, I have found no better remedy than the Stoic prescription to clear up the inside of my own head. I’m not sure how I could ever feel any genuine pleasure at all, or be invigorated by rest and relaxation, if my thinking was still burdened with greed, resentment, or anxiety. By learning to let such things go, I also learn to take life at a serene and leisurely pace.

I am probably not the right person to talk about the healthy enjoyment of drink. If my head is screwed on right, and my mood happens to be amenable, there are few things I enjoy as much as a libation with a friend; I will actually find it helping me to be a better man.

But get those mental screws all misthreaded, and put some sourness into that mood, and then the booze, or any drug of any sort, will drag me into the pits of hell. Given my dispositions, it is usually best for me to abstain. I know exactly how terrible I am prone to become.

I suppose, however, that this makes perfect sense. Whatever is added from the outside will encourage and magnify whatever is already on the inside. Long story short, I recommend that a melancholic soul is best advised to avoid Liber, Bacchus, or Dionysius as close friends.

I misused too many of my critical years hanging about with nasty people, and I got myself hooked on all the habits that stifled my soul. Why did I assume that having fun required getting wasted? Just look at the language. No denial or escape is ever a cure for the burdens of life.

Instead, it is possible to just enjoy most every occasion, and drink deeply of anything that is given. Observe a star flickering or a bird singing. Watch a leaf fall or a trickle of water flowing. Cry because you see a new lamb being born or because you see an old ewe die.

Take the booze if it works for you, but who needs the booze when you have the buzz of Nature right at your doorstep?

There are all sorts of beautiful intoxicants in this life, and the best of them first require peace of mind to make them right. 

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.5

There is a great difference between slackening your hold of a thing and letting it go. The founders of our laws appointed festivals, in order that men might be publicly encouraged to be cheerful, and they thought it necessary to vary our labors with amusements, and, as I said before, some great men have been wont to give themselves a certain number of holidays in every month, and some divided every day into play-time and work-time.

Thus, I remember that great orator Asinius Pollio would not attend to any business after the tenth hour: he would not even read letters after that time for fear some new trouble should arise, but in those two hours used to get rid of the weariness which he had contracted during the whole day. Some rest in the middle of the day, and reserve some light occupation for the afternoon.

Our ancestors, too, forbade any new motion to be made in the Senate after the tenth hour. Soldiers divide their watches, and those who have just returned from active service are allowed to sleep the whole night undisturbed. We must humor our minds and grant them rest from time to time, which acts upon them like food, and restores their strength.

Some people tell me that if everyone lived as I suggest, then nothing would ever get done. I can only say that much would still get done, but it might not be quite the same balance of tasks we tend to do now, and we might not be as rushed and frantic as we are now.

There would probably be far less time and effort spent on things, and there would be far more time and effort spent on people. There might be fewer luxuries, but there would also be a greater appreciation of what constitutes an actual necessity.

These are usually the same people who laugh at me for having been a Boy Scout. “What the hell did any of that ever get you?” I usually offer them the Scout’s Law, still deeply ingrained in my memory:

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

“So it makes you a nice guy. Great. What use is that?”

I try to calmly point out that it has absolutely no “use” beyond itself, that it is itself its own end, the formation of moral worth. Being that way is precisely what life is about.

They look at me with either confusion or disgust.

The Stoics list their cardinal virtues a bit differently, but the content is ultimately the same, and so it should come as little surprise that Stoic values are also met with confusion or disgust.

Perhaps we worry so much about constantly being busy in trade and industry because we are overlooking the proper business of life.

To do anything at all in a relaxed and leisurely way does not mean we are being lazy; it all depends on what we think is more or less important. I suppose if I wanted to acquire as much wealth and fame as possible, I probably would need to spend fifteen hours a day at the office, but if I wanted to work on primarily being a decent human being, would all of that tedium really be required?

In all the corners of this world I have stumbled into, the happiest people I have ever met are invariably the same people who manage to keep their priorities in order, with the externals in service to the internals.

They are glad to break a sweat, but they will not break their own backs lugging around useless weight. By understanding that life is to be lived instead of bought and sold, they are able to distinguish between what actually needs to be done and what can easily be let go. They know their professional “jobs” are a part of who they are, but not even close to all of who they are.

If my work is somehow in conflict with my leisure, I’m fairly certain I’m in the wrong line of work.

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.4

Neither ought we always to keep the mind strained to the same pitch, but it ought sometimes to be relaxed by amusement.

Socrates did not blush to play with little boys, Cato used to refresh his mind with wine after he had wearied it with application to affairs of state, and Scipio would move his triumphal and soldierly limbs to the sound of music, not with a feeble and halting gait, as is the fashion nowadays, when we sway in our very walk with more than womanly weakness, but dancing as men were wont in the days of old on sportive and festal occasions, with manly bounds, thinking it no harm to be seen so doing even by their enemies.

Men's minds ought to have relaxation: they rise up better and more vigorous after rest. We must not force crops from rich fields, for an unbroken course of heavy crops will soon exhaust their fertility, and so also the liveliness of our minds will be destroyed by unceasing labor, but they will recover their strength after a short period of rest and relief: for continuous toil produces a sort of numbness and sluggishness.

Men would not be so eager for this, if play and amusement did not possess natural attractions for them, although constant indulgence in them takes away all gravity and all strength from the mind: for sleep, also, is necessary for our refreshment, yet if you prolong it for days and nights together it will become death.

Should I work harder, or should I play harder? Once again, we assume a false dichotomy here, and once again, we too often fail to consider such activities within the context of their proper ends.

Usually, when I am busy with a task, people will remind me to take a break, and yet when I am cooling off, they are telling me to put the nose back to the grindstone. I suppose the general idea is that we value productivity and efficiency above all else, shorthand for producing as little stuff as possible in order to consume as much stuff as possible, and so we need just enough leisure to inspire us to just enough labor.

The problem is that this reduces our human identity to that of little more than an economic machine, defined exclusively by external factors. And here I thought I was a homo sapiens, not a homo habilis.

Return back to the order of Nature, where happiness is not in the quantity of commodities but in the quality of character, and the picture changes. The balance between labor and rest then follows from what will best help me to live well, instead of what will make me the most profitable resource. The very measure of benefit and harm is transformed.

That same Stoic pattern expresses itself: any circumstances, and any sort of actions we choose in this life, are only as good as how fully they are in service to the good of the person.

What is this good of the person? It is hardly mysterious or elusive: let me attend to the dignity of my wisdom and virtue, and then let that inform every other aspect of my life. There I will find my happiness.

If my goal is limited to doing more just for the sake of doing more, I am caught in a frustrating, even agonizing, sort of rut. No wonder I will feel like Sisyphus.

If, on the other hand, I am doing for the sake of improving the content of my soul, I am beginning to catch a glimpse of liberation. The end is not somewhere out there, in the haze or over the horizon, but to be found right in here.

So, work or play? Yes. Both. Each will be necessary at certain times, and each will in turn invigorate the other. Each offers a means for improvement, and each will only make sense when it is aimed at a peace of mind.

At those moments when I have managed to do this right, I have also discovered something rather remarkable: I will no longer really distinguish between work and play, between effort and relaxation, because I find that I am joyful from simply doing the right things, satisfied from following nothing more than the calling of my nature.

Even the mightiest worldly achievements get tedious, and even the greatest pleasures get boring, but the fullness of my humanity is never exhausted. It can give and give of itself over and over, and it only becomes more bountiful. My awareness and love are greater than any other currency.

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.3

Moreover, we ought to retire a great deal into ourselves: for association with persons unlike ourselves upsets all that we had arranged, rouses the passions which were at rest, and rubs into a sore any weak or imperfectly healed place in our minds.

Nevertheless, we ought to mix up these two things, and to pass our lives alternately in solitude and among throngs of people; for the former will make us long for the society of mankind, the latter for that of ourselves, and the one will counteract the other.

Solitude will cure us when we are sick of crowds, and crowds will cure us when we are sick of solitude.

Only prudence can be my guide in finding a balance, in discovering the mean between too much and too little of anything. In order to avoid a downward spiral of relativism, where I frantically swing from one side to another based merely on the immediate feelings of the moment, I need a stable point of reference.

That measure must be the measure of my own nature, as an expression of the whole of Nature. Given a mind, I am made to be aware. Given a will, I am made to love; all the rest revolves around that. If I fulfill those callings from within myself, I am also doing my part in the service of all things. That is being at peace, and that is happiness.

By relying upon my own inner character, I can also view all external circumstances in their proper place, and I can consider them to be good or bad only by the standard of virtue.

Should I, for example, spend more time alone or with other people? I will know the answer to that question if I begin with the state of my own soul.

Will being in the presence of greedy and shifty folks encourage me to be a better or a worse man? Will being in the presence of caring and honest folks encourage me to be a better or a worse man?

Now the point isn’t whether the company I choose will make me richer, or more gratified, or more recognized. The simplicity of moral serenity is that it avoids all these distractions, and it does not confuse principles with preferences.

Wherever I can do my best, and however I can most fully exercise understanding, conviction, self-control, and justice, is what should guide me in exactly what I need to pursue.

Sometimes I will be called to be alone, and sometimes I will be called into the crowd. Each will serve its rightful purpose. The nurturing of a caring and healthy soul will be the constant.

Written in 1/2012

IMAGE: from The Crowd, dir. King Vidor (1928)

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.2

But what pleasure there is in that honest straightforwardness which is its own ornament, and which conceals no part of its character? Yet even this life, which hides nothing from anyone runs some risk of being despised; for there are people who disdain whatever they come close to.

But there is no danger of virtue's becoming contemptible when she is brought near our eyes, and it is better to be scorned for one's simplicity than to bear the burden of unceasing hypocrisy.

Still, we must observe moderation in this matter, for there is a great difference between living simply and living slovenly.

The direct approach of attending to my own moral worth leads to serenity, since it asks for nothing beyond itself, and it is not weighed down by any of the anxiety that comes with manipulation.

Is it possible that others will think poorly of us for doing so? Most certainly, and my own experience suggests that it is not only possible, but it is also quite likely.

Those who reduce the world to a game for their own amusement don’t much appreciate it when you choose not to play their game.

There are also those who will feel insulted by your exposure of their own machinations and deceptions, even if you have not challenged them at all, but have simply chosen not to be anything like them.

Still others will become deeply uncomfortable in the face of integrity or compassion of any sort. It hits a sensitive nerve, exposing a part of themselves they have ignored and numbed for far too long; it painfully reminds them of who they really are.

I must then remember that the only good I can do for them is to continue on my path, not to ignore them, but to offer them an alternative to their own scheming. If I start throwing stones back at them, I have abandoned the very dignity of the simple and virtuous life.

I would rather be thought an idiot than to indulge in the false pride of posturing.

I must be careful, of course, not to let my sense of being carefree become its own form of false pride, where acceptance is confused with laziness, or indifference is twisted into thoughtlessness. It is one thing to keep my conscience free of diversions, and quite another thing to abandon my responsibilities. I’ve lost too many friends who started with a desire for a pure heart, only to end up doing little else than smoking pot and listening to Pink Floyd.

I will know the difference only by looking at myself with a brutal honesty, and by not making cheap excuses. I can let others be as they will be, while still holding firmly onto myself.

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 17.1

Chapter 17

It also proves a fertile source of troubles if you take pains to conceal your feelings and never show yourself to anyone undisguised, but, as many men do, live an artificial life, in order to impose upon others.

For the constant watching of himself becomes a torment to a man, and he dreads being caught doing something at variance with his usual habits, and, indeed, we never can be at our ease if we imagine that everyone who looks at us is weighing our real value.

For many things occur which strip people of their disguise, however reluctantly they may part with it, and even if all this trouble about oneself is successful, still life is neither happy nor safe when one always has to wear a mask.

It will require deliberate commitment, and it may take some time, but I learn that my happiness cannot be won at the price of constant conflict and anxiety. Peace of mind is found in balance rather than in extremes, working with things instead of against them, and a simple mastery over self in contrast to attempting an entangled mastery over others.

Nor is any of it possible without sincerity, without honestly and humbly being one and the same person through and through. There can be no trickery and no deception, no disguising a coldness and frustration on the inside with a show of alluring impressions on the outside. So many of my troubles come from thinking that life must be like playing some sort of clever game.

I have seen far more wickedness than I would like, sometimes far more than I thought I could bear, and I can’t help but notice how so much of it is tied together with a priority of appearances. The concern is not with being good but with seeming good, not with earning merit but with winning praise. There is a discord between the inner self and the outer impression, and it should then come as no surprise that we can’t be fair and honest with others when we can’t first be fair and honest with ourselves.

I might at first think that such people are winning, yet I only need to look more closely to see how much they are losing. They say that one of the problems with being a liar is that it’s so hard to keep your story straight, to keep tabs on all the different distortions you have cast about. If life requires constructing and maintaining an elaborate artifice, the greatest fear will be that it will suddenly all fall down. There can be no peace of mind in the middle of that kind of unease.

I recall one painful conversation with an academic administrator, where he lectured me at length on how maintaining the “branding” of the university often required overlooking the particular needs of individual faculty or students. “We won’t make any money by being the nice guys. Like with any product, it’s all in the spin.”

I couldn’t resist a mischievous joke. “So if I sent copies of our chat, which I have just recorded, to donors and parents, would that help or hinder the promotion of our brand?”

I had done nothing of the sort, of course, but the look of complete horror on his face for a moment was priceless. They say that our lives flash before our eyes before we die, and I can only imagine how his entire professional career, so full of false advertising and broken promises, now flashed before his. What would become of him if all the lies were exposed?

How much simpler it would be to simply be. How much purer it would be to build character instead of reputation, where the former is completely my own and the latter is always reliant on the whims of others.

Fakery is no substitute for integrity, and merely mouthing certain words doesn’t change the reality.

Written in 1/2012

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 16.4

But when anyone shrinks back in the hour of death and looks longingly at life, we must lay hands upon him. I will never weep for a man who dies cheerfully, nor for one who dies weeping: the former wipes away my tears, the latter by his tears makes himself unworthy that any should be shed for him.

Shall I weep for Hercules because he was burned alive, or for Regulus because he was pierced by so many nails, or for Cato because he tore open his wounds a second time? All these men discovered how at the cost of a small portion of time they might obtain immortality, and by their deaths gained eternal life.

It may sound a bit harsh to our modern sensitivities, but it is never necessary to despair about loss or death. This is not because I shouldn’t care, but rather because I can learn to better distinguish what is worth caring for.

Misfortune is not an evil, and death is not an evil. Give me more or give me less, but the merit of my character is what will determine the value of the circumstances. It is natural for things to change, and it is natural for them to come and go; what will provide my life with any dignity is what I choose to do with what is given, for whatever time that I may have.

Why mourn the loss of a good man? It was his time, and he distinguished himself in wisdom and virtue. His courage in facing fear and pain is an example of greatness.

Why mourn the loss of a bad man? When push came to shove, he chose to live poorly, to compromise the greater for the sake of the lesser. I can have the deepest compassion for him, but I should not admire him.

I remind myself that how I go about dying will be the final measure of how I went about living. I will choose what becomes of it all.

Hercules was terribly mutilated from putting on a poisoned cloak, a victim of trickery, and was only relieved of his suffering when his body was consumed on his funeral pyre.

It is said that Regulus kept his word to freely return to Carthage as a prisoner, only to then be tortured to death by being locked in a barrel pierced with spikes.

Cato wished to deny Caesar the pleasure of having power over his life, and so he stabbed himself with his own sword. The wound was not fatal, however, and when he saw how his friends and attendants rushed to save his life, he pushed them aside and tore out his own bowels to make sure the job was done.

I shrink in horror when I think of these gruesome stories, yet I also think of how behind each is someone fighting to live, and to die, in conviction, integrity, and justice. Hercules, Regulus, and Cato all had fortitude when the end came.

Written in 12/2011

IMAGES:

Francisco de Zurbaran, The Death of Hercules (1634) 

Salvator Rosa, The Death of Regulus (c. 1652)

Guillaume Guillon Lethière, The Death of Cato of Utica (1795)

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 16.3

Let us praise one who deserves such constant praises, and say, "The braver you are the happier you are! You have escaped from all accidents, jealousies, diseases; you have escaped from prison; the gods have not thought you worthy of ill-fortune, but have thought that fortune no longer deserved to have any power over you."

I must stop thinking only of what has been given, and instead start thinking of what I can give. Life is an active, not a passive, affair.

“Well, that’s clearly a load of nonsense. I told the truth the other day, and everyone laughed at me. I spoke kind words to a friend, and he said I was a loser. I called out the boss, and then I lost my job.”

Yes, of course all of that will happen. Happenings aren’t the measure of a life; life is about doing. Did I first care for my own character? If I only love the convenience found in things, there is no real love.

Fortitude will be necessary to find peace in virtue for its own sake, and thereby to rise above the vagaries of fortune. Once I see that my conscience can be secure, all the rest can fall into place. With that kind of judgment, happiness is now able to rely upon what is inside instead of what is outside.

This passage speaks to me on two levels, and thereby addresses to the full range of circumstances I might face.

Whatever may take place, whatever others may decide to do, bravery of conscience will always be fundamentally liberating. I can leave the events beyond my power right where they are, and so focus on nurturing and grooming what is my own.

When I have managed to stay the course, I am amazed at the strength that comes from such conviction. I am then no longer a slave to things of the world, precisely because I have chosen to understand that they do not define me.

First, this will happen while I still live, in that my ability to stand for myself allows me to become ever more impervious to the actions of fortune. This is freedom.

Second, this will likewise happen if I must die, in that all the worry about pleasure and pain will now be completely behind me. This is also freedom.

Either way, I have both lived and died with some dignity. The person who can do this right, the sage or the saint, remains totally unconquerable. It is possible by casting off the chains of impressions and desires.

The man I thought the victim can now appear quite differently to me, as one who has received the greatest reward. In life and in death, he has the blessing of liberty. He should be admired instead of pitied.

Written in 12/2011

IMAGE: Francesco Rosaspina, Allegory of Fortitude

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 16.2

Well, but see how each of them endured his fate, and if they endured it bravely, long in your heart for courage as great as theirs; if they died in a womanish and cowardly manner, nothing was lost.

Either they deserved that you should admire their courage, or else they did not deserve that you should wish to imitate their cowardice: for what can be more shameful than that the greatest men should die so bravely as to make people cowards?

I attach ever more importance to bravery, though I find that the way I understand it is very different from the way many others describe it. I do not mean a toughness that is uncaring, or the application of a brute force of will, or a glorification of my power to take what I want. I think rather of the strength of conviction, the willingness to surrender lesser things for the sake of greater things, a foundation of character.

A brave man does not to be ten feet tall, or have muscles made of steel, or be required to repress his feelings. No, he must only commit to doing right instead of wrong. The battle he fights is in his own heart and mind, not against any external threat. If I can’t build up such habits of courage, no other quality I possess will be of any use to me.

Will this be easy? Hardly, at least at first. I will still feel fear, and I will still have nagging doubts, and sometimes my legs will buckle, and my hands will shake. I still find myself quivering or flinching at the silliest of obstacles, yet I manage by remembering that my judgment rules me, not my flesh. If I can be firm in my awareness of the good, I have it within me to take control of myself.

Odd things may go on in my head, where I may know that death should not be feared, and yet I fear the pain that will most likely accompany death. Another estimation is necessary then, perhaps a more difficult one for me, that my worth is deeper than pleasure and pain. I can then more easily bear the absence of one or the presence of the other. I begin to see that I must be wise to be brave, not some growling beast.

And perhaps something is going right in my thinking, when I am deeply moved by the moral courage of my betters, and I wish to become more like them. Their suffering was in itself neither here nor there, because everyone suffers, but what they chose to do with it, how they transformed it, is what makes them close to the gods.

The bravery was itself the victory, regardless of any other consequences. They made themselves better, and thereby happier, so let me pay homage to them by following their example. How foolish it would be of me if I watched decent folks face death for the sake of justice, and then I myself only ran away in cowardice.

When the henchmen of Mark Antony finally caught up with Cicero, Plutarch says that the old man not only died for his principles, but he held his chin and stretched out his own neck to show that he would die willingly, even as his followers covered their faces. Cassius Dio records his last words as “There is nothing proper about what you are doing, soldier, but do try to kill me properly.”

In the movies, there would surely have a been a lengthy battle scene filmed with fancy wire work, but that is not necessary for there to be bravery.

Written in 12/2011

IMAGE: S.W. Reynolds, The Death of Cicero (c. 1820)

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 16.1

Chapter 16

There comes now a part of our subject which is wont, with good cause, to make one sad and anxious.

I mean when good men come to bad ends: when Socrates is forced to die in prison, Rutilius to live in exile, Pompeius and Cicero to offer their necks to the swords of their own followers, when the great Cato, that living image of virtue, falls upon his sword and rips up both himself and the republic, one cannot help being grieved that Fortune should bestow her gifts so unjustly.

What, too, can a good man hope to obtain when he sees the best of men meeting with the worst fates?

It was the problem of suffering, especially the fact that bad things happened to good people, that made Stoicism a necessity for me, not just some convenience or luxury.

There are times when it hardly seems fair that Rutilius was cast out from his home for defending the poor from tax collectors, or that Socrates was asked to drink the hemlock for asking inconvenient questions. Pompeius and Cicero were killed simply because they tried to do right. Cato, finally knowing that Caesar would now rule Rome, took his own life. Where is the justice in any of that, when the virtuous must suffer persecution from the vicious?

The scale hardly needs to be so grand and dramatic. Perhaps I travel in all the wrong circles, but I have found that it is all too easy for those with a conscience to be cast aside, while those who look only for their own power and gratification are given most everything they desire. Honesty is punished, and lies are rewarded. Charity is trampled down, and greed is raised up. The world seems upside down.

Well yes, the world is upside down, but not as I might expect. It isn’t that the righteous are destroyed and the wicked are glorified, but rather that I myself am misunderstanding what constitutes genuine benefit or harm.

Only the sinners think they deserve to be rich; only the saints understand that character is itself the greatest blessing. My own expectations need to be flipped, to grasp that what I thought was up is down and what was down is up.

Let me look at the words of the problem more carefully:

Do good men really come to bad ends? I would only think that if I did not understand the meaning and purpose of my life.

Do the best of men meet with the worst of fates? The circumstances don’t make for a dignified life, even as a dignified life thrives through any circumstances.

Written in 12/2011

IMAGE: The Death of Cicero (French, 15th century)

Seneca, On Peace of Mind 15.6

In one's own misfortunes, also, one ought so to conduct oneself as to bestow upon them just as much sorrow as reason, not as much as custom, requires: for many shed tears in order to show them, and whenever no one is looking at them their eyes are dry, but they think it disgraceful not to weep when everyone does so.

So deeply has this evil of being guided by the opinion of others taken root in us, that even grief, the simplest of all emotions, begins to be counterfeited.

Though they will rarely admit it, many people will express an emotion, whether of joy or of sadness, for the sake of appearances. They can become quite adept at manipulating impressions, to the point where it almost looks sincere.

If I dwell on this in others, however, it will only breed resentment within me, so, as always, it is best for me to work on my own integrity. I should certainly be wary of another’s crocodile tears, yet I should be most concerned about never fabricating any lies of my own.

I do wonder how I should present myself to others, whether I feel elated or despondent, and then I remember that it is more important for me to be good than to seem good. Who I am on the outside should mirror who I am on the inside, and I will only get myself into trouble when the two are at odds with one another.

It can a bit more difficult when it comes to responding to the joy or pain of others, but most especially if they are suffering. I know that I am expected to say all sorts of things, whether or not I actually mean them, and I will then struggle with choosing my words.

What is the best way to say that I am sorry, that I am mourning with you, that I am there for you?

A few simple rules have always been helpful for me:

I should think before I speak, being sure that I am coming from genuine love and understanding. Just winging it won’t do. Better to be completely silent that spout nonsense.

Less is often more. A single gesture from the heart is far greater than many fancy lines copied from a playbook. Instead of writing a flowery eulogy for the crowd, spend a moment of absolute commitment.

Whatever I should say, it should be said in private, where no one else is around to see or to hear, to ensure that it serves one purpose and one purpose only, that of fulfilling my compassion for a friend.

Perhaps most important of all, it will mean nothing if actions do no follow from the words. If necessary, drop the words entirely, and go straight to the actions. A helping hand is far more powerful than the promise of a helping hand.

When I offer comfort, am I just stroking my own ego, or do I really mean it? As we said in the 1980’s, “where’s the beef?”

Moaning, wailing, or wallowing only make matters worse. Fancy speeches are just window dressing. How am I assisting other human beings to strengthen their happiness, instead of only encouraging further pain?

Grief is not a game to be played. Grief does not have to be the end of it all. Grief is deeply painful, but it is still an opportunity to know and to love all the more. Saying that isn’t enough; transforming the suffering into joy is necessary.

No more crocodile tears.

Written in 12/2011