Epictetus, Golden Sayings 64

It was the first and most striking characteristic of Socrates never to become heated in discourse, never to utter an injurious or insulting word.

On the contrary, he persistently bore insult from others and thus put an end to the fray. If you care to know the extent of his power in this direction, read Xenophon's Symposium, and you will see how many quarrels he put an end to. This is why the Poets are right in so highly commending this faculty. Quickly and wisely withal even bitter feuds would he settle.

Nevertheless, the practice is not very safe at present, especially in Rome. One who adopts it, I need not say, ought not to carry it out in an obscure corner, but boldly accost, if occasion serve, some personage of rank or wealth. 

"Can you tell me, sir, to whose care you entrust your horses?"

"I can." 

"Is it to the first comer, who knows nothing about them?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, what of the man who takes care of your gold, your silver or your raiment?" 

"He must be experienced also." 

"And your body—have you ever considered about entrusting it to any one's care?" 

"Of course I have."

"And no doubt to a person of experience as a trainer, a physician?"
"Surely." 

"And these things the best you possess, or have you anything more precious?" 

"What can you mean?" 

"I mean that which employs these; which weights all things; which takes counsel and resolve." 

"Oh, you mean the soul." 

"You take me rightly; I do mean the soul. By Heaven, I hold that far more precious than all else I possess. Can you show me then what care you bestow on a soul? For it can scarcely be thought that a man of your wisdom and consideration in the city would suffer your most precious possession to go to ruin through carelessness and neglect." 

"Certainly not."

"Well, do you take care of it yourself? Did anyone teach you the right method, or did you discover it yourself?" 

Now here comes in the danger: first, that the great man may answer, "Why, what is that to you, my good fellow? are you my master?" And then, if you persist in troubling him, may raise his hand to strike you. It is a practice of which I was myself a warm admirer until such experiences as these befell me. 

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.75

No man is tired of receiving what is useful. But it is useful to act according to Nature.

Do not then be tired of receiving what is useful by doing it to others.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

Convinced that everything needs to be some sort of transaction, and assuming that life has to be confrontational, many of us will think that where one man has gained something, another man needs to lose something. It seems absurd to us that giving can be a form of receiving, and that simply acting well requires no other return.

I don’t need to look far to see people calculating their profits. I am given kindness when I offer an advantage, treated with respect when I have money to spend, or called a friend when I am pleasant and amusing. I often feel like quite a stranger when I insist that kindness has no conditions, respect requires no reward, and friendship is offered through thick and through thin. These qualities are hardly virtues anymore if we treat them like some commodity.

Stoic ethics, like any model of life built around the order of Nature, defines me by my actions themselves, not by any circumstances beyond those actions. My happiness is in what I do, not what is done to me, and so I can rightly say what I get out of life is itself what I give. Virtue doesn’t need to lead to any reward, because virtue is already the reward.

Every first-year business student will tell you that the purpose of a business is to make a profit, which involves spending as little as you can in order to make as much as you can. Yet I will still occasionally run across a business owner, a craftsman, or a professional who sincerely believes that the true goal of any trade should be to provide the best service. Now people may pay you to do a good job, but one shouldn’t do a good job simply to get paid. Most people will laugh at such a ridiculous idea, but the good man, the Stoic at heart, understands. He would choose to be honest and poor over being dishonest and rich.

I run around looking for what is useful or beneficial, and whatever else I may prefer in life, I forget that the most useful or beneficial thing I can ever do for myself is to act with justice, with concern, with commitment, and with integrity. The more that I give of myself, the more I receive, simply because nothing is morally superior to the dignity of action itself. No one else has to be parted from what is useful for me to acquire what is useful.  

I should never find the worth of my character to be insufficient for a good life, because as long as I have life and choice, there can be an unending supply of decency within me. 

Written in 1/2008

Tao Te Ching 6

The valley spirit dies not, aye the same;
The female mystery thus do we name.
Its gate, from which at first they issued forth,
Is called the root from which grew heaven and earth.
Long and unbroken does its power remain,
Used gently, and without the touch of pain.

Scent of a Woman

This blog has referred to this wonderful scene many times.

YouTube has its own rules, and has decided to remove the older links for the scene.

Here's a newer YouTube link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Tzg_S4NrRQ

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.74

When you have done a good act and another has received it, why do you look for a third thing besides these, as fools do, either to have the reputation of having done a good act or to obtain a return?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

Some people will tell me that all actions should be completely selfless, where we get no benefit from them at all, and others will tell me what seems to be the total opposite, that no actions can ever be selfless, because we will only do what benefits us. I suspect part of the confusion comes from what we even mean by a benefit for ourselves or for others.

As is so often the case in life, we easily assume contradictions where none need be present. I remember a classic false dichotomy from logic class, “Did you walk to school or bring your lunch?” One doesn’t necessarily exclude the other, of course, and that also goes for helping others and helping ourselves as well.

When I have done something good for another, I have helped him to live well. In doing so, I have also helped myself to live well. If the good in human life is measured by virtue, there is no reason that all of our actions, both in what is offered and in what is received, can be good for us. If man is rational, and therefore also social, by nature, he can consciously and freely share all his benefits.

As soon as people have a different idea of what benefits are, however, the situation can easily change. If a benefit involves gaining wealth, or power, or honor, then this may well conflict with the circumstances of others, and with both our own virtue and the virtue of others. The conflict will only arise from a confused sense of the good.

I will surely only be selfish when I demand something beyond the good of my nature, or when I demand something at the expense of another; there is no shame in the reward of being good and giving of that good.

I run into a problem when I am still looking for more and more, since I am not yet happy with the act of living well for it’s own sake. I am ignorant of the happiness to be found within me, so I seek it in other things, believing that I must take them from others.

Where there is no moral worth in my own thoughts and deeds, I seek worth in possessions. Where I lack control over my own character, I seek to exercise control over others. Where I cannot be content with a respect for myself, I seek to acquire respect from others.

But why should I even want these sorts of perks? They are only weak substitutions for the real thing. The benefit was already there simply by doing what was good, and it was a double blessing when another could also make good of it. No more is required.

It becomes so much easier to love, to see it as an opportunity instead of a burden, when I understand that love is its own reward. 

Written in 1/2008

Dhammapada 14

As rain does not break through a well-thatched house, passion will not break through a well-reflecting mind.

Dhammapada 13

As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, passion will break through an unreflecting mind.

Boethius, The Consolation 3.2

“When a man would sow in virgin soil,

 first he clears away the bushes,

cuts the brambles and the ferns,

that the corn-goddess may go forth laden with her new fruit.

The honey, that the bee has toiled to give us,

is sweeter when the mouth has tasted bitter things.

The stars shine with more pleasing grace

when a storm has ceased to roar and pour down rain.

After the morning star has dispersed the shades of night,

the day in all its beauty drives its rosy chariot forth.

So you have looked upon false happiness first.

Now draw your neck from under her yoke:

so shall true happiness now come into your soul.”

—from Book 3, Poem 1

When I was younger, many of my elders told me that good things never came easy, and that they may well take some time. I would sometimes resent this, because I was already a part of a generation that sought instant gratification. If anything was ever worth working for, the trend was that money and influence were the only helpful tools for the gratification we craved.

We not only want what we think is good right now, but we are confused about what is good to begin with. Perhaps thinking this way is a very part of the process, where we have to struggle with getting it wrong before we can come to the peace of what is right. The problem, of course, is actually moving beyond the confusion to the clarity.

I can certainly think of many ways that a genuine reward was all the more fulfilling because of, and in contrast to, the grief and toil that preceded it. It took the disappointment of false friendship to appreciate true friendship, the illusion of learning for vanity to discover learning for character, or all the trappings and diversions of false success to recognize that true success in life is something very different than I had thought it to be.

There will be no reaping if I don’t do any sowing. I will not become better if I do not learn from my mistakes. I will never become blessed without first having an experience of what is wretched.

Just as we often want our senses immediately satisfied, we will also want our minds to be immediately filled with all of the answers. When we don’t get it right away, we lose interest, and assume it isn’t worth our time. It doesn’t occur to us that finding something worthwhile often demands patience, and we might have to travel a ways to get to our destination. There are many steps along the way.

When people hear that I have a background in philosophy, they will often ask me profound questions, sometimes just to have a bit of fun, but sometimes out of genuine curiosity. I will pull my best Socrates, and ask them to clarify their definitions, work from what they already know to some insight on what thy don’t know, and break down a vague sense of the whole to a precise understanding of the parts.

They usually dislike this and turn to something else fairly quickly, because what they wanted was just an answer, not the actual working toward an answer. It doesn’t necessarily occur to them that the answer only is an answer through an explanation of the reasons why it is true. This will not come to us right away, but involves a long-term commitment. There can be no conclusion without the effort of reasoning.

Finding a life of happiness is one part of that continuing effort, perhaps the single most important part, because happiness seems to be what we all want, what we were all made for. But what is it exactly? Should I not ask very carefully what is good and bad in life, and why that must be so? What do different kinds of people say about this, and how can looking at that help us toward the truth?

Here is the clearing of the field, and the planting of the seed, before we can enjoy the harvest. 

Written in 9/2015

Epictetus, Golden Sayings 63

A guide, on finding a man who has lost his way, brings him back to the right path—he does not mock and jeer at him and then take himself off. 

You also must show the unlearned man the truth, and you will see that he will follow. But so long as you do not show it to him, you should not mock, but rather feel your own incapacity. 
 

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.73

Whatever the rational and political faculty finds to be neither intelligent nor social, it properly judges to be inferior to itself.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

The trend of our age is to denigrate reason, to push it aside, or to explain it away. The irony that explaining anything is itself an act of reason is hardly lost on me.

Aristotle famously defined man as a rational animal, but we now like to make man just an animal. I recently read an article in a fancy psychology publication that argued how human beings aren’t really driven by their thinking at all—it’s all about our instincts and our feelings. So we see the author confidently using a rational argument to insist that we aren’t really rational. Got it.

But the Classical understanding of man as rational doesn’t mean that we don’t have emotions, or that they do not influence us, or that possessing reason automatically means we will all act in the most reasonable way.

A human being is hardly a Cartesian mind in a vat, and human nature is not either rational or emotional, but both rational and emotional.

Nevertheless, even as human nature is markedly passionate, it is our judgment and choice that will determine what we make of our passions. Even if I allow myself to be ruled by my feelings, I have still made the conscious decision to do so. The higher power of intellect has authority over the lower power of the appetites.

As a creature of mind, I can know myself, I can know what I do and why I do it, and I can distinguish true from false, and right from wrong. I am not merely moved by what is around me, but I am the mover of my own actions. This is why reason is the superior power.

Furthermore, as a being who can understand what is good, I am also a being who can consciously and freely share in the good of others. I am made to live with my fellows, to cooperate with them, and to assist them, because we can all understand that we are ordered toward the same end.

I am here to be conscious of my purpose, to be conscious of the purpose of my neighbors, and to use that awareness for our common benefit. I am rational, so I am therefore also social. These are at the pinnacle of my existence, and anything else must take a lower place.

A friend was once trying to explain a choice she had made to me, and she grew exasperated with my questions. Many people I know have unfortunately felt that very same frustration.

“I need you to understand what I’m feeling!” she said.

“Yes,” I replied as patiently as I could. “I’m sorry, I am trying to make sense of it.”

“It doesn’t need to make any sense! I just did it because I felt that way!”

I could only give her a friendly hug, because there is no point in trying to understand something that doesn’t make sense. I could only think of all the times I too have flipped my own priorities, and confused the superior and the inferior in my life.

Just because I surrendered my reason did not make me a creature lacking in reason; I had simply misused and misdirected the power within me. 

Written in 1/2008

Tao Te Ching 5

Heaven and earth do not act from the impulse of any wish to be benevolent; they deal with all things as the dogs of grass are dealt with. 

The sages do not act from any wish to be benevolent; they deal with the people as the dogs of grass are dealt with.

May not the space between heaven and earth be compared to a bellows?

'Tis emptied, yet it loses not its power;
'Tis moved again, and sends forth air the more.
Much speech to swift exhaustion lead we see;
Your inner being guard, and keep it free.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.72

It is a ridiculous thing for a man not to fly from his own badness, which is indeed possible, but to fly from other men's badness, which is impossible.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

We may be very picky about keeping company with bad folks, because, of course, their badness may rub off on us.

Yet we may not be quite so picky about being bad to the bad folks, about harming them, demeaning them, and having quite a fine time slandering them.

Sometimes I’m not sure where the worst of the bad really is.

I think of the times I have felt hurt by people, and then I spent ten times more effort in trying to hurt them back. I assumed this was my way of running away from their evil, when all I was really doing was running headlong into my own evil.

I notice how I sometimes wish to express my anger at someone else, and I somehow think I am doing him a favor by putting him in his place. I should never deceive myself. It is not my place to be his judge, jury, and executioner. I perceive an action as wrong, so I then brilliantly do another wrong myself.

As a child, some friends of the family had a little sculpture on their bookshelf, rather kitschy, of three monkeys, one covering his ears, another his eyes, and the last his mouth. I was fascinated by it, and would go to look at it every time we were at their house.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

Even back then, it made me think. How much of what is bad in me comes from the outside, and how much of it comes from the inside? Can I ever really shut myself off from evil out there, even as I should concern myself about avoiding evil in here?

All of this was already leading me to a rather Stoic conclusion: I cannot change what others will do, but I can always change what I will do.

Now why am I demanding that they change their ways to suit mine? How are my tantrums making anything better? Let me attend to myself. I should respect others enough to allow them their follies, but I should not make them my own.

Can I change what they say? No, but I shouldn’t be fooled by listening to it. Can I change what they do? No, but I shouldn’t be be misled into following it. Can I change what I say and do in response to what they say and do? Yes. There’s the trick.

It isn’t my place to fix them, even as it is my place to fix me. 

Written in 1/2008

Dhammapada 12

They who know truth in truth, and untruth in untruth, arrive at truth, and follow true desires.

When I waste my time complaining. . .

As a reference for Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.71:

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.71

The gods who are immortal are not vexed because during so long a time they must tolerate continually men as they are, and so many of them bad. And besides this, they also take care of them in all ways.

But you, who are destined to end so soon, are you wearied of enduring the bad, and this too when you are one of them?

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

I will find myself so easily drawn to complaining, especially when I see most everyone else busy complaining. The only motive I can really discern within myself is the desire to feel that I must be right by means of pointing out how everyone else is wrong, or that I must be good because everyone else is bad. Perhaps, I think, I can seem superior by making others appear to be inferior.

Whatever another may be in himself, however, really says nothing at all about me, and as soon as I accuse him, berate him, or insult him, it changes nothing about his character, even as it changes quite a bit about my character. I am annoyed by someone doing evil, and by doing so I have only let evil into my own soul.

Two things can help me here: knowing that this too shall pass, and recognizing that I myself am a very part of the problem.

If I remember that what I choose to find an annoyance is hardly permanent, is not the end of the world, and is far less important than I am making it, them I will have made it far less threatening in my estimation. If I see it as only one tiny aspect of the whole, I have, in a sense, thought it out of significance for me.

I can put it all into perspective. To me, right here and now, something may seem quite terrible, but in the grand scheme of things, in the order of Providence, it too has its place. Even this minuscule irritation exists for a purpose, and if I can consider the purpose, it will precisely cease to be an irritation to me.

Furthermore, let me hold a mirror to myself. I gripe about what is wrong, but I should also observe how often I am myself wrong. Would I then wish to be yelled at, or would I prefer to be helped? How am I making what is wrong into something right, or am I actually just making it even more wrong by my arrogance and resentment?

I can let myself become angry when I see ignorance, carelessness, greed, or deception. I am then left with the exact same ignorance, carelessness, greed, or deception in others, and I have compounded the problem by adding my own rage to the picture. I am better served if I reply with wisdom, concern, charity, or integrity. Then I have made myself better, and there is even a chance I might assist someone else in becoming better.

Look what we have done with the Internet revolution. With all those means available to us, we actually seem to understand less, and complain more. The next time I read something posted out of ignorance or malice, I really don’t need to try and “fix” it by being offended. 

Written in 1/2008

Dhammapada 11

They who imagine truth in untruth, and see untruth in truth, never arrive at truth, but follow vain desires.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.70

The perfection of moral character consists in this, in passing every day as the last, and in being neither violently excited, nor torpid, nor playing the hypocrite.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

These three guidelines will remind me how and why I get confused about a good life, and what I need to do in order to get myself back on track.

Notice, of course, that at no point does Marcus Aurelius discuss how important it is in life to build up financial security, or gain leverage over others, or seek conveniences and pleasure over obstacles and pain. That is because these are aspects that, however much I may have a preference for them, will not determine anything about the real quality of my life.

No, it’s all much more fundamental than that, and actually quite a bit simpler than that. Am I living well right here and now, content with being who I am at this very moment, asking for nothing else than the goodness of my own thoughts and deeds, and demanding nothing at all from the future?

If my attention is directed at what has been, at what possibly could be, or at whatever has nothing to do with me, how is this a measure of who I am? If it is important enough to do, I should be doing it right now. If it isn’t important enough to do, it need not be a part of my grand plans.

Am I seeking a balance in my character, or am I swinging back and forth between extremes of thoughts, emotions, and actions? To be driven by too much at one moment, and by too little at another, reveals that I am not in control of my own judgments. I have surrendered my authority to either aggressive and violent passions, or weak and submissive passions.

Instead of being brave, for example, I end up being reckless or cowardly. Instead of being temperate, I end up a glutton or insensitive. Instead of being just, I end up taking too much, or asking for too little. Walking a tightrope seems awfully hard, but like riding a bicycle, it can become second nature with practice.

In everything I do, am I doing it for its own sake, or am I concerned with the appearance of doing? The former builds character, while the latter destroys it, the difference between the man of conscience and the hypocrite. Many people believe that giving the impression of virtue will bring them profit, but the sheen on the outside is only a cover for the rot on the inside.

Do it now if you can, do it as well as you can, and do it all for the right reasons. As my father would often say when I was younger, “See? That wasn’t so hard!”

Written in 1/2008

W.H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening"

Auden again. I'm not entirely sure why this poem speaks to me so deeply.

Once more, I'm sure it's intention isn't directly Stoic, but it still manages to touch upon everything that is Stoic. 

Look at all the things we consider permanent, yet see how quickly they all pass away. 

Observe all the sincere promises we make, but are never willing or able to keep. 

Consider all that we think we can do to shape the world, and end up barely able to shape ourselves. 

We are never masters of Time, or of Nature. We only discover our part. What else can I do but to love with what little I have?

Written in 4/1999

W.H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening"

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
 
'O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on. 

W.H. Auden, "The More Loving One"

Whenever I enjoy good poetry, which is something I couldn't really manage until fairly recently, I always find that the verses say as much about my own thinking as they do about the thinking of the author. I'd like to think that is the purpose of any decent writing.

When I first read this poem by Auden, I took it as an expression of unrequited romantic love. As time passed, I also saw it in a broader light, reflecting every aspect of how I could relate to my world. Does it matter so much what I am given, or could it perhaps be more important what I choose to give?

I can hardly claim to know what Auden might have meant, and I can't imagine the intention was in any way deliberately Stoic. Still, whenever I read it, the words inspire Stoic thoughts within me.

Written in 4/1999

W.H. Auden,  "The More Loving One"

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us, we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.69

It is in your power to live free from all compulsion in the greatest tranquility of mind, even if all the world cry out against you as much as they choose, and even if wild beasts tear in pieces the members of this kneaded matter which has grown around you.

For what hinders the mind in the midst of all this from maintaining itself in tranquility, and in a just judgment of all surrounding things, and in a ready use of the objects which are presented to it, so that the judgment may say to the thing which falls under its observation?

This you are in substance, though in men's opinion you may appear to be of a different kind.

And the use shall say to that which falls under the hand: You are the thing that I was seeking, for to me that which presents itself is always a material for virtue both rational and political, and in a word, for the exercise of art, which belongs to man or God.

For everything that happens has a relationship either to God or man, and is neither new nor difficult to handle, but usual and apt matter to work on.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

“I can’t take any more of this. It’s too much to handle!”

“I give up, because I can’t win!”

“I hate myself. How can I love myself when no one else will bother?”

We all like to exude complete confidence in our lives, but I’m sure there are others out there who have truly felt like this. The words may differ, but the thinking is much the same. We feel that we are losers, because we have constantly been told that we are so; we look at all the people who call themselves winners, and we throw in the towel.

I have struggled with thoughts like this for as long as I can remember. And the only remedy is to insist that my thoughts are my own, and that my life will only end as well, or as poorly, as I decide to make it. It doesn’t need to have anything to do with what I am given, but with what I choose to take from it.

Look at how angry I become when I see the clever, the slick, the entitled, or the holier-than-thou strut their stuff. But why am I angry? They didn’t do that to me; I did it to myself.

Look at how helpless I feel when I see my efforts fail, while the efforts of other succeed. But why do I feel helpless? No one hindered me; I hindered myself.

Look at the despair that consumes me when I face whatever is beyond my power. But why am I in despair? No one abandoned me; I abandoned myself.

I become consumed by anger, helplessness, or despair as soon as I tell myself the biggest of lies, that who I am depends upon everything else but who I am.

Le the situation be what it may, and let others be as they will. An old hippie friend of mine liked to say, “It’s all good!” While I first thought he was just brushing things aside, I came to see that he meant it quite literally. I wish I had listened more attentively to how he tied this to all the great themes of philosophy and religion in the world.

Another may have intended abuse and harm, but I do not need to take it as abuse and harm. I am the one making a mess of what may end up happening to me, because I am not using it rightly. “Thank you,” I could say to anything and everything. “You are just what I needed!”

Nothing is too much to handle, nothing needs to make me give up, and I don’t need to hate myself. This will be true if I view all events as occasions for good, and I depend only upon my own conscience and integrity.

Does it hurt? Does it make me stumble? Does it challenge me? Good. I can’t always change that, but I can always change myself. That is good.

My preference is never to be mauled by those ravenous animals Marcus Aurelius speaks of, but if that ever came to pass, I hope I could still say, “It’s all good!” Only my estimation decides that. 

Written in 1/2008

IMAGE: George Stubbs, A Lion Attacking a Horse (1770)