This is where I came in.
Well, not exactly. But it was in reading Boethius that I was first drawn to a life of reflection and inquiry. (You notice I'm careful not to say philosophy.)
The Consolation of Philosophy came into my adolescent misery like rain falling on a parched desert. Religion had only deepened my chronic sadness. Then came the voice of Dame Philosophy to Boethius in his cell on death row telling him that all, even death, was transient. She reminded him of his successes in which he took satisfaction, pointed out that these were as nothing, gone with the turning of the heavens.
As Boethius dried his tears, a flash of realization went through me. It was possible that someday things would be different, that wanting things to be right in my life was as pointless as complaining that they were wrong. I wanted to be one of those people, like Boethius, who could see this and be comforted by it even the midst of real suffering, should I ever actually experience any.
It hasn't worked out that way. I still lack perspective and patience. I blow up at people over trivial things. I don't make the effort to deepen my understanding or share my ideas with others. And most of my troubles are of my own making. Indeed, I've largely dodged the bullets that strike most people down. I've managed to stumble through life by shirking my responsibilities.
But there are people whose pain is so great as to set the universe on fire. The increase in their numbers threatens to sweep us all away in a torrent of tears. And this is just the public torment. Wars. Disease. Poverty. In many ways inner misery is are worse. Madness. Grief. Fear.
Recently a friend of mine, a former student, had a family tragedy that tripped her back into a despair she thought she had left behind. Paralysis. Suicidal thoughts. Hospitalization. Soul-numbing medications that threatened to destroy her capacity to work. I could only wait, get occasional reports from her father, also a friend. I could feel her pain through his. She was getting help, he told me, the very best. All I could feel was useless. What did I have to offer? My concern. My presence should the opportunity arise.
Actually my friend is fortunate. She will recover, is already making progress. She has a family that loves her and a career she loves. But what happened to her, the palpability of her suffering, brought home to me something that gets lost behind the multiplying images of the wounded and the starving and the enraged that flash across my TV screen..
What do I have to offer any of them? Certainly my efforts to resist war or alleviate hunger would be nice. But what else? Many, perhaps most, don't need my help. They get comfort from their faith and their community. What would it benefit anyone to be advised that this too shall pass? That they would fell better if they weren't so attached to that leg or that child or that village that they have lost?
Yet that seems to be the main way in which philosophy consoles. As Charlie Brown used to say in the Peanuts comic strip, "In five hundred years nobody'll know the difference."
We all gain some perspective with age. Perhaps this is because we've been down most paths often enough to know which lead somewhere and which don't. Whether this process is more extensive or thorough in those who habitually ask fundamental questions or engage in methodical self-examination is harder to determine.
My guess is that any benefits that do accrue from these speculative labors come largely from the expanded narrative that results from life of study and writing. But I suspect that almost any earnest endeavor from medicine to auto repair will do the same.
It is important how you think about things. A big part of recovery from depression, after the drugs kick in, is to reprogram how your mind works. Squelch those inner conversations about how you're never going to amount to anything because nobody gave a shit about you when you were little. Even if true that kind of talk plays havoc with your serotonin levels. This is because most thinking with the emotions, just as most serotonin is in the gut.
If the cure for suffering is to be freed of attachments, that is also the cure for joy. To be alive is to feel. It's the story we tell with our feelings that makes the difference.
boethius
fortune
suffering
serotonin
philosophy
Well, not exactly. But it was in reading Boethius that I was first drawn to a life of reflection and inquiry. (You notice I'm careful not to say philosophy.)
The Consolation of Philosophy came into my adolescent misery like rain falling on a parched desert. Religion had only deepened my chronic sadness. Then came the voice of Dame Philosophy to Boethius in his cell on death row telling him that all, even death, was transient. She reminded him of his successes in which he took satisfaction, pointed out that these were as nothing, gone with the turning of the heavens.
As Boethius dried his tears, a flash of realization went through me. It was possible that someday things would be different, that wanting things to be right in my life was as pointless as complaining that they were wrong. I wanted to be one of those people, like Boethius, who could see this and be comforted by it even the midst of real suffering, should I ever actually experience any.
It hasn't worked out that way. I still lack perspective and patience. I blow up at people over trivial things. I don't make the effort to deepen my understanding or share my ideas with others. And most of my troubles are of my own making. Indeed, I've largely dodged the bullets that strike most people down. I've managed to stumble through life by shirking my responsibilities.
But there are people whose pain is so great as to set the universe on fire. The increase in their numbers threatens to sweep us all away in a torrent of tears. And this is just the public torment. Wars. Disease. Poverty. In many ways inner misery is are worse. Madness. Grief. Fear.
Recently a friend of mine, a former student, had a family tragedy that tripped her back into a despair she thought she had left behind. Paralysis. Suicidal thoughts. Hospitalization. Soul-numbing medications that threatened to destroy her capacity to work. I could only wait, get occasional reports from her father, also a friend. I could feel her pain through his. She was getting help, he told me, the very best. All I could feel was useless. What did I have to offer? My concern. My presence should the opportunity arise.
Actually my friend is fortunate. She will recover, is already making progress. She has a family that loves her and a career she loves. But what happened to her, the palpability of her suffering, brought home to me something that gets lost behind the multiplying images of the wounded and the starving and the enraged that flash across my TV screen..
What do I have to offer any of them? Certainly my efforts to resist war or alleviate hunger would be nice. But what else? Many, perhaps most, don't need my help. They get comfort from their faith and their community. What would it benefit anyone to be advised that this too shall pass? That they would fell better if they weren't so attached to that leg or that child or that village that they have lost?
Yet that seems to be the main way in which philosophy consoles. As Charlie Brown used to say in the Peanuts comic strip, "In five hundred years nobody'll know the difference."
We all gain some perspective with age. Perhaps this is because we've been down most paths often enough to know which lead somewhere and which don't. Whether this process is more extensive or thorough in those who habitually ask fundamental questions or engage in methodical self-examination is harder to determine.
My guess is that any benefits that do accrue from these speculative labors come largely from the expanded narrative that results from life of study and writing. But I suspect that almost any earnest endeavor from medicine to auto repair will do the same.
It is important how you think about things. A big part of recovery from depression, after the drugs kick in, is to reprogram how your mind works. Squelch those inner conversations about how you're never going to amount to anything because nobody gave a shit about you when you were little. Even if true that kind of talk plays havoc with your serotonin levels. This is because most thinking with the emotions, just as most serotonin is in the gut.
If the cure for suffering is to be freed of attachments, that is also the cure for joy. To be alive is to feel. It's the story we tell with our feelings that makes the difference.
boethius
fortune
suffering
serotonin
philosophy
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