Dear Fellow Mortal,
Most of us notice our age in small ways before we admit it in large ones: a new ache, an old photograph, a younger colleague who doesn’t get the reference.
Seneca noticed his on a visit to his country house. The building he had put up was crumbling, the trees he had planted were gnarled, and the old man at the door turned out to be someone he had known as a boy. His first reaction was irritation. His second became one of the most generous accounts of aging in ancient literature.
He doesn’t pretend old age is easy. He argues that it has pleasures of its own, and that knowing our time is limited, which we tend to dread, can make each day more complete rather than less.
I hope you enjoy this edition of Sundays with Seneca.
Sundays with Seneca
A year of Seneca’s letters, one each Sunday. Each meditation pairs one of his letters with the question at its heart and a practice for the week ahead: 52 Stoic questions for mortals. ***This series is only available to members.
The Letter
Seneca to Lucilius, greetings.
Wherever I turn, I see signs of my age. I recently visited my country house and complained about the money being spent on the crumbling building. My caretaker insisted the damage was not his fault. He was doing everything he could, but the house was old. And this was the house that went up under my own hands! What does the future hold for me, if stones my own age are already falling apart?
I was annoyed, and I seized the first chance to vent. “These plane trees are clearly neglected,” I said. “They have no leaves. Their branches are gnarled and shriveled, their trunks rough and shabby. This wouldn’t happen if someone loosened the soil around them and watered them.” He swore he was doing everything possible and never let up, but the trees were old. Between you and me, I had planted those trees myself. I had seen their first leaves.
