Seneca, if we can believe there was a real Seneca didn't live too long. Serving Nero the emperor was not a long lasting profession. Supposedly he died at 41. He was born about the time that Christ was born, maybe a few years earlier. I don't think he knew much of Christ, but I can't say for sure. Like Jesus, He was wise in a stoical kind of way. He left behind some thoughts, many of which are grim, even dark. Sometimes I think he would have a field day on the blogs and internet sites of today. The rants and tirades he would go on would become famous. The internet was made for him, a little late though. If you are down in any way this Christmas, then maybe you shouldn't read the following. Maybe you should. It's a reminder of something most parents tried to tell their children at least once in life.

Life is divided into three periods—that which has been, that which is, that which will be. Of these the present time is short, the future is doubtful, the past is certain. For the last is the one over which Fortune has lost control, is the one which cannot be brought back under any man's power. But men who are engrossed lose this; for they have no time to look back upon the past, and even if they should have, it is not pleasant to recall something they must view with regret. They are, therefore, unwilling to direct their thoughts backward to ill-spent hours, and those whose vices become obvious if they review the past, even the vices which were disguised under some allurement of momentary pleasure, do not have the courage to revert to those hours. No one willingly turns his thought back to the past, unless all his acts have been submitted to the censorship of his conscience, which is never deceived; he who has ambitiously coveted, proudly scorned, recklessly conquered, treacherously betrayed, greedily seized, or lavishly squandered, must needs fear his own memory. And yet this is the part of our time that is sacred and set apart, put beyond the reach of all human mishaps, and removed from the dominion of Fortune, the part which is disquieted by no want, by no fear, by no attacks of disease; this can neither be troubled nor be snatched away—it is an everlasting and unanxious possession. The present offers only one day at a time, and each by minutes; but all the days of past time will appear when you bid them, they will suffer you to behold them and keep them at your will—a thing which those who are engrossed have no time to do. The mind that is untroubled and tranquil has the power to roam into all the parts of its life; but the minds of the engrossed, just as if weighted by a yoke, cannot turn and look behind. And so their life vanishes into an abyss; and as it does no good, no matter how much water you pour into a vessel, if there is no bottom to receive and hold it, so with time—it makes no difference how much is given; if there is nothing for it to settle upon, it passes out through the chinks and holes of the mind. Present time is very brief, so brief, indeed, that to some there seems to be none; for it is always in motion, it ever flows and hurries on; it ceases to be before it has come, and can no more brook delay than the firmament or the stars, whose ever unresting movement never lets them abide in the same track. The engrossed, therefore, are concerned with present time alone, and it is so brief that it cannot be grasped, and even this is filched away from them, distracted as they are among many things.

My Christmas was sort of interrupted today by of all things snow. I haven't heard anybody singing about dreaming of a white Christmas. I can't get out of my door to get close to them to hear it. If I did, I might throw some snow at them to remind them that they can stop singing now. Anyhow, I expected something and didn't get it. That's OK, I'll get over it. Sunday will stand in for Christmas and do a fine job I think. But what of today, it will soon be history, or in the past as Seneca observed. What will I make of it? I'm still working on it. In the meantime, all I have to do is lift my eyes and look out the window and watch the horizontal streaks of snow fly by creating momentary art, replaced by more in the next second with more to follow. It really is quite a sight. Cars are disappearing with each howl of the wind, covered by a delicate blanket of cold white snow.

The interruption is a good one when I think back on the year. We have some friends who passed away this year. They can't be here to watch the snow, to enjoy a cup of tea, to sit with loved ones, to write a blog, to pray for others. They have passed away and some of them tragically. Seneca's words no longer reach them, for now at least. They took the words of Christ to heart I believe and looked forward to the home He was preparing for them in heaven. This snowy day, dominates the landscape, moods and movements of so many today. It also helps me to look to the future. In a few weeks or maybe a little longer, this snow will be gone, the roads will be open for business, and life will go on. That's something to celebrate and look forward to. Look back and then look forward. Forget Seneca for now, think about the chapter you are writing and take pleasure in that.