The Ferry That Did Not Come
Short story about sorting what is yours.
The ferry didn't come, the board didn't explain, and eleven people stood on the quay in a sideways wind.
The man in the good coat began at once. He rang the office and was put on hold. He calculated what the delay would cost, then rang again.
By the second hour he had established that the company was badly run and his morning was ruined. He was right about both.
The old woman with the shopping trolley sat on the bench. She was missing her granddaughter's school assembly, which mattered to her more than anything he was missing. She cried about it briefly at twenty past nine, wiped her face, and went back to watching the water.
The ferry came at eleven. Both boarded. Both arrived two hours late.
One had spent those hours with the water, the gulls and a short, real grief. The other had spent them on hold with a woman named Denise, who was not to blame.
The ferry arrives when it arrives. The only thing you own is the waiting.
Ohananda.com
Epictetus, Enchiridion 1
“Some things are within our power, and some are not.”
A common English rendering of the opening of Epictetus' Enchiridion. The quay, the ferry and the passengers are Ohananda's own.
Epictetus opens his handbook with a sorting exercise: some things are up to us — our judgements, our intentions, what we do next — and some are not.
The Stoic claim is not that the second category doesn't matter, but that treating it as ours is how we manufacture misery. Notice what the old woman does not do: she doesn't pretend to be fine. Grief is hers. The two-hour campaign against the ferry isn't.
What are you fighting today that was never yours to decide?
