You are on a journey. You are not at home. You are not the captain of the ship. You are a passenger. And that ship is Life itself, or, from a Stoic perspective, Nature, governed by the Logos. There is a pilot, a universal reason, an order you do not control. Your role? To act as a clear-sighted and disciplined passenger.

When the ship docks,
you’re free to disembark and tend to the affairs of life. Pick up a seashell, a plant… This is a way of speaking about all that life offers us in terms of pleasures and attachments: a love, a family, a home, a career. But don’t cling blindly.

Here’s a summary of Epictetus’ passage, which I invite you now to savor in his own words:

“Just as on a voyage, when your ship has anchored, if you should go on shore to get fresh water, you may pick up a small shell-fish or little bulb on the way,
but you have to keep your attention fixed on the ship,
and turn about frequently for fear lest the captain should call; and if he calls, you must give up all these things, if you would escape being thrown on board all tied up like the sheep.
So it is also in life: If there be given you, instead of a little bulb and a small shell-fish, a little wife and child, there will be no objection to that; only, if the Captain calls, give up all these things and run to the ship, without even turning around to look back. And if you are an old man, never even get very far away from the ship, for fear that when He calls you may be missing.” ¹

You can love.
You can savor.
You can pour yourself into life.
But always with a sharp awareness: none of it truly belongs to you. It’s not your ship. You don’t decide when it’s time to depart. And when the pilot calls, in other words, when death approaches, or when life’s circumstances demand a letting go, you must be ready to leave it all behind.
Immediately.
Without looking back.
Without complaint.
Without attachment.
Like someone who knew, all along, that none of it was ever theirs.