The mind ought sometimes to be diverted that it may return to

The ancient Roman fabulist Phaedrus, student of wisdom and weaver of moral tales, once said: “The mind ought sometimes to be diverted that it may return to better thinking.” In this brief but profound saying lies the secret rhythm of the human spirit—the understanding that rest is not idleness, but renewal; that the mind, like a bow, must sometimes be unstrung lest it lose its strength. Phaedrus, who lived in an age of toil, tyranny, and intellectual rigor, knew that clarity of thought cannot exist without the balance of repose. His words, carried through centuries, remind us that to think well, we must first learn the sacred art of pausing.

To divert the mind is not to abandon thought, but to refresh it. Just as the fields must lie fallow before they yield another harvest, so too must the mind be given moments of stillness before it can bloom again in insight. The ancient Greeks and Romans understood this truth deeply. They spoke of otium—a noble leisure that was not laziness, but a time for reflection, contemplation, and renewal. The philosopher who sought truth would walk in the garden, play the lyre, or gaze upon the stars, knowing that wisdom often arrives when the mind is no longer grasping for it. For when thought grows weary, it begins to circle itself like a trapped bird; only in diversion does it find the open sky again.

Phaedrus was no stranger to struggle. A freed slave, he lived under emperors and witnessed the harshness of power. Through his fables, he taught the virtues of moderation and the dangers of pride. His observation that the mind must rest to return to better thinking arose not from luxury, but from survival. He saw how men consumed by ambition, by study, or by labor, became narrow in vision, deaf to reason, and blind to beauty. The constant press of thought without respite made them brittle—wise in theory, yet foolish in heart. Thus, he urged balance: to withdraw at times from striving, so that wisdom might flow again like a river unblocked by stones.

This truth has echoed through all ages. Consider the life of Leonardo da Vinci, that restless genius whose art and inventions still dazzle the world. Leonardo did not chain himself to a single task. He painted, then stopped to study anatomy; he designed machines, then paused to walk in the hills and sketch the wings of birds. To some, his wandering mind seemed unfocused—but this diversion was his genius. Each change of focus renewed his imagination, each pause birthed new creation. His greatest works, such as The Last Supper and The Vitruvian Man, were not born of relentless labor alone, but of a mind that knew when to rest, when to drift, and when to return with fire renewed.

Even the natural world mirrors this wisdom. The seasons themselves obey this law: the earth works in summer and sleeps in winter; the trees blossom, then shed their leaves to gather strength once more. The tides retreat only to return with greater force. So too must the human mind, which is but a part of nature, obey this rhythm. When it strains without pause—when it is driven by ceaseless thought, worry, or ambition—it grows dull and weary. But when it is allowed to breathe—to wander into music, laughter, silence, or prayer—it gathers strength in secret, and returns sharper, clearer, and wiser.

The ancients spoke of the balance between labor and leisure as the foundation of a well-lived life. The philosopher Seneca warned that he who never rests will never truly live, for his mind becomes like a fire that consumes itself. The warrior trains his body, then allows it to recover; the poet writes his verses, then steps into the sunlight to let the next line find him. The wise man understands that diversion is not escape—it is nourishment. To rest the mind is to honor it, to cleanse it of fatigue so that thought may once again serve truth rather than habit.

So, my child, take heed of Phaedrus’s wisdom. Do not measure your worth by your constant motion. When your thoughts grow heavy and your spirit feels dim, step away. Walk among trees, listen to the wind, speak with a friend, or simply breathe. In these moments of rest, your mind will find its balance again. Then, when you return to your work, your words, or your purpose, you will find that the light of understanding burns brighter than before.

For the mind is like a sacred flame—it cannot burn without air. To think well, one must first learn to pause. To pause, one must first learn to trust that wisdom lives not only in doing, but in being. And when you have learned this art—the art of diversion—you will find that your thoughts, like rivers restored by rain, will flow again with strength, grace, and glory.