Moving On

I guess I have to fess up. I'm leaving behind Stoicism.

Now, don't take as me saying Stoicism doesn't work and everyone should jump ship. Far from it. It helped me in many ways, but truth told, it was hurting me, too, and it was only until last night did I see it.

Perhaps it's my nature, but I took things to the extreme. If things outside of me aren't in my control and don't matter, why did what was inside matter more? By all reasoning, the world shaped everything that I am, so I can't lay claim to who I am as only mine. So, none of what I felt or thought mattered, either. And let me tell you, when that happens, nothing works.

Again, Stoicism didn't fail me -- more like the other way around. I couldn't help but reason the above and so, instead of tranquility, I just felt like nothing mattered. A good Stoic would tell you apathy isn't what Stoicism is, but a good Stoic wouldn't let themselves fall into such a state, either.

So, I'm stepping back a bit, taking in a new view. Maybe what I'm becoming is a Skeptic. Or maybe just some armchair philosopher that likes thought experiments and heavy thinking as a hobby. But I came to realize I was no longer a thinker. I was just some dogmatic asshole who, instead of trying to see the world for what it was, was seeing the world as a Stoic trying to be right,

And that's no fun.

I don't want to drive away any Stoics, mind you. I'd be lying if I said I don't think most of what Stoicism says seems right (which I get more into in a different post). But for now, I just wanted to let everyone know, finally, what the real truth of the matter was.

Happiness, Contentment, and Why We Need Philosophies of Life

Contentment. This word, to many people, is pretty negative. Who just wants to be content with life, after all? Wouldn't we want a happy life?

Well, of course we do. But here's the thing: how does one define a happy life? For that matter, how do we define happy? What's so great about happiness and what, exactly, makes it so different from contentment?

Though I consider myself a philosopher, I admit that I have a tough time even starting a line of reasoning on this. But I never took the time to write it down, either. So, here's my attempt to figure out which is better, or perhaps even the same: happiness or contentment.

Let's take the perhaps too obvious of a route and look at what these words mean. I'm using the New Oxford American Dictionary, located on my Kindle.

First, happiness, which takes me to happy: feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.

Well, that seems to about settle it, wouldn't it? Happiness is a condition of contentment, not outside of it! Oh, but that seems a little too easy, doesn't it?

Contentment: a state of happiness and satisfaction.

Huh? So, both words use each other in their meaning. Oh, and so we don't get any detractors on the subject, I was able to look up happiness itself and got "the state of being happy."

Content: in a state of peaceful happiness.

Holy crow, are these two words so close that they define each other? Well, okay, they don't define each other. The dictionary is clear: happiness is a condition of contentment, in other words, you can't be content if you aren't happy.

We *could* stop here. But I know that some people wouldn't be happy (see what I did there?) if we said the dictionary was the only place to get a word's meaning. After all, what about *connotative* meaning, how words make people feel? I haven't asked many people but contentment is the same as settling, a kind of resignation. Happiness is embracing of life, enjoying it to the fullest. But let's think about this: what makes people happy? According to the documentary Happy, it isn't what most people think.

According to research presented in this film, half of our happiness comes from genetics! Well, okay, baseline happiness comes from genetics. So, yes, it's true. Some people are naturally happier than others. Anyway, baseline happiness is our default. Elation or depression, this is where our happiness levels will go over time and will naturally stay.

Now, 10% of our happiness is what most people are told will make them a lot happier: money, status, things of that nature. Think about that. We're often told that these things are what will make us the happiest, yet it only makes up 10% of our happiness. That means whatever has most of us in the dumps, odds are, it isn't this stuff. So where's the rest of our happiness come from?

An astounding 40% of our happiness comes from  "intentional actions". Simply put, what we do in life makes up nearly the other half of our happiness. And I think this is important. It is our intentional actions where the second half of the equation comes in: satisfaction with life.

Here's how I see it. A person ignoring doing anything other than making money unhappier than the person not making as much but loves what they do. It is by doing what we love that makes us not only pleased with life, but satisfied with life, that is, leads to a contented life. Our feelings of a contented life seem misplaced. When people say they want a happy life, what they  mean is they want a contented one. After all, how many people do you know who're happy but unsatisfied, wanting more? Yet can a person satisfied with life but be unhappy with it? Doubtful.

This might seem like sloppy science to some, perhaps even verboten. Given that humanity has been asking what makes us happy since the beginning, it seems odd to have an answer. Or maybe you'll be like me and think, Hell, do what you want to do to live a happy life? I already knew that! How can we get there?

Well, we can get there pretty easy. And that's what we need philosophies of life.

I'll grant you, many of the old schools of philosophy taught us not to focus on material things. It's that 40% everyone divides on. Cynics say we should pursue a life that avoids the material, perhaps become beggars. Epicureans would say that we should aim for pleasure, rooted in modesty and avoid pain. Stoics, well, you have to go get virtue into your life.

Now, sometimes you can get some exact details on how we should live our lives. Rufus, for example, said we should marry and have children. But for the most part, by following a philosophy of life, we can establish what kind of actions we should take in our lives. While there seems to be a lot of wiggle room in this, that's sort of the point. We have to think about what we do. While it could be easier to be told what to do, there is more happiness and satisfaction when we come to these conclusions ourselves.

Changing Things Up

So, I know I haven't posted here in awhile. Believe it or not, I was spending a lot of time trying to figure out how I was going to say what I was going to say instead of just being honest.

I'm going to be frank: Stoicism bored me. I couldn't read another word of it without completely giving up.

It felt weird. It wasn't that Stoicism wasn't working for me, but something felt missing. I guess that isn't the right word, either, but that's what I got right now.

Long story short, I felt too uptight about things in life. I was not Stoic about being Stoic and let's be frank, that isn't cool. Or helpful, really.

But what, oh what was missing?

First, my voice. As informative as I thought they were, I was talking like some stuffy professor type (to my ears, anyway). It was boring me, just didn't sound like me.

Second, reading all those old Stoic letters and texts, over and over, without nothing new kind of gets to you.

I'm going to post this for now, because at the rate I'm going, I'm never going to get it done. All I'm going to say is that I'm trying a new style. I still won't be posting here too often right now as I'm in the middle of other projects, but I hope you guys will enjoy the new way writing.

Notes on Letter I

Of all of Seneca's letters, I think Letter I ranks as one of my top ten to read, if not the first. It doesn't take long to be introduced to the frankness in his tone, which at times can sound harsh. But you can easily tell that he cares for Lucilius.

The main focus of Letter I is about saving time, or more to the point, about not wasting our time.

Seneca writes that our time escapes us in many ways, but the worst way to lose it is by carelessness. I couldn't agree more. Of course, agreeing doesn't mean doing, and I admit I'm very careless of my time. Indeed, I find myself wasting time, as he writes, "a goodly share...doing nothing." But even Seneca admits he wastes his time, too, though he says that he "free-handed, but careful."

One of the reasons I love this Letter is because of the lessons he gives. He advises Lucilius to do today's tasks and not depend so much on tomorrow. He tells us a man is not poor, if what little he has is enough for him. And, even better, I can draw out a couple of Stoic exercises out of this.

Stoic Exercises: Letter I

1) Senca writes, "What man can you show me who places any value on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is dying daily?" Ask yourself, is there anyone who does? Think about family, friends, teachers. Do any of them value time? It's okay to think of bad examples, but at some point you have to turn the question to yourself and ask if you really value your time as much as you should. Remember, you or I could be dead before the next sentence. Are we really using our time wisely?

2) Seneca writes that he is free-handed with his time, but careful. He goes on to say, however, that he can at least tell us why he is a "poor man" in this regard. A Stoic exercise here is to take time thinking about what we do and, at the very least, know what we spend our time on. It's the first step to taking some of it back.

Further Thoughts

There's a tactic I've read about in minimalism that asks people to look at what they buy and figure out how much time at work they spend to buy said item. It really isn't meant for things like food and bills (though some bills can be done away with), but more like trinkets and other things that we don't really need, but want. So, for example, we want a Starbucks coffee, which for a good one can cost $3. If you're making, say, $8 an hour, that means that coffee took 22.5 minutes of your time to earn. Now, seeing as work is, for most of us, time we must spend, we could ask ourselves this: if I acted like money was time, would I spend my money differently? Indeed, at the wage I'm making, it would take me a quarter of an hour (give or take a few minutes) to earn that coffee. Is it worth it?

Sure, the Letter itself doesn't deal with money, but if we are going to be losing time earning said money, shouldn't we treat our money a little better, too?

The Blog is Not Dead

I know I haven't posted in a bit, but I've been a bit lost in books lately. It's a weakness of mine, really.

I've got a lot of ideas I want to post, but not enough meat behind them. Hopefully, I'll have something this Friday, but we'll have to see.

Again, sorry to everyone.

On The Road Again...

So, tomorrow I'm leaving for my grandparents for a few days. Vacation is always refreshing, but it also brings that feeling of regret, that unwillingness to return to your life and haunts most people, I think. This disruption of our tranquility is never fun and I think it sort of takes away from our enjoyment of the vacation. Is there any Stoic advice that can help us stay with our vacation?

Do you suppose that you alone have had this? Are you surprised, as if it were a novelty, that after such long travel and so many changes of scene you have not been able to shake off the gloom and heaviness of your mind? You need a change of soul rather than a change of climate. -Letter 28, Seneca

The above passage opens Seneca's letter 28, a letter that addresses our very question. Indeed, these opening remarks show that discontent during, and even after, our travels is nothing new.

We often take vacations as a means of escape. In fact, we often see this in adverts for travel agents and airlines: escape into paradise. We're made to feel that taking a vacation is enough to alleviate our woes. The reality, though, is far from this.

"Why do you wonder that globe-trotting does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you? The reason which set you wandering is ever at your heels." -Socrates, quoted by Seneca

Often, we use travel as a means of leaving our lives. We often use the phrase "getting away" when we talk about it. "Oh, it'll be so nice to get away from it all." The problem is, as Socrates points out, is that your not really getting away from anything if you're coming along.

We tend to believe that our problems are external of ourselves. Our jobs sucks because it just does. Our lives are boring because nothing new is going on. But as the Stoics would point out, this really isn't the case. It isn't that our jobs suck, it's that we think our jobs suck. It isn't our lives are boring, we think it's boring. And that's the problem. Escaping work for a few days isn't going to change how you feel about work. Rather, it could make you feel even worse about it as you have to confront those feelings all over again. It's nice to put those feelings aside when you can, sure, but that's like moving clutter to another side of a room and thinking you've fix the issue.

...you hurt yourself by your very unrest; for you are shaking up a sick man. -Letter 28, Seneca

Perhaps even stranger, we often find we have more problems with our lives during our travels. Why? Because we start comparing the rest of life with the (supposed) relaxation and joy of our vacation. We start asking why our lives can't be more like this. We may begin hating our lives instead of just being discontented. To use vacation as a means of ending our troubles, it seems, is a very dangerous thing to our tranquility.

But how does any of this help us? It almost seems travel is the wrong course of action. This isn't the suggestion, mind you. Seneca says that a wise man, though he could live a peaceful life even in a crowd, would still choose someplace quieter if he could. It would follow, I assume, that if he could get a quieter place, even for a little bit, he would.

What we want, then, is the ablilty to travel without having our peace of mind distrubed. This is easier said than done, as most things are, but there are a few things we can do that'll ease our minds.

Before you even plan the vacation, you should ask why you want it. Thinking that it'll spice up your life or make your problems melt away is only going to set you up for a worrisome trip. Instead of vacation, you need a change of vocation. If your life is missing something, perhaps you should spend some time reflecting on your life rather than trying to get away from it.

Of course, sometimes, we just a quiet place to get to so we can do just that: think about our lives. We often call these sort of trips "retreats". I think it's a wonderful term. Most of us have a hard time thinking clearly in the muck and mire of our own lives, to "retreat", as it were, into our thoughts. It's hard to make changes when you're stareing right at the problem sometimes. Getting away for a bit so you can look at the larger scope of everything isn't a bad idea, though to rely on it without cultivating this ability in everyday is a mistake.

So, let's say you decide to go on vacation to just enjoy yourself. Your life isn't missing anything, or at least nothing that you feel you're trying to avoid, and work isn't the problem. Yet there's often something else the plagues us in our attempts for enjoyment: perfection.

On a workday, we often run into minor annoyances. Things like traffic, spilt coffee, ect. -- these things often cause minor irks, but most of the time we accept them as par for the course. But when we're trying to get away?

Traffic becomes a personal attack. Spilt coffee becomes something time-consuming, taking minutes away from our time off. We often put more work into not working. Quality control isn't normally a exciting job to begin with.

We have to remember that we're not escaping from reality. Though we'd like it to, the universe isn't going to go any easier on us just because we're going off, but on the flip side, it also isn't going any harder on us. Traffic isn't usually worse than normal just because we're going off to vacation, we just think so.

It's key to remember the basics of Stoicism here: most things simply aren't in our control. This is great, mind you, because in remembering that, we free up a lot of worry and anger. Weather, car problems, all that jazz? Sure, they may put a hamper on some of your plans, but by remembering you can't control it, you might be able to ease your mind and find a way around the problem (unless you're already a better Stoic than I, which in that case, you'd already knew something like this could happen and already planned around it). So, step away from prefection you wouldn't demand from the rest of your life and move on.

Seneca writes that all that's really set in stone is our pasts, but this is great because we can visit it anytime we want to. Here's the thing, though: we need to fill that past up with something we'd like to revisit in the first place. Now, we can spend our time fretting about controlling every aspect of our lives, even the supposed enjoyment of our relaxation, or we can, in a way, let go of that micro-management that doesn't exist anyway and control our thoughts so that at least, if we aren't physically enjoying whatever's going on, we can at least carry with us the tranquil mindset that we can look back on and remind ourselves that, yes, we have gotten past these minor problems before and we can do it again.

Or, you know, we can just remember that vacations are for relaxing and just do that instead.

Do we have a problem with tranquility?

When Seneca found out his son died, he replied, “I know I sired a mortal.”

For most people, this seems wrong. A father coldly accepting his son’s death just isn’t kosher. Heck, we might we think he was responsible for the death to begin with. But I wonder why we feel this way. Do we have a problem with tranquility? I’d like to imagine a conversation with Seneca and a modern person today.

Modern Person: Seneca, I’m so sorry to hear about your son’s passing.
Seneca: [not reacting] I know I sired a mortal.
MP: Wait, what? Aren’t you the least bit upset?
S: I held no expectation of him outliving me. Death can strike us at anytime, no matter our ages.
MP: So you don’t care your son is dead.
S: I enjoyed the time I had with him while he was here, to be sure. But tell me, will grief make my son come back?
MP: No.
S: So what then? Do you assume my lack of grief means I did not love my son?
MP: Well, most people would be a lot more upset.
S: So you have a problem with me being at peace? That my tranquility isn’t disturbed?
MP: Yeah. I mean, whose this calm after their child’s death?
S: Tell me, what’s the point of grief?
MP: To help people find closure! So they can find... [here, MP pauses, a sudden realization dawning] ...peace.
S: So, my being peaceful isn’t the problem. It’s because I didn’t come to it like everyone else did.

Do people, perhaps even Stoics like ourselves, judge people like Seneca? I believe we do. I used to think I could never be so calm with something disastrous to my son. But you know how it is. You don’t know how you’ll act until you’re actually in a high-stress situation.

Febrile seizure. Perhaps of everything you could teach a parent, this should top the list. Apparently, young children, should they have a fever that spikes quickly, can have seizures. This isn’t dangerous in most cases, though scary. Our son, Syrus, suffered one.

We didn’t know a thing about it. So when I get a call at work that my son’s eyes are rolling into the back of his head, his body shaking, and no one could tell if he was breathing or not, it struck that I saw him for the last time that morning.

Not a conductive thought for feelings of peace.

And yet, driving up to what I thought would be the worst, I felt strangely calm. So something was happening to my son. There was nothing I could do from where I was. They already called 911. Panic would have neither help him nor myself with whatever was going on. If he was gone, my tears wouldn’t have made him come back. It wouldn’t have made me feel better.

Strange as it seemed, I was tranquil. And I realized that tranquility didn’t mean I felt great about the situation. It only meant that I was acting with a clear head.

The peace, tranquility, and happiness of the Stoics is far different from most people’s ideas. Happiness to the Stoics is more of an undertone related to their tranquility. It’s an easiness to what’s happening around them, not joy at everything that happens. I don’t have to like what’s happening to be tranquil. I only have to act with reason.

When I got to see my son, he stayed close to me. Perhaps it was because he was scared and felt safest next to me, or maybe it was because, unlike everyone else, I kept my head level. Maybe that’s what he needed.

It’s still a little strange to admit the feelings and a lot harder to explain it.

At the hospital, I never left his side. He slept on my chest, mostly. I got a lot of questions, mostly if he was all right. But the second most commonly asked was if I was all right.

I was more afraid to admit I was fine than I should have been. Everyone told me they were there to talk to, but I didn’t need it. And to this day, I don’t.

Syrus is fine and hasn’t had one of those attacks since. But it turns out, my calm didn’t go unnoticed.

A few days after what happened, my wife confronted me about my state. She asked me if I was okay with everything, if I needed to talk, so on. When I told her everything was fine, she seemed a little upset about it. Our next fight revealed why.

I can’t remember how the fight started (really, can you ever remember how most fights start?), but somehow it turned to that day. The problem? I didn’t care, she said. Syrus could’ve died, and I didn’t look like I cared.

She had a point. I looked like I didn’t care. But looks mean little. I cared, just in a different way. It’s hard to describe, but the best way that I can think of is to say I was both present with my son and with the situation. Because I had already done the hypothetical, I didn’t spend my time worrying about what could happen. Instead, I was just mentally there.

With everyone asking about how I was and telling everyone I was fine, something stranger happened. I felt guilty. Like I should’ve been more showy of my feelings, although I wasn’t feeling the same as everyone else. Was there something wrong with me? Or was there something wrong with being Stoic?

I realize now that it isn’t so much a problem with Stoicism, but our society. We live in a world where outward expression of our feelings is not only a good thing, but passionate expression is often praised (or condemned, depending on what you’re passionate about). It would reason that any lack of it shows just how little you care, or perhaps how “manly” you’re trying to be (maybe “stiff upper lip” is better). Not showing emotion, it seems, is a sign of unhealthy emotions. And the attitude that is it so is infectious. To not show emotion might very well bring guilt, anger, or sorrow to a person. It’s almost funny: if you don’t feel bad one way, you’ll just feel bad another way.

I think this could very well be the biggest problem Stoicism faces today: not if our goals are reachable, but if we can be all right with doing so. It almost seems we need to be Stoic about being Stoic. Epictetus said that to improve, we be thought foolish. But nowadays, we could very well be seen as uncaring and impersonal, monstrous some might say. To weep with the world, or cry out in anger, or anything is considered a good sign. As we Stoics understand it, no emotion is “good” and so the expression of said emotions, or lack of it, can’t be said to be good or bad, either. And yet we seemly live in a world that would say otherwise, almost as if to say we’re bad people if we don’t express ourselves the way other people want us to.

The other problem is that, mostly, we’re not exactly great at achieving calm in dire situations. One problem we can face without showing the least bit of worry. Yet another, often lesser problem, will cause great anxiety and worry. This gives some people the idea of Stoics being hypocritical. “Well, so much for being Stoic.” This isn’t what it is in most cases, though. But people think, unless you constantly uphold your philosophy, you’re only pretending. The more commonplace a philosophy is, the more you can ignore or break the tenets with no one noticing. Break one from something obscure and watch people call you out on it. (The same, I’ve notice, happens to atheists and other minorities like Pagans. It’s almost like people think you’re living the life you lead just so you can go against the grain, not actually because you feel it’s right.)

So it would seem that the world really has a problem with our concept of tranquility, especially if you try to explain that it means the elimination of negative emotions and keeping only the positive ones. This gives people the impression that Stoics are happy or jovial all the time, even if someone they love dies. And while the Stoic should very well feel happy during positive times (such as when loved ones aren’t dying), it’s a little harder to explain what it being happy means in darker times. And even after having experiencing it myself, it’s still hard to say how it feels. It was like worrying without the worry. Perhaps that’s the true compassion that Seneca (and, oddly, Buddha) talk about. Maybe.

But I want to know what you guys think. Have you ever been in a dire situation and yet remained calm, even when it seemed you should have no reason to?