Stoic Meditation

Stoic Meditation What I have to say today has been made possible by the French philosopher and historian of philosophy, Pierre Hadot. Raised within the Catholic Church, but subject to a transformative mystical experience in his youth, Hadot after 1970 wrote a series of works which have profoundly challenged modern ways of understanding Western thought. Focussing principally on the Neoplatonic and Stoic philosophers, Hadot came to argue that we are mistaken to suppose that ancient philosophy conceived itself as being only in the business of constructing conceptual systems, detached from the concerns of human life. In the West as in the East, Hadot shows, the ancient philosophers were united around the conception of philosophy as a certain ‘life choice’, as we might say today. This choice was rooted in a small number of shared but fundamental observations about human life. Let’s say today that there are four: That human beings are often unhappy, and unhappy avoidably, on the basis of false beliefs and needless fears and desires; That philosophy, by challenging and changing our mistaken beliefs about the world and ourselves, can reshape how people live, experience, feel and desire; That the result of embracing a philosophy should accordingly be a more stable, lasting, and truer form of happiness than those which people ordinarily pursue; That this ‘philosophising’ nevertheless involved hard work: and in particular, what Hadot calls “spiritual exercises”. Of particular interest for us today are exercises in the transformation of attention and of meditation. But we can also find in the ancient texts recommendations concerning the examination of conscience, practices of dialogue, and the mastery of the passions. Hadot’s work has already had a remarkable ‘impact’ outside of academe, in today’s proliferation of global, web-based, self-organising schools of Stoicism, like Modern Stoicism, Daily Stoic, How to Be a Stoic, and many more. A recent timeline of Stoic philosophers on the Modern Stoicism feed pictured Hadot himself, in fact, as the first true Stoic since the 17th century. I don’t think that is quite right. But Hadot was certainly animated by the idea that ancient Western, as well as Eastern contemplative thought, could be revived in order to assist modern men and women. “A truly new and truly original book would be one which made people love old truths,” Hadot once quoted another author. Then he added in his own voice: It is my hope that I have been ‘truly new and truly original’ in this sense, since my goal has indeed been to make people love a few old truths ... there are some truths whose meaning will never be exhausted by the generations of man. It is not that they are difficult; on the contrary, they are often extremely simple. Often, they even appear to be banal. Yet for their meaning to be understood, these truths must be lived, and constantly re-experienced. Each generation must take up, from scratch, the task of learning to read and to re-read these ‘old truths’. So let me speak in Hadot’s wake here a few words now, first on Stoicism, and, second, on the conception of “meditation” as it appears in this ancient Western tradition which today is experiencing a kind of second renaissance. I. The Stoic school of philosophy survived at least five-hundred years, from its founder Zeno (active around 305 BCE and afterwards) to the philosopher-emperor Marcus Aurelius (died 180 CE). From the first century CE to the time of Marcus, it was the ascendant philosophy amongst the Roman elites, although its leading spokespersons also include the freed slave, Epictetus. Revealingly, alongside “Epicurean”, the term “Stoic” is the only name for any of the ancient schools that has survived in everyday word-use. This fact is revealing, because when we call someone “Stoic”, we don’t mean that he has mastered the ancient sources, and written a nice thesis or several articles in leading journals. We mean someone who has held up in adversity well, with dignity and patience. With that said, the popular idea of Stoicism as just suffering nobly, “with a stiff upper lip”, is almost as inaccurate as when The Age calls its weekend pages on fine cuisine: “Epicure”. It is true that various Stoic sages like Cato the Younger did “bear and forebear” great adversity. But the key idea of the philosophy is that what looks to us like hardship is simply not experienced by the true Stoic in that way. Because of his philosophy, the sage simply does not need a stiff upper lip anymore, to accept what others find trying. Sages laugh, although they do not cry. Stoicism is instead “an ancient art of happiness” which is supposed to enable people to be happy: alike in times of adversity and of prosperity—all the turns of fortune’s wheel. The goal of philosophy is “a good flow of life”, the founder Zeno wrote, anticipating a term which is today central to positive psychology. We should learn to live in accordance with nature, in another definition. This will involve not wanting the world (impossibly) to be every which way that we wish, but learning to wish that things be as they are. We are enjoined in particular to relearn to focus our attention upon that very small part of the universe that is within our own control—our thoughts, actions, and wishes; and to stop needlessly burdening ourselves with concerns about everything that is beyond our control. As Marcus Aurelius reflects: If you work at that which is before you, following right reason seriously, vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract you, but keeping the divine part [of your psyche] pure as if you should be bound to give it back immediately [to nature or the gods]; if you hold to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with the present activity according to nature… you will live happily. And there is no man who is able to prevent this. (IV.12) We see than how for the Stoics, their joyful wisdom is not simply a body of systematic knowledge, transmittable in writing, learnable like today we can learn (say) computer code. It is what we might call a transformed psychological state, based upon the training of one’s thoughts, impulses and desires. And with this training, we come to where meditation (the Greek meletaô) plays a key role. I want, indeed, to spend the second half of my talk on Marcus Aurelius’ book, The Meditations. The book did not always have this title. Indeed, for a long time, it had no title at all. Marcus seems to have wanted it never to be published. When he died, it was in fact lost for a time amongst the emperor’s mortal remains. What then was the book, or is it? The Meditations is one of the few extant examples of what seems to have been a widespread ancient practice, certainly amongst the philosophers: one which treated writing and reading as a kind of spiritual, indeed meditative activity. Life can be difficult. Even emperors—perhaps especially people in public life—face challenges, difficulties, problems, other human beings, distractions, temptations. It can then be hard, in the heat of so many moments, to remember one’s deepest convictions, those to which you have assented, and want to put into action—except that just now different demands have presented themselves, blotting out the bigger picture. To write down, and then write down again, every day or as often as possible, such deeply-held principles and precepts, or striking sentences or maxims you have heard from others—this is the kind of writing that Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations represents. Here is Hadot again: “Could we not say that if this book is still so attractive to us, it is because when we read it we get the impression of encountering not the Stoic system, although Marcus constantly refers to it, but a man of good will, who does not hesitate to criticise and to examine himself, who constantly takes up again the task of exhorting and persuading himself, and of finding the words which will help him to live, and to live well? … the personal effort appears … in the repetitions, the multiple variations developed around the same theme and the stylistic effort as well, which always seeks for a striking, effective formula.” “How can our principles become dead, unless the impressions [thoughts] which correspond to them are extinguished?”, he asks himself in Meditations, book IV: But it is in your power continuously to fan these thoughts into a flame. I can have that opinion about anything, which I ought to have. If I can, why am I disturbed? (VII.2) To meditate in the Stoic tradition, then, involves ruminating over one’s deepest convictions, over and over. It is very closely tied to a work of remembrance. Throughout the Meditations, we find Marcus enjoining himself in the imperative, in the second person, to “remember”, “not to forget”, and “pay attention”. There are many indications, also, that for Marcus the work of meditation needs to be renewed, even “hourly”, if he is to stay true to his philosophy. Book II opens with a prescription of a daily practice, that of the ‘premeditation of evils’, to be undertaken first thing in the morning: Begin the morning by saying to yourself, I shall meet with the busy-body, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. The meditation then continues by recalling the reasons that will allow him to deal with such apparent ills, or rather to see that, in the Stoic perspective, they are not real evils at all: All these things happen to [these people] by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. But … I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him. For we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. At the core of Stoic meditation then is always a return—and return again—to certain fundamental, simple precepts: that what is beyond your control cannot distress you, unless you assent to let it; that if others insult you, they are either right, and you should repent and change, or wrong, in which case they should be quietly disregarded; and above all, that you have been afforded, as a human being, everything that is needed to live tranquilly and happily, if only you can put aside what is inessential. As Marcus says again: The things which are external to my mind have no relation at all to my mind. Let this be the state of your affects, and you will stand upright. To recover your life is in your power. Look at things again as you used once to look at them; for in this consists the recovery of your life. (VII.2) As for the things beyond our control, we are enjoined to cultivate a caution, reserve, or what we might call a “benevolent indifference” toward them. The flipside of the Stoic turn inwards, that is, is a constant practice of letting go, indeed a ‘going with the flow’ concerning what does not depend upon us. External things are “indifferent” for us, insofar as they depend upon others—their thoughts, words and actions, or upon nature or the gods—physical events. This is in no way to deny their intrinsic value, or the role each plays in the wider natural order. Indeed, there is a fundamental attitude of world-acceptance here, which the popular misrepresentation of Stoicism completely misses. Things beyond our control are as they are—we should try to change what we can, but always recognising our own limits. And we must learn also to no longer “differentiate” between everything else, by referring them back to our own egoistic passions and concerns. Indeed, once we have ceased to refer everything that happens to ourselves, new forms of more discerning attention and contemplative appreciation of the sheer wonder of the world open up. So, in Marcus there are moving calls to forms of transformed, meditative attention, able anew to savour the beauty and order in even the smallest things: We ought to observe also that even the [most incidental] things … contain something pleasing and attractive. For instance, when bread is baked some parts are split at the surface, … and have a certain fashion contrary to the purpose of the baker's art, yet are beautiful in a manner… And again, figs, when they are quite ripe, gape open … and the ears of corn bending down, and the lion’s eyebrows, and the foam which flows from the mouth of wild boars, and many other things—though they are far from being beautiful, yet if a man should examine them carefully … they please the mind; so that if a man should have a feeling and deeper insight with respect to the things which are produced in the universe, there is hardly one of those things … which will not seem to him to be in a manner disposed so as to give pleasure … Of course, there are many more dimensions to the phenomena of Stoic meditation and practice than I have been able to sketch here. Let me close by stressing again that the goal here, as in Buddhism in particular, is a form of lasting inner serenity, harmony or tranquillity. The more deeply you can internalise the Stoic principles, through meditative and related practices—this being the rub—the better you will be able to navigate life in the “good flow’’. Stoicism is not then in any way a philosophy of withdrawal or life-denial. But Stoic meditation is a practice of periodic inner withdrawal and reorientation, designed to help us not to lose our way amidst a maze of attachments we do not need, but which solicit us from a thousand different sources. I’ll close with Marcus again: Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores, and mountains; and you too art wont to desire such things very much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of person, for it is in your own power whenever you shall choose to retire into yourself. For nowhere, either with more quiet or more freedom from trouble, does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is immediately in perfect tranquillity ... This then remains: Remember to retire into this little territory of your own, and, above all, do not distract or strain yourself, but be free, and look at things as a man, as a human being, as a citizen, as a mortal. (IV. 3)