Philosophy as a Way of Life—II—Spiritual exercises

How do you practice philosophy? Here’s a handy-dandy guide!

Image from jesuits.org.

[Check out part I of this series.]

A crucial part of my practice as a Stoic-Skeptic is a set of spiritual exercises, without which I would simply be doing armchair philosophy. The notion of a “spiritual” exercise may be a bit off putting, as it is associated with Christianity or with fuzzy sounding new age mysticism. But Pierre Hadot, in his Philosophy as a Way of Life, argues that there really isn’t any better term to capture what is meant, so we’ll stick with that.

The term comes from Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, who wrote Exercitia Spiritualia in 1548. The approach, however, much predates not just Loyola, but Christianity itself. Exercises of this kind contribute to what Hadot’s refers to as “the therapeutic of the passions,” which is a crucial component of Greco-Roman philosophical training. According to the ancients, the passions—meaning unhealthy emotions, like anger and fear, but also lust—are the main source of our suffering. Hadot refers to them as “unregu­lated desires and exaggerated fears.” They get in the way of a serene life founded on reason, which is why we need to train ourselves to handle them appropriately.

The Greek word for the resulting practices is askesis, from which the English word asceticism comes, though the Greek meaning was broader than the modern one, applying to a general approach to train oneself to live a more meaningful life. As Hadot puts it:

“[Philosophy] raises the individual from an inauthentic condition of life, darkened by unconsciousness and harassed by worry, to an authentic state of life, in which he attains self-consciousness, an exact vision of the world, inner peace, and freedom.” (p. 83)

As much as we talk with some confidence about ancient spiritual exercises (the pertinent literature in modern Stoicism is now considerable!) we don’t really have any systematic treatise from antiquity on such exercises. The closest we come are two lists by the Platonist Philo of Alexandria (20 BCE-50 CE). The lists are found in Who is the Heir of Divine Things (section 253) and in Allegorical Interpretations (section 3.18). The items are partially overlapping, and Hadot conveniently groups them into three categories:

Meditations: comprising philosophical journaling (including but not limited to the premeditatio malorum, or premeditation on adversity); attention and the fundamental rule of life; gratitude exercises.

Active exercises: self—mastery; therapy of the passions; accomplishment of duties.

Intellectual exercises: listening, reading, and inquiring.

Let’s take a closer look. Philosophical journaling consists of writing down, on a daily basis, if possible, our analyses of our own ethically salient actions. The objective is to learn from our mistakes as well as from what we have done well, and the trick is to use objective, not emotional language. Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, written in the second person in order to help putting some emotional distance between the agent and his own actions, are a splendid example.

The fundamental rule of life comes from Epictetus, and it is often unfortunately referred to as the dichotomy of control. (Unfortunately because the word “control” is highly misleading in this context.) The idea is that some things are up to us, meaning that we are ultimately responsible for them, and some are not. And that a good life is the result of focusing on the first group, where our agency is maximized, while developing an attitude of acceptance and equanimity toward the second group. If my flight is cancelled, that is not up to me. What is up to me is to act reasonably while looking for a plan B (e.g., don’t yell at the customer agent, who is not at fault either!), and then spending whatever idle time I’ll have to endure doing something good, like reading a book.

Book I of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations is a model of exercises in gratitude. We all have something and someone to be thankful for in life, and it is therapeutic—also according to modern science—from time to time to pause and explicitly acknowledge it to ourselves.

Self-mastery has to do with any practice of the cardinal virtue of temperance, which Socrates thought was essential to the virtuous life. For instance, pay attention to what and how much you eat and drink, every day, as suggested by the Stoic teacher Musonius Rufus in his Lectures.

To engage in a therapy of the passions means to remind ourselves that “externals,” like health, wealth, reputation, and so forth, are of secondary importance in life, compared to our character and judgment. As modern cognitive behavioral therapists would say, let us not “catastrophize” every setback and instead focus on what, if anything, we can do about it. Did you just lose your job? Not the end of the world, give yourself a break and then start looking for another one.

Accomplishment of duties is a major exercise which reminds us that we have duties toward other human beings, beginning of course with our family and friends, but extending to all of humanity. Even a simply phone call or text message to check in with someone will be appreciated. So do it.

Listening means to engage, whenever possible, in Socratic conversations with other people. These days, you may be tempted to carry out this exercise using social media. Don’t. Instead, reconnect with people in person. It’s much more human.

Reading specifically refers to primary texts by ancient authors like Plato, Cicero, Seneca, Epictetus, Plutarch, and so forth. You don’t need to do a lot of this, just a few paragraphs a day will do. The goal is to remind yourself why Greco-Roman philosophy is still so relevant to us denizens of the 21st century. Think of it as the philosophical equivalent of a religious person reading Scriptures.

Inquiring can be done in a variety of ways, but for most of us it is a second exercise in reading, this time aimed at modern literature in science and philosophy. The goal is to keep learning about the world and how it works, which in turn will give us a better idea of our place in that world.

Young Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Company of Jesus, Wikimedia

Although Hadot himself does not do so, I link the three groups with the three disciplines of Epictetus, respectively: desire and aversion; action; and assent. After all, meditations are meant to help us re-orient our values and priorities (desires and aversions); active exercises are about how to act in the world; and listening, reading, and inquiring have to do with refining our knowledge of the world and of our abilities to reason about it, thus leading to better judgments (assent) on our part.

Overall, these exercises, especially the meditative ones, are attempts at taking control of our inner discourse, so that we are more consciously aware of our choices and can guide ourselves to act accordingly. They are also meant to create and reinforce habits, because that is how we can mindfully become more virtuous, as both Plato and Aristotle have argued.

There are a number of specific books from the Greco-Roman literature that expand on these practices, including but not limited to: Seneca’s On Anger, On Benefits, On Leisure, and On Peace of Mind; as well as Plutarch’s On Brotherly Love, On Envy and Hatred, On False Shame, On Garrulity, On the Love of Children, On the Love of Wealth, On Peace of Mind, and On Restraining Anger.

While nowadays we associate spiritual exercises with Stoicism, the Epicureans adopted the same idea. As the founder of the school put it: “We must concern ourselves with the healing of our own lives.” (Epicurus, Gnomologium Vaticanum, §64. See also Letter to Menoecus, §122) The Epicureans, like the Stoics, recommended frequent meditation, for instance on their famous four-fold cure, the Tetrapharmakos:

“God presents no fears, death no worries. And while good is readily attainable, evil is readily endurable.” (Philodemus, Adversus sophistas, 4.10-14)

Hadot, however, contrasts the way Stoics and Epicureans carried out the spiritual exercise of trying to live in the current moment. For the Stoics it meant constant attention to the moral dimension of everything we do; for the Epicureans it translated into an invitation to relaxation to achieve serenity, as in the famous “Carpe diem” by Horace: “Life ebbs as I speak / so seize each day, and grant the next no credit.” (Odes, 1.11.7)

I mentioned above the famous Socratic dialogue. It was meant as a form of communal spiritual exercise, as Socrates himself explains:

“I did not care for the things that most people care about—making money, having a comfortable home, high military or civil rank, and all the other activities, political appointments, secret societies, party organizations, which go on in our city. … I set myself to do you—each one of you, individually and in private—what I hold to be the greatest possible service. I tried to persuade each one of you to concern himself less with what he has than with what he is, so as to render himself as excellent and as rational as possible.” (Plato, Apology, 36b4-c6)

Similarly, the famous Delphic injunction, know thyself, which Socrates takes too heart and attempt to teach to his friends, means to know that we are not sages, and yet that we strive to become wise, which is possible through the constant and honest examination of our conscience.

Meditation can be understood as another form of “dialogue,” this time with oneself. It was widely practiced by Socrates’ disciples. Hadot tells us that when Antisthenes was asked what profit he had derived from philosophy, his response was: “The ability to converse with myself.” (Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers, 6.6)

The point of the sort of practices we are talking about was not to set down doctrines to memorize and blindly follow, but rather to nudge the student toward developing a mental attitude of self- and cross-examination. This is philosophy, after all, not religion! Accordingly, notice the use of dialectic, that is, the art of persuasion. We need to convince ourselves—first and foremost—of what we are doing, so that we do it willingly and effectively. Talking to others, however, does not have the direct aim of convincing them that we are right, but rather of stimulating in them the same sort of self-reflection in which we willingly engage. The caveat lies in Hadot’s remarks:

“Dialogue is only possible if the interlocutor has a real desire to dialogue: that is, if he truly wants to discover the truth, desires the Good from the depths of his soul, and agrees to submit to the rational demands of the Logos.” (p. 93)

There is another, major goal behind spiritual exercises. According to the Greco-Romans, philosophy prepares us for what Seneca called the ultimate test of character: our own death. In this respect, Hadot reminds us of what Socrates says to one of his friends just before taking the hemlock:

“It is a fact, Simmias, that those who go about philosophizing correctly are in training for death, and that to them of all men death is least alarming.” (Plato, Phaedo, 67e)

We find similar sentiments in Seneca, Epicurus, and all the way to Montaigne and beyond. One way to engage in this training is summarized by Horace:

“Believe that each day that has dawned will be your last; then you will receive each unexpected hour with gratitude.” (Letter 1.4.13-14)

Three interrelated key concepts  are pertinent to training for death: (i) Adopting of a universal view of things; (ii) Reflecting on the cosmic insignificance of human affairs; (ii) Regarding death as natural and unproblematic.

Physics, in the broad sense of science, then becomes a contemplative activity, good for the soul because it helps us to put things in perspective. This can take the form of an imaginative exercise of flying over the world, looking at it from a distance, the famous “view from above” that we repeatedly find in Marcus Aurelius (e.g., Meditations XII.24). Hadot says:

“[There] is a parallelism between physical and spiritual exercises: just as, by dint of repeated physical exercises, athletes give new form and strength to their bodies, so the philosopher develops his strength of soul, modifies his inner climate, transforms his vision of the world, and, finally, his entire being.” (p. 102)

It is no coincidence that philosophy was taught in the gymnasion, the same place were people carried out physical exercises. Imagine if we could conceive a modern gym in the same way: mens sana in corpore sano indeed! (If you happen to have the capital to give the idea a try, drop me a note…)

Given all the above, it is fair to say that the ultimate goal of spiritual exercises is a search for authenticity, if you will, with the goal to liberate our true self. This being our moral self, open to a universal perspective, participating in universal nature. And the way to achieve this is to practice philosophy, the love of wisdom. Constantly, every day.

Spiritual exercises of the kind we have been discussing imply the rejection of common values, such as the importance of wealth, reputation, and pleasures, in favor of virtue, contemplation, and a minimalist life style. No wonder philosophers have always been considered to be on this side of weird! Hadot goes so far as to state:

“It is impossible to understand the philosophical theories of antiquity without taking into account this concrete perspective, since this is what gives them their true meaning.” (p. 104)

How is it, then, that much modern philosophy has become a (more or less sterile) exercise in hair-splitting, almost entirely devoid of practical utility? Hadot blames the Christians. From its beginnings, Christianity presented itself as a philosophy, steeped as it soon came to be into Greco-Roman culture. However, after Christianity had taken over the Roman Empire, and after antiquity had given way to the Middle Ages, the advent of Scholasticism brought about a distinction between theology and philosophy.

Philosophy was reduced to the status of “handmaid” to theology, providing the latter with conceptual, and therefore purely theoretical material. According to Hadot, when philosophy regained independence at the dawn of the modern age, it did not shake this heavily theoretical bent, not until the well known exceptions provided by Nietzsche and the existentialists, among others. And, I would add, by modern Stoics. Epictetus was openly scornful of philosophy conceived as a purely theoretical exercise:

“‘Come and listen to me read my commentaries.  … I will explain Chrysippus to you like no one else can, and I’ll provide a complete analysis of his entire text. … If necessary, I can even add the views of Antipater and Archedemos.’ … So it’s for this, is it, that young men are to leave their fatherlands and their own parents: to come and listen to you explain words? Trifling little words?” (Discourses, III.21.7-8)

Let us then go back to philosophy as a way of life, a search for our authentic selves, and a preparation for our own inevitable demise. Philosophy is love of wisdom, not love of trifling words.

[Next in this series: Socrates and the finest state of the human soul.]