Weltanschauung

The Philosopher’s Stone

zenothestoic@protonmail.ch

Tag: Contentment

  • Eudaimonia

    Eudaimonia

    A description of the state of being and of mind achievable through meditation.

    There are so many other accounts of what meditation brings, so many of which I find faintly embarrassing and risible. Eudaimonia suits my purpose rather better.

    I do not believe it  necessary or valuable to become ensnared in the many conflicting interpretations of Eudaimonia put forth by the various schools of philosophy in ancient Greece. Instead I will give a brief outline of what the word eudaimonia means to me and later I will describe in a little more detail how the practice of meditation seems to promote such a state.

    I intend to avoid any references to religion or the supernatural. While I have a great passion for religion in the cultural sense, I do not believe religious belief to be essential to the achievement of Eudaimonia.  Religion is not a hindrance to the attainment of Eudaimonia, but it is not a prerequisite. Nor is belief in a soul  essential to the satisfactory accomplishment of the state, but such a belief is by no means an impediment.

    While “tranquility” or “peace of mind” aren’t direct translations of eudaimonia, they are profoundly implicit consequences and components of achieving it. This sense of inner peace stems from the harmonious integration of all aspects of one’s being and life.

    Eudaimonia cultivates a state of harmonious flourishing that arises from living a life guided by virtue and imbued with purpose.

    What has any of that got to do with meditation? Developing a focused and unified mind through meditation leads to deeper understanding and insight. Understanding and insight lead to change – in one’s outlook, way of thinking, way of acting. Sitting in silence and simply letting go, allowing one’s thoughts to pass, gradually settles the mind. Over time, the Noble Eightfold Path (the very embodiment of virtue) simply overcomes you. Slowly the “rightness” of so many very similar philosophies overwhelms you, and you do your best to try to put them into action.

    It isn’t about intelligence, or erudition. No learning is necessary, no study at learned schools or ancient universities will take you where you want to go.

    Only practice will do that. There is nothing to learn.

    And it is a journey, not an ending. You don’t suddenly become Socrates or the Buddha. Or develop the patience of a saint. You don’t transform into a holy man or a sage of infinite wisdom. But day by day a truth emerges. Slowly but surely you come to realise how absurd the world of men is and you try to behave in a preferable and less damaging way. Meditation seems to bring with it a growing desire to be better, to do less harm. To be kinder and less bad tempered. To be more understanding, more forgiving. Less self absorbed, more careful of others’ needs and feelings.

    It’s a long road, but with the gradual cessation of greed for more and better and an end to the attempt to dominate and control your fellow humans, a deep peace descends. You no longer need to do all that. Be the Prime Minister, become a zillionaire, write a Booker Prize winner, conquer the universe. Be a Big Swinging Dick.

    God knows it’s taken me long enough. To realise I don’t need to compete, be the best, devour knowledge, save mankind. Dispose of Trump and Putin and the countless other rogues and charlatans and beasts who have plagued our planet since the day of its birth.

    So what is it then, meditation? I can only tell you what it is for me and what it is not. It has become, in many, ways my entire life. Sitting in silence and watching my thoughts pass until they slowly subside and very often just disappear. For an hour or two a day until a calm descends and the world seems a better place.

    And slow, deliberate exercise. Often, frequently, as much as I can take. And again the mind settles and calms and empties.

    Doing things by half has never worked for me. I’m all or nothing, no dimmer switch. Some may be able to achieve liberation with ten minutes of meditation three times a day but that has not been my experience.

    What do I really want to say? Why am I writing? What am I getting at?

    It’s simple enough really: if you want to change your life for the better, or, heaven forbid, the world then these age old practices are as good a way as any to achieve that.

    Slow down, stop, remain quiet. Listen, go inwards.

  • The Contented Craftsman

    The Contented Craftsman

    Is there anything so wondrous as a man truly happy in his own skin and content with his life and his occupation?

    As Dr Beran Wolf wrote:

    “If you observe a really happy person, you will find them building a boat, writing a symphony, educating their son, growing double dahlias in their garden, or looking for dinosaur eggs in the Gobi desert. They will not be searching for happiness as if it were a collar button that has rolled under a radiator.”

    Today was one of those days. A special day full of special moments but none so captivating as meeting Chris Viner at his shop Soldiers of Rye.

    Magical things do happen and as we walked through Rye and saw Chris sitting in his shop window painting toy soldiers, I  knew one of those moments had arrived.

    My wife tends to get fed up when I accost people and talk to them but it was she who immediately said I must go in and talk to Chris. It just had to be done.

    Chris has a Father Christmas twinkle in his eye; kindliness, boyish enthusiasm and quiet contentment are evident from the off.

    I knew I had to chat. He is the toy maker in Chitty Bang Bang, he is the Sandman, he belongs in a fairy tale.

    Did you know that lead soldiers were hollow?  If you make them out of solid lead, they are too heavy and collapse at the ankles. These days toy soldiers are made of a mixture of metals and so can be made solid.  Chris carves the master copy out of clay and then creates a mould so that, once he has replicated Winston Churchill, he can satisfy the insatiable demand for effigies of our great leader and orator for years to come.

    Gordon of Khartoum is a popular purchase and the Japanese can’t get enough of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.

    What is there that is so satisfying and appealing about a man at his craft? How often have I wanted to be a binder of books in leather or to pursue the making of miniature furniture as I did as a child.

    Is it the manual element? It is certainly satisfying to create out of our own hands. The art, the creativity? Yes that too.

    Is there a hermeticism about it which appeals to me? I think that plays a large part in its attraction.

    There is something almost earthy, fundamental about the craft. It links us to the material out of which this rocky outcrop is made and to the produce which grows on it. Lead, wood, leather. Rich, aromatic, satisfying. Textured, physical, comforting.

    But Chris was also more than his craft. He had a wisdom and kindness which shone through.

    One of his sons had started in finance in the soulless City of London and hated it. Many a father would have been horrified that his son wanted out of a lucrative career, but Chris’ advice was that his son should leave immediately and follow his passion. This son’s real love was archaeology and so he went back to university and then went on to work as an archaeologist in Cambridge. The other also son found himself and his career misaligned and so Chris and his wife had him move back home to follow his love of painting. That son now has exhibitions all over the world.

    So you see, there are good things in the world and good people. Would that they continue to flourish and thrive.

  • To every thing there is a season.

    To every thing there is a season.

    There is a season for learning and a season to realize you know enough.

    I recently came across Jordan Peterson and swiftly realized that for me at least it was another day, another guru.

    I seem to have reached a period of deep contentment and I really have no need of any more grand theories of everything.  Nor do I wish to be told how to run my life.

    There is a whole long list of things I don’t need. And things I don’t need to know. There is much that I would like to know but in my already long life, I have come to realize that I will never know such things. Perhaps because they are unknowable.

    So contentment is walking along a sunlit beach on the scruffy coast of East Kent. Contentment is not giving a damn what you look like or what you possess. Listening to psalms or to the divine music of a 16th Century catholic priest.

    Contentment is doing simple things, in simple ways. Bumbling along growing “stuff” in a garden.

    Hearing the unearthly squeal of  buzzards overhead, watching a cormorant dive or a seal pop its head above the water.

    The honest truth is that deep down I have never much cared for anything except such simplicity, such quiet and profound moments of peace as are to be found minding one’s own business and trundling along life’s path.

    I was gently accused of nihilism in my last post but I am guilty of the desire not to destroy or to negate but simply to ignore.

    There is not much I am fussed about, that is all. I don’t care what the busy fools in parliament are saying and I certainly don’t care about anyone or anything one might find discussed in the Financial Times.

    Strange to relate I am more interested in catching glimpses of the ineffable than filling my mind with another’s thoughts or worrying about the state of the nation.

    To every thing there is a season.

  • Stephen Fry’s Hippopotamus

    Stephen Fry’s Hippopotamus

    Fry is a comic genius, although his comedy is always tinged with darkness. Erudite, witty and (dare I say it) profound, this upper middle class Englishman certainly appeals to others who share his background.  But I would imagine his wit is appreciated by a far wider audience.

    Few things in life bring me laughter these days but Fry’s work is a welcome exception. I watched the recent film of Hippopotamus last night and I laughed out loud.

    Netflix is so full of dark, satanic crime and this gentle, humorous work made me realize (once again) that we are what we consume.  If alcohol brings depression we have only ourselves to blame.  No-one forces its pernicious influence on us.  Likewise, if Wallander makes you gloomy, switch over to the Hippopotamus.

    Burnt out, louche poet and theater critic Ted Wallace visits friends at Swafford Hall, at the behest of his goddaughter, to verify the healing miracles apparently being performed there.

    Ted is a bit of a pig, never mid hippo. Over the hill, irascible and drunk he serves as a sober reminder of what we could so easily become.  He is hilariously rude to all and sundry.  The original grumpy old man on a steep descent to the hereafter.

    Swafford Hall and its inhabitants are all too familiar, it is all so quintessentially English.  Though I avoid such places like the plague these days, it took me back to a time long ago when I imagined such invitations were worth seeking.  Callow and foolish youth.

    It’s mostly fun all the way through.  Filthy vulgar fun. Well that’s Stephen Fry for you, god bless him. A joy to watch or read.

    And yet there are elements here which give one pause for thought. Pause for more serious reflection. Ted is a man who feels the cynicism so many of us come to share. Poetry is hard work, not joyful and creative inspiration. His foolish young nephew has yet to be disabused.

    Ted has lost his way, his early promise. He has writers’ block; no poem has come from his pen in decades and he feels it. Life has caught up with him and he drinks to come to terms with it. He can’t stand humbug and crass fools.  He stands up in the theater in front of the entire audience and tells the cast their play is crap.

    The miracle he is sent to investigate turns out to be spectacularly and hilariously un-supernatural.

    The book humorously parodies one of our greatest failings, or perhaps weaknesses. The desire for miracles.  The desire for magic, for superhuman powers. For gods and prophets, for cures and mysticism. For salvation, if only from  mundanity  and the sheer boredom of base reality.

    And yet, unlike with many of Fry’s works, there is redemption. The gut wrenching realization of the “cured” that they are not, is balanced by a beautiful poignancy.  The girl who sent Ted on his mission dies from her leukemia and yet her very demise seems to have saved our Ted.  Her death is sad; so is the denial of the miraculous.

    But Ted’s muse has returned. He takes up his pen and writes the first poem in decades.  Life is sad – if you let it be. But death is only death and those of us who are not there yet may as well rejoice in our creativity while we still have the chance.

    Perhaps the miracle is that we ever lived.