Practice like a Stoic: 15, Remind yourself of impermanence

Everything changes, it is in the nature of things

Image from flickr.com/photos/inannabintali, CC license.

[This series of posts is based on A Handbook for New Stoics—How to Thrive in a World out of Your Control, co-authored by yours truly and Greg Lopez. It is a collection of 52 exercises, which we propose reader try out one per week during a whole year, to actually live like a Stoic. In Europe/UK the book is published by Rider under the title Live Like A Stoic. Below is this week’s prompt and a brief explanation of the pertinent philosophical background. Check the book for details on how to practice the exercise, download the exercise forms from The Experiment’s website, and comment below on how things are going. Greg and/or I will try our best to help out! This week’s exercise is found at pp. 101-102 of the paperback edition.]

“When anything, from the meanest thing upwards, is attractive or serviceable or an object of affection, remember always to say to yourself, ‘What is its nature?’ If you are fond of a jug, say you are fond of a jug; then you will not be disturbed if it be broken. If you kiss your child or your wife, say to yourself that you are kissing a human being, for then if death strikes it you will not be disturbed.” (Epictetus, Enchiridion, 3)

This is arguably the toughest passage to absorb in all extant Stoic literature, and it sometimes turns people off Stoicism entirely. I am a parent, and when I read this passage in the Enchiridion I could not refrain from cringing inwardly. Does Epictetus really expect me to kiss my daughter while telling myself that she is a mortal and may not wake up tomorrow? Yet what Epictetus says makes sense, both in terms of the particular historical moment he was living and, more generally, for us today. Let us start with the historical context.

Epictetus lived in the Roman Empire during the late part of the first century ce and the early part of the second. Even though the reign of the so-called five good emperors was about to begin—representing the pinnacle of Roman civilization—life was not easy or devoid of tragedy for anyone from the lowest slave to the emperor himself (though, of course, all else being equal you’d be far better off in the second role than the first one). Just to give you two relevant statistics: Under the emperor Marcus Aurelius, who lived shortly after Epictetus, the empire was struck by a plague that killed five million people including Lucius Verus, who was co-emperor with Marcus for eight years.

Marcus himself had thirteen children, only four of whom survived to adulthood—despite the fact that he was the most powerful man in the Western world, and that his personal physician was Galen, the most famous doctor of Roman antiquity. When Epictetus talks about the possibility of kissing your wife and child goodnight and not seeing them the day after, he is not speaking hypothetically.

Right, you might say, but we don’t live in ancient Rome. We have good healthcare (if we can afford it), child mortality is way down, and life expectancy way up. This is all true, but it is also true that catastrophe may strike at any moment. Part of Stoic training is to prepare for catastrophes. Hopefully you will not have to experience the loss of a child (if you have any), but you will certainly experience the loss of your parents, and likely of a good number of friends, eventually. How are you going to cope? These losses amount to a tough test of your character.

While Epictetus speaks of not being “disturbed” by these seemingly catastrophic events, the more relatable Seneca says it is natural and unavoidable for human beings to suffer and experience grief. In a letter to his friend Lucilius about consoling the bereaved, he writes: “Am I advising you to be hard-hearted, desiring you to keep your countenance unmoved at the very funeral ceremony, and not allowing your soul even to feel the pinch of pain? By no means. That would mean lack of feeling rather than virtue.”

Think for a minute about how we react when someone else experiences a loss, even someone we care about or love, as you did in Week 4. As the Stoics advise, we try to console them by putting things in perspective. We remind others that life isn’t always fair, that loss is natural, that they should think about the happy times they shared with the person who died, and that they should focus on the future—on the many things they can still do and the people still here to care for. This is sound advice, and it works. The losses we suffer don’t become trivial or unimportant, and we don’t become uncaring or unfeeling. Putting things in perspective makes us more attentive to what we have and often don’t appreciate, and more resilient in the face of tragedy.

Epictetus counsels his students to work their way up to the big stuff by paying attention to the little things first. Suppose your favorite mug breaks. Instead of getting angry or upset, pause, look at it, and tell yourself: Well, it was a mug, I knew it could be broken, but I enjoyed many wonderful cups of coffee thanks to it! Then, slowly, tackle more difficult things. Perhaps your car has been damaged in an accident. That’s unfortunate, but cars do get into accidents, it is in the nature of cars; be grateful for the many nice rides you had while the car was working. Or maybe some of your savings evaporated because of the latest downturn of the market. Well, that is what markets do, after all, and you did take advantage of the good moments to enjoy your vacations or buy a new house. Again, the point is not to become callous or indifferent in the modern sense of the word, but to become indifferent in the Stoic sense—you still have your virtue and your character, and they allow you to handle anything that the universe throws your way. The word to describe this attitude is equanimity. Equanimity gives you serenity in the face of both the good times (when you may otherwise get carried away) and the bad ones. It’s how Stoics strive to navigate the entirety of their lives.