We are all influenced by others, constantly, and more often than we like to admit. It doesn’t matter if we’re young or old or the time or place. When we’re with certain friends, we act and respond one way. When we’re in school or work or with parents, we present ourselves differently. As the philosopher Aristotle said, we’re political or social beings, even the shyest and most independent of us.
Yet, even surrounded by others we can feel alone, isolated inside our heads as if our joys and pains were what separated us from others, not united us. We might breathe in and out as if each breath secluded us from the world instead of weaving us together. Our minds can feel filled with static when we haven’t learned how to adjust the channels to a receptive station.
The French philosopher and author J. P. Sartre had a character in his play No Exit say that hell is other people. What if this hell was caused by an obstructed or inauthentic view of our self? What if we had a model to follow who could show us how to live and think in authentic ways that are now hidden by contemporary culture?
And sometimes, there is just silence inside us, which can be frightening⎼ or wonderful. Frightening as it reveals that so much is unknown and unknowable, not as set and secure as we might like it to be. And other times, silence is welcome, calming, freeing, or exciting and full of possibilities. What if there are models out there of how to hear silence as the natural sound of mind in tune with the world?
I was recently in a bookstore and found The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers, by Eric Weiner. It is about dead thinkers, mostly men, mostly white, unfortunately. But the book is fun to read and examines not only what the philosophers said but who they were and how they lived.
Socrates was a monumental figure in Western thought, and in my own life. Or maybe it’s just the myth of Socrates. Because he died 2421 years ago, and he wrote nothing. We know him only through what others said of him. It’s not the living person that we know but an image carved by history to serve our collective needs. Or maybe he has become what psychiatrist Carl Jung called an archetype or pattern of thought and behavior that can guide us to develop ourselves psychologically, morally, and spiritually.
Weiner depicts Socrates as a practitioner of what Buddhists call “crazy wisdom,” someone who casts aside social norms, risking everything to jolt others into new understandings. And he did risk everything. At the age of 71, he was imprisoned and forced to commit suicide by the authorities of his home city of Athens, supposedly for corrupting youth, but most likely because he provoked questions people found uncomfortable.
He was a master of conversation. In fact, conversation and dialogue was his way of self-education. By learning how to talk with others he learned how to converse with himself. Also, by listening to what was going on in himself he could better hear others.
Socratic questioning is dialectical in two senses. First, it focuses on shared and open discussion (dialektike is Greek for discussion). And secondly, it is constantly evolving and self-correcting. Once a theory (thesis) is verbalized or an assumption uncovered, a different or opposing theory (antithesis) is considered and discussed, the holes in those theories, contradictions, insights, and implications made clear, and a new synthesis is formed.
He used his method to develop a quiet in himself and to evoke a sense of wonder of the world. He talked about knowing nothing, although maybe he was being ironic about that. Certainly, he questioned not only what he thought he knew but what others thought they knew. Such humility about his views allowed an openness, a space in himself, a question to arise. Only if we realize there’s a question can we search for a truthful answer. If we feel the emptiness of space and time in ourselves, we can do better at letting the world in.
And today, in our truth-challenged human society, we need models of such intellectual honesty and openness.
Weiner also talks about the enlightenment philosopher, writer, and composer Rousseau. He grew up in the city of Geneva, yet it was the natural world he loved. Expressions we all use now can be traced to him, such as, “I need a good cry,” “use your imagination,” “it will be good for you,” and “I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense, it’s how I feel.” He is best known for arguing that people are inherently good but have been corrupted by a society that has taken an unfortunate turn. According to him, there is a social contract between each individual and the collective society aiming, or it should aim, for the general good.
But what stood out for me in Weiner’s book is his description of Rousseau’s love of walking. He lays out a short history of the central role walking played in our evolution as a species, from knuckle walking like chimps to an upright posture. Walking freed our hands to carry objects, cook, build homes, make weapons, invent, and eventually to write. By standing upright, we could see over grassy plains and with more perspective.
Today, we sometimes walk to forget the news, forget the pandemic and our worries, and let go of a world that is, as poet William Wordsworth put it, “too much with us.” But we also walk, as we did throughout history, so our feet could graze the earth. So, we could feel life bubbling forth beneath us from a time before there were words. We walk, as Weiner, and Rousseau said, to find our authentic selves.
Walking was for Rousseau what conversation was for Socrates; a practice that could deepen the quiet in ourselves and strengthen us so we could perceive truths to inform our voice and actions. We could walk to learn how to let go of what separates and hurts us, and to discover what unites and heals us.
Weiner describes for us pathways philosophers had discovered and left for us to use so we could better face and “speak truth” to others and ourselves. And to see like Thoreau, age like Simone de Beauvoir, and fight like Gandhi.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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