Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts

Wednesday, 7 December 2016

Three Final Excerpts from Epictetus

I've been posting some excerpts from Epictetus who was a Stoic philosopher from two thousand years ago and quite interesting to compare with Buddhist philosophy, along with commentary of my reactions to try to encourage discussion.

There were three more excerpts which stood-out for me which I'd like to share, so here they are: 
As if in a PlayPeople-Pleasing No Original Evil.


As if in a Play

Enchiridion 17: Remember that thou art an actor in a play of such a kind as the author may choose; if short, of a short one; if long, of a long one… see that you act the part naturally… For this is your duty, to act well the part that is given to you; but to select the part belongs to another.

Commentary: This appears at first to be the fatalistic stagnation of the very will which the Stoics would have us strengthen. "to select the part belongs to another" — indeed, it belongs to your self! The instruction then is rather to the ego, that it should have no importance attached to any role, but also that it should play the role as the self, as witness, would have it played should it be called upon to advise another. Emotions then, Epictetus advises, "may be displayed externally, but the mind remains still and undisturbed". But if an emotion is displayed well, it is by necessity felt, and if felt, the mind is necessarily disturbed in the expected manner… if you wish to avoid such disturbance, then you must indeed have selected your part to begin with, the part of the Stoic philosopher! Who today would make such a choice? Is it truthful?


People-Pleasing

Enchiridion 23: If it should ever happen to you to be turned to externals in order to please some person, you must know that you have lost your purpose in life. Be satisfied then in everything with being a philosopher.

Commentary: To please is to enjoy favourable conditions and to have another enjoy favourable conditions also. This should not be spurned, but the Stoic is concerned with a danger that we become enslaved by our need to please or be pleased, believing we must.


No Original Evil

Enchiridion 27: As a mark is not set up for the purpose of missing the aim, so neither does evil by nature exist in the world.

Commentary: This is the lesson of the meaning of sin as error. In Christian philosophy, it was rephrased as follows, though its impact was not properly appreciated: "Just as man does not set up a mark, or form an intention, for the purpose of missing the mark, so too nothing that God intended could be by purpose or design evil by nature."

Training the Will, The Choice & The Banquet (Epictetus)

Enchiridion 10: On the occasion of every eventuality, wish not that things should be different but reflect that even if they should impede the body they do not impede your self, that is your will, and remember to inquire what power you have for turning it to use. If you see a handsome man or pretty woman, you will find that the power to resist is temperance, if pain is presented to you, you will find that it is endurance, if abusive words, you will find that it is patience. And if you have been thus formed to this habit, then you will not be carried away by appearances.

Commentary: The ultimate goal of the Stoics is tranquillity of the mind without which life is considered not worth living, and the ultimate means towards this goal is the discipline of the will, that we may overcome the disturbance caused by desire and aversion.


Enchiridion 13: It is not easy to both keep your will in good condition and external things in good condition. But if a man is careful about the one, it is an absolute necessity he will neglect the other.

Commentary: Epictetus, in attempting to convince us of the importance of perfecting the will, presents us with a choice. We can't have it all! But when must we truly make a choice? The choice is a fallacy of our mythology that tells us how Achilles could either have greatness or length of life (and chose the former), a princess either beauty or wisdom, a husband either wealth or wit. In real life, regardless of our priorities, one thing almost always does not preclude another and many are blessed with neither. (When must we make "the choice"? Perhaps only for worldly things, not for things pertaining to our character.) So rather: keep your will in good condition and you will naturally keep your external world in good condition also; as within, so without. Or am I too optimistic?



Enchiridion 15: Remember in life to behave as if at a banquet. If something is carried to you, then stretch out your hand and take of it with decency. Suppose that it passes by you. Do not detain it. Suppose that it has not yet come to you. Do not send your desire forward to it, but wait till it is opposite you. Do so with respect to wife, children, office, wealth, and you will be a worthy participant at the banquet of the gods. But if you take none of these things which are set before you, then you will moreover share with them in power. For, by acting thus, Diogenes and Heraclitus and those like them were deservedly called divine.

Commentary: The metaphor is a beautiful one, yet such behaviour could be described pejoratively as the limited equanimity of the cow if it denies a desire as well as (perhaps because of) the inability for the moment to attain it. But the objects of desire for which Epictetus advocates minimal movement are, like morsels at a banquet, not our own creations but that which life serves us. That we should not be attached to life's fleeting treasures seems obvious, yet would we not do well to be grateful for and enjoy them with a greater alacrity whilst we may, as well as perceive their deeper spiritual and creative influence upon us? If, for example, we learnt to create such delicacies ourselves, we might better serve others, for the delicacy is but a sign of the art of the one who created it. Desire is not merely an impulse, but also the outer form of love. Whilst it would be surely wise to minimise the movements of our material desire, would it not be wiser still to recognise our desire, delve into its significance, and maximise our will's potential to act for our love?

Originally published on Buddhist Travellers in 2011.

Self-Power (Epictetus)

Over the next week, I'd like to share some excerpts from Epictetus that lend insight into the philosophy of the Stoics. It would be interesting to discuss the merits and the misgivings we might have with this philosophy, and if you like how it agrees or differs with our understanding of Buddhism. I've tried to start the discussion off by providing my own short comments and hope others will join in…

Enchiridion 1: Of things, some are in our power, and others are not. In our power are opinion, movement towards a thing, desire, aversion and, in a word, whatever are our own acts; not in our power are the body, property, reputation, office and, in a word, whatever are not our own acts. Things in our power are by nature free, not subject to restraint or hindrance, but the things not in our power are weak, slavish, subject to restraint, in the power of others. If you think the things which are by nature slavish to be free, then you will be disturbed, but if you think only that which is your own to be your own, and that which is another's as it really is belongs to another, then no man will ever compel you, you will blame or accuse none, you will do nothing against your will and no man will harm you, for you will not suffer harm. If you aim for great things, remember that you must make no small effort, but some things must be put aside or postponed for the present. If you aim also for wealth or power, perhaps you will not gain them, but you will certainly be distracted from those things alone by which freedom and happiness are secured. Straightaway then, practice saying to every harsh appearance: "You are an appearance and in no manner what you appear to be." Then examine it by the rules which you possess, and by this first and chiefly, "do you relate to something in my power or to those things not in my power?", and if not in your power, be ready to say that it does not concern you.

Commentary: This in a nutshell is the philosophy of the Stoics. Such an attitude of the renunciation of the external it would seem could be abused or taken advantage of, but it could never be manipulated for it constitutes a declaration of absolute freedom of the mind. And yet to what extent could it in fact be disempowering? It seems to entail an indifference in our attitude to things outside our power, and consequently an indifference in our behaviour regarding such things. But circumstances might change. That which is outside our power might yet be overcome through our efforts to master it. The right manner of this renunciation of the external is perhaps best explained in terms of the subtle distinction between indifference and equanimity. Equanimity (upekkha) is the seventh and ultimate factor of enlightenment. Unlike indifference, it is rooted in wisdom.

Originally published on Buddhist Travellers in 2011.

Tuesday, 6 December 2016

Frithjof Schuon (1907-1998)

One of the greatest spiritual thinkers of the 20th century, Frithjof Schuon, born in Switzerland, was an advocate of the perennial philosophy as well as being an artist and poet. This theme of the universal in Schuon's writings was foreshadowed by his early encounter with a marabout who had accompanied some members of his Senegalese village to Switzerland in order to demonstrate their culture. When the young Schuon talked with him, the venerable old man drew a circle with radii on the ground and explained: “God is in the center, all paths lead to Him.”

Below is a video summarising his philosophy in two minutes, and following it translations of some of his poems from the original French.





SILENCE


How can we find our rest in restless things,
In play and dreams to which desire clings?
If happiness you want, then close your eyes;
Silence is gold; and Peace is Paradise.

No heaviness is felt, no noise is heard;
Yet in this naught: God's Presence and His Word.




Say "yes" to God, God will say "yes" to thee;
To Heaven's gate this is the golden key.
About my earthly road I do not care;
It may be long; short is God's road to me.



THE WAY


Within our deepest center dwells the Self;
And so they say: you ought to realize
Your own divinity. But they forget:
Without God's help we never can be wise.
Ignoring this, too many go astray.

With Heaven's Grace alone we find the Way.



IMMANENCE


The Sovereign Good is real, the world is dream;
The dream-world has its roots in the Supreme,
Who casts His image in the endless sea
Of things that may be or may not be.

The fabric of the Universe is made
Of rays and circles, or of light and shade;
It veils from us the Power's burning Face
And unveils Beauty and Its saving Grace.

from Frithjof Schuon, "Road to the Heart" (1995)

Shared originally on Buddhist Travellers in 2010.

Tuesday, 23 December 2014

Three Theories of Everything (Ellis Potter)

The following are notes on a talk by an ex-Buddhist monk Ellis Potter who then converted to Christianity. I fear I might have fallen short in representing his views to which perhaps the only remedy is reading his book (see the link below). Following the talk, there was a response from a Buddhist perspective by Rachel Harris and then a Q & A.

More about Ellis Potter's book on which his talk was based: 

Ellis Potter, Three Theories of Everything

 

There seem to be three absolute world views: monism, dualism and trinitarianism. These world views need not be religious, but they all seem to involve a belief in a perfect reality, in the existence of imperfection or suffering in our experience or misapprehension of reality, and in proposing a solution to this imperfection.

Monism. This is a theory of perfect unity. Since unity is stable and faithful, suffering is understood as fragmentation of that unity. According to this world view, all is One, Tathata, Buddha nature, just so, with an undifferentiated quality of possibility. Experience of ego-consciousness and alienation is caused by an illusion of separation, and enlightenment is waking up from this illusion. The metaphor of merging with unity is of a droplet becoming one with the ocean, and in this there is also an idea of redemption or salvation. But because we do not awaken to the All, we suffer the wheel of life, and reincarnation.

The path to enlightenment often involves the practice of meditation to quieten consciousness. In Hindu philosophy, this is the practice of raja yoga. The word yoga means literally “union”. The yoga that tends to be practiced in the West is a ritual form of physical exercise (hatha yoga), but as well as meditation (raja) and movement (hatha) there are at least four other branches of yoga, or ritual paths to union: through work (karma), through devotion (bakhti), through desire (tantra) and through wisdom (jnana). Each of these paths are full of wisdom and there is much that we in the West can learn from them. The repetition of a mantra for example can create a powerful healing vibration. The ritual practices are very therapeutic. But the lesson I think we ought to learn most of all from Eastern wisdom is the importance of the ordinary.

Zen Buddhists might be said to be nonists, believing in nothing, but a pregnant nothing in which everything is possible. There is a proverb that if you see Buddha on the path then you should kill him, the idea being to kill the idea and be Buddha, to transcend belief and realize Buddha nature.
 

Dualism. According to this theory, imperfection is not caused by separation from what is, but from an underlying imbalance of what is. The world is full of antipodes: light/dark, wet/dry, male/female, up/down. When the opposites are in harmony, life is good. In ancient Chinese thought, divination was conducted based on combinations of solid and broken lines giving rise to the sixty-four hexagrams of the I Ching. Each circumstance was understood as requiring an appropriate response to keep things in balance. It is difficult however to see dualism as an absolute theory, because what is the opposite of a river? What is the
 opposite of time? Despite these difficulties, this does not make dualism any less logical than monism, but just a different paradigm, and like monism, it can be very effective when put into practice.

Trinitarianism. This theory is inspired by the revealed knowledge of Christian theology which offers us a glimpse of things beyond space and time which we would not be able to realise on our own. According to this theory, the universe in its creation is both completely unified and completely diverse, and the cause of imperfection is neither separation nor disharmony but alienation from God. The original perfection of God is the Trinity of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit which includes both the objective and subjective viewpoint, both the form of God the Father to command and the freedom of God the Son to obey, the Holy Spirit blowing like a wind, in-dwelling and empowering all. There is a dynamism in this Trinity yet there is nothing in creation that is not in the Creator, so the starting point is fully complete. Although the Father commands and the Son obeys, hierarchy does not imply inequality because both are equally God. The father in a family may wear a crown, but then like Jesus it should be a crown of thorns; it is the suffering of responsibility.

Truth is fact plus meaning, and meaning only comes into being through relationship. In the famous words from Genesis, we see that being with precedes being: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God”. The meaning of Jesus is in his relationship with the Father and the Holy Spirit. The crucifixion of Jesus wasn’t just symbolic; it was an actual physical emptying for others, but because each of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit also empty themselves for the other two, each are filled twice over.
We all have fundamental needs to be seen and heard, to make a difference, and to be wanted. Where do these needs come from? Maybe God has these needs. If I don’t have needs, then it means I don’t have trust, trust is the basis of love and God is love. The way out of suffering is not by letting go of needs because the needs can be a joy for God to satisfy but by letting go of self-centredness and becoming other-centred, like Jesus emptying out for others. While God is three, the devil is one because he is exclusively self-centred. It is the black hole of self-centredness that causes suffering in the world. God is other-centred. The Biblical solution to our alienation from ourselves and from God is in this holistic unity of a trinity.
 
Response by Rachel Harris: I’d like for you to pause a moment and feel  the sensation at the soles of your feet. In the Psalms, it says “be still and know that I am God”. Within the experience I just suggested, there were no concepts. God is beyond concepts and understanding. Emptying out concepts, there is only awe. When Christians talk of letting go of self-centredness and the possibility of closeness to God, and the Buddhists of emptiness and stillness, we are all talking about the same thing. Religion can be divisive as we see in the world today — the news is not good — but this is caused by an error. It’s important not to degrade religion and set ourselves up as different. Why am I a Buddhist? It is a result of causes and conditions. The way we engage depends on where we come from individually. I could not have said these things to you here a hundred years ago. I like a saying of Ato Rinpoche that we are all holding onto a branch of the great tree of faith. It’s important to be committed to the branch we are holding onto, but this does not involve saying that we are right and the other wrong.

Q. Jesus is not a concept, he actually existed! (Rachel) But for us now, he is, we are not experiencing him now. America is a concept.
Even if Buddha didn’t exist, that he is just a concept wouldn’t detract from his teaching.

Q. Is religion just metaphorical? (Rachel) Religion is a tool, a practice. If a practice is helpful, good, if not, then not. It is not a piece of cosmology.

Q. Why did you become a Christian? (Ellis) I was interested in reason, and when I was young, faith was taught as an enemy of reason, so I
became interested in Buddhism. I was interested in absolutes and philosophy and those who would listen to me despite my crazy questions. But who is asking the questions? In Buddhism, asking is asking, in Christianity, the “I” which is sustained by Christ. I found it involved less faith to believe in Christianity, faith as small as a mustard seed according to Matthew, so the smallest possible faith led me to Christianity.

Painting: “Lord's Prayer” by Tissot 

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Keeler's Three Worlds & the Sacred Tree of Life

The ideas here are inspired by a talk I went to by Ahmed Paul Keeler, but my questions and conclusions might be quite different.

Medieval Christianity revered its saints and its sacred artefacts, built society around religious authority and buildings, and went on crusades to spread its faith and teach obedience. The Enlightenment brought the dawn of reason and doubt which revered heroes and philosophers, wiping away the sacred and in its place revived the dead civilisations of Greece and Rome, building society around concepts and ideals and the ghosts of history, colonising the world in the name of civilising it, teaching progress and achievement. Modernity reveres celebrity and money, builds society around democracy and corporations and through debt and war makes the world depend on the market, teaching free-trade, growth and the translation of everything human into a market value. On the bright side, these three represent morality, reason and efficiency through which the world is fed — spiritually, mentally and bodily. But what each lacks is an open-heartedness and in certain moments of history, each projected outwards their dark side, rejecting some aspect of humanity (the magical, the black; the primitive, the tribal; the poor, the natural) with devastating consequences (burning witches, slavery, colonisation, genocide, exploitation, environmental destruction).

Traditionalism reveres order and a return to sacred life and community. It values the living memory of language, calligraphy, music, folklore, culture, celebration and prayer. However, just because something has always been done a certain way is surely no reason to perpetuate it and stifle change? By contrast, post-modernism reveres freedom and self-expression and individuality. However, might this not involve the opposite risk of an unconditional acceptance of a chaotic present? Instead of seeing traditionalism and post-modernism as opposite choices, is it not possible for us to imagine a beautiful synthesis? Order within chaos, freedom within community, the light of the sacred within self expression?
Maxfield Parrish
Garden of Allah (1918)
The tree of life and the tree of tradition are the same tree. It has roots that go deep and wide, as well as leaves that reach for the light and whose breath is the scent of the wind. The roots nourish the leaves, the leaves nourish the roots. In everything a balance: it need not mean a choice nor a restriction. 
Gustav Klimt
The Tree of Life (1905) [detail]
Perhaps all this is just ideas and concepts, but if we seriously care about the world, then should we not think about it? Isn't thinking a proof of love? Despite the limitations of our thinking, it might lead us one day to a deeper understanding.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

Rousseau's “Social Contract”

From the famous opening line: “Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.” we deduce three things: Rousseau loves paradoxes, he loves freedom, and he is nostalgic for the freedom man enjoyed before he became a member of society.

The second line: “Many a one believes himself the master of others, and yet he is a greater slave than they.” Another paradox! Rousseau is reminiscent of the Chinese sage Lao-Tzu and perhaps he was even inspired by the philosophy of the Tao. The emperor who thinks he has power over everything is in fact the slave of everything, like a rat on a treadmill running desperately just to keep still. But why a greater slave? Perhaps because the oppressed know they are enslaved. Society’s bonds are part of their everyday experience. The oppressor by contrast may not realize it.

The third line: “How has this change come about? I do not know.” Rousseau first defines what his purpose is not before going on to say what it is. It is not genealogy. That task will be taken up a century later by Nietzsche in his “Genealogy of Morals”.

The fourth line: “What can render it legitimate? I believe that I can settle this question.” Thus ends the first paragraph of Rousseau’s “Social Contract”. His purpose is what makes society legitimate despite the loss of freedom it entails. As he writes in the final paragraph of the whole work, it is to “lay down the principles of political right and attempt to establish the State on its foundations” and he concludes by saying that though he might have originally contemplated discussing external relations between one people and another: “law of nations, commerce, right of war and conquests, public rights, alliances, negotiations, treaties etc.”, these were beyond his limited scope. This is interesting in light of Nietzsche’s answer to how the social relation came about as being a consequence of external imposition in the first place. Nevertheless, Rousseau’s subject as we said is not speculative history nor external relations, but the current legitimacy of forms of authority internal to a society.

The structure of Rousseau’s work, like his first paragraph, is four-fold, and while seemingly disorganized conceals a hidden structure noted by Hilail Gildin. Following the introductory chapter to book one, the first four chapters concern false views of political authority, whilst the remaining four chapters establish its true foundations. The first six chapters of book two treat the sovereign as the source of law, the remaining six the legislator as its creator. The first nine chapters of book three discuss the institution of government, and the remaining nine how government might be prevented from usurping sovereign authority. The first four chapters of book four concern assemblies of the people, and the next four concern other public institutions besides the popular assemblies.

We focus primarily on the first book. What makes a moral obligation legitimate? Moral obligations are not secured out of prudence as might be the case in a state of nature under threat of force. By definition, legitimacy is not based on force. Nor is it custom based on psychological contentment because “man born in slavery” might not know better, “loving servitude as the companions of Ulysses loved their brutishness”. Turned into pigs by Circe, they lost the desire to be changed back. Nor is it ordained by God, because of the unknowability of divine will, and loss of faith in any authority who might claim to know it better. Nor is it grounded in nature because its truth or falsehood, though not dependent merely on contentment, does rely on consent. What we are left with is legitimacy as a secular concept based on something more than psychological contentment or natural law, as a covenant. Since it cannot be to God, it must be between men.

Any covenant alienates the individual will either partially or wholly, and either to a part or to the whole of society. This gives four possible kinds of covenant. He rejects any kind of total alienation of the will to some person or group of people because “to deprive your will of all freedom is to deprive your actions of all morality”. Without personal accountability, any talk of legitimacy is vacuous. A master-slave relation can never be legitimate even if voluntary. Slavery, far from terminating a state of nature, intensifies it: the covenant is only as valid as the force that enforces it. Hobbes’ convention to Leviathan fails on this count. Even partial alienation to a person or government is a paradox because it alienates to a legitimate authority that part of one’s will for which one is no longer morally accountable. So any alienation must be to a whole. The original aggregate of individuals can only consent to be governed if they become a whole, a people, a unity.

Rousseau also rejects the possibility of partial alienation to the whole. This appears a rejection of inalienable rights beyond the purview of society. One reason he gives is because of the impossibility of managing conflicts when these rights conflict and so the inevitable breakdown of such a society into either anarchy or tyranny. The covenant must completely alienate the rights of each member to the community as a whole. Since the covenant is by consent, any member may always withdraw from it in exchange for the restoration of their natural rights, but doing so means withdrawing from the possibility of making any moral claim, for example if they think society’s punishment is unfair.

Thus Rousseau conceives of the social contract: a contract of association between all members of a society which simultaneously generates both a moral community and sovereignty. Each individual has a dual role both as active participant in the sovereign process and perfectly obedient to its law. This law is legislated by the sovereign body of all people according to the general will and executed by the government they appoint. But what is the general will? The risk is that it becomes merely the will of a majority. Rousseau attempts to preclude this, as well as the usurpation of sovereign legislative power of the people by its government. Following John Noone, we may enunciate some of the terms of Rousseau’s social contract (scattered throughout his work):

1) All citizens have a voice in the popular assembly, none may lawfully be excluded. (§1.6; §2.2; §4.1)
2) Sovereignty is inalienable and indivisible. (§2,1; §2.2) The assembly cannot bind itself, much less future generations. This precludes legislation in perpetuity. (§1.7)
3) Except for the original contract which is unanimous, the majority will is binding, the necessary size of majority subject to legislation. (§4.2)
4) The assembly of all citizens is a permanent assembly that meets regularly at arranged times, elects magistrates and appoints or dismisses government according to the general will. (§3.13; §3.18)
5) The life and property of all members of society are subject to the sovereign body and its laws. (§1.9; §2.5)
6) Legislation is limited to areas of common concern. Any proposed legislation must first be voted on to determine if it is a common concern, and secondly if it is a common good. (§2.4)
7) Only those laws are binding that are universal and impersonal, not singling out a person or group for special treatment, favourable or unfavourable. (§2.6)
8) Citizens are to vote not according to personal desires, but on the basis of their estimation of the common good. (§4.2)
9) Sovereignty may be suspended in an emergency, but for a very limited time period.
10) A civil creed that includes tolerance of all faiths not subversive to peace. (§4.8)
11) Goals according to a pre-existing general will that all the members of society commit to.

          etc.

In particular, note that the social contract is not a contract between the people and their government. This is a popular misunderstanding. Rousseau was especially critical of contract theories of government because they alienate the individual will to but a part of society (government) which he had already rejected (except for very limited time periods in case of emergency). Rousseau conceives of legislative authority remaining always with the people, so that government could be dismissed at any time if that were the general will.

In contrast to Locke who believed in the inalienability of property rights, and that any contract needed moral agents to begin with, Rousseau’s social contract is what makes its members moral citizens in the first place “substituting justice for instinct as the guide to conduct”. Duty becomes meaningful for the first time, so also legitimacy. On the face of it, this seems like the grossest nonsense, because it precludes morality and duty as conceived by reason, conscience or natural law. We will see however that the morality of the covenant arising from Rousseau’s social contract aims for something different, something encompassing and empowering individual and natural morality. In Buddhist terms, the social contract is the foundation for the moral being (Buddha), the moral law (Dhamma) and the moral community (Sangha), but the latter is deemed essential for the first two to find expression. There is something quite insightful in seeing these three as inter-dependent, yet by making moral law dependent on the community, what if the community is wrong? Are there not moral ideas or feelings that transcend time and space? Rousseau, following Locke, rejects innate ideas but not innate feelings. He writes in “Emile” that God has given him “conscience that I may love the right, reason that I may perceive it, and freedom that I may choose it”. Reason is not a sufficient source of moral obligation, so man must be endowed with the affective capacity of conscience to feel obliged, but he must also be motivated. This is the role the social contract plays. It is the motivation of reciprocal obligation which Rousseau seems to believe is necessary for the moral sentiment to bear fruit, that gives man “freedom” to do good.

John Noone’s explanation of what Rousseau means by freedom goes some way towards deciphering both the idea of a contract giving freedom, and also the kind of morality (that of the covenant) that occupies Rousseau. There are three kinds of freedom for Rousseau: natural freedom, political freedom and freedom to act from one’s own conscience. The social contract clearly restrains natural freedom, and leaves conscientious freedom alone, that is freedom to do good from individual conscience, independent of any obligation. However, it enforces political freedom. The idea of obliging freedom seems paradoxical. But political freedom is based on equality. Law must regulate everyone equally, universally and impersonally, and not lead to inequality. Thus Rousseau’s idea of obliging political freedom should be understood as obliging equality, so people are free to act according to their reason and conscience without being disadvantaged for doing so. Put this way, morality is strictly political morality, a duty to fellow citizens that reciprocates a corresponding duty of others to oneself. To recall Rousseau’s noble aim:

To find a form of association which defends and protects the person and goods of each associate with all the common force, and by which each uniting with all yet obeys only himself and remains as free as before. (§1.6)

Freedom is the cornerstone of Rousseau’s philosophy, but freedom in harmony with the general will. If not, then it would harm others’ freedom. Does the social contract succeed in its noble objective? In theory, Rousseau thinks so, but in practice he requires a wise legislator, like the prophets of old under the guise of divine authority and even then the course of history never did run smooth. Rousseau does recognize this — he is a pragmatic realist.

Though his philosophy is not historically or empirically sound and though dogged with speculation, there is behind the seeming disorder a certain coherence. Whether the social contract that emerges is workable we leave to human imagination, but is it even theoretically viable? One criticism that comes to mind is that it seems to subordinate morality for its own sake to morality for the sake of the community. Another is that while procedurally sound, the commitment to substantial content in the form of the civic creed and social goals risks betraying something of the freedom for society to define these for themselves. A third is that morality emerging from community runs the risk of being restrictive to that community so community identity could come to be defined negatively in terms of other communities. In truth, community is a nested concept of family, tribe, city, country, even religion, but it is one kind of community which Rousseau believes must take precedence to avoid conflicting loyalties. One possible remedy to all these criticisms is a combination of Kantian autonomy of the individual will that chooses its communitarian commitments and a theological idea of regarding the covenant to any one of these communities not as end in itself, but as a means of training the will to subservience to divine will under the universal community of all beings.

While Aristotle and the medieval scholastics had extolled the virtue of a pre-existing natural law (Dhamma), Rousseau is the philosopher of the community (Sangha) and Kant would later favour the autonomy of the sovereign being (Buddha). Each tries to improve on their predecessor, but in reality Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha are all necessary and all inter-dependent. In the perfection of one, the other two will also come into fruition. For example, the participants of Rousseau’s social contract will need to be autonomous judges of morality in order to elect officials and make decisions while the wise legislator will need to bear consideration on what are the underlying natural virtues of their particular society in order to create suitable laws. However, in the face of widespread social inequality, Rousseau’s emphasis on communal solidarity as his starting point seems well-placed. For all those passionate about freedom and equality, his
Social Contract will continue to be a source of inspiration.

Monday, 30 June 2014

Islamic Law & The Modern State (Wael Hallaq)

Rating:★★★★
Category:Books
Genre: Religion & Philosophy
Tagline:An Islamic State is a contradiction in terms

This is one of those rare books that changes the way you see the world, so long as you can forgive its occasionally unnecessarily adversarial style, in particular its unfair dismissal of all things Kantian in the Western philosophical tradition, but as a starting point for self-reflection and critical enquiry, it is perfect. The events of 2014 re-enforce how the desire for self-independence of peoples has been translated in modern international society into the desire for the State. This expresses itself in diplomatic initiatives as in Scotland and Catalunya, but can also  degenerate into violent resistance as in Syria, Iraq, Libya and Ukraine. The State is a site of decolonisation and self-determination, but also a source of potential sectarianism and civil war, especially when the mechanisms of the state do not represent and care for the peoples under its dominion.

The Israel-Palestine problem has often been framed as requiring a two-state or a one-state solution, but reflecting on Hallaq’s book, we see that perhaps the state itself is the problem in limiting our imagination of what a harmonious world should look like. The Jewish people needed a refuge after the horrors of the Second World War, and the state offers such a refuge, but for whom and against what? It was part of the solution to a problem that it had itself created in its extreme form in the Nazi state. How else to protect a people from the oppression of other states, but to create a state oneself? There are no easy answers. The State is the gold standard and only symbol in contemporary society of a people’s emancipation. Nevertheless, it is interesting to join Hallaq in tracing back the intellectual history within an Islamic context of what the state has come to stand in the place of, and how it has failed by comparison. And indeed, what we might discover is relevant in a non-Islamic context also.
Photo: “Man praying in Morocco”  —Umbreen Hafeez
Introduction:

Until the early 19th century and for twelve centuries before then, the moral law of Islam had successfully regulated customary law and local practices across the Muslim world, from North Africa to India. Beginning in the 19th century, it was structurally dismantled by colonial powers and lost its autonomy to the modern state. Nevertheless, it still remains a source of religious and moral authority, a spiritual source of moral ends, procedural laws and “technologies” for caring for the self. Islamic law is no longer the living breathing entity it once was, and what remains of it are distillations in special cases or appropriations to legitimize the modern state’s own structural violence. Semerjian’s “Off the Straight Path” tells how Islamic law was never as harsh in its punishments as it stipulated in theory, and as it is reputed to be. Judges were encouraged to be forgiving, finding loopholes to justify lesser sentences. For example, adultery met with a fine, while prostitutes were at worst expelled from the community.

Modern Islamic thinkers and scholars take the modern state for granted as a timeless phenomenon, but the state is a false idol of our times. Hallaq claims it is incompatible with the bottom-up nature of Islamic governance, and indeed with any reintegration of morality within modernity. Morality he claims has been displaced by the paradigm of the Enlightenment. Despite its internal multiplicity, despite its rebels in Rousseau, Kierkegaard, Marx and Herder, what Enlightenment thinkers shared was the assumption of a critical rational morality, secular, humanist and binding universally on all civilizations. To say this is the Enlightenment paradigm is not to say that there were not exceptions. Indeed, a paradigm shift occurs when the subversive discourses become the new norm. In drawing on pre-modern Islamic thought, just as modernity draws on the Enlightenment, Hallaq believes that we can engage with what is truly important, namely morality as end in itself, and not politics or law which have replaced it, not to mention economic growth, as a standard of human flourishing.

Islamic law rested on a concept of jihad (striving) toward the accomplishment of a moral end (the Arabic word is much misunderstood in late modernity with its political usage that I choose not to use it, just as the word Sharia for Islamic law has become symptomatic today with barbaric punishments when British colonial administrators had once criticized it on the contrary for being “too lenient”). In this striving for a moral resource from an earlier age, Hallaq defends himself against the charge of nostalgia. In the first place, this project is no different from an archaeology of ancient Greek and Roman thought with which Islam too has a shared heritage. The project is not one of revival of institutions, but of ideas. Any claim that we cannot learn from others is either one of self-diminution (that we are incapable of transcending the narrow self) or of hubris (that we have come too far already). Secondly, whilst Islamic law is defunct, its “five pillars” and their consequences are still preserved in the spiritual memory of all Muslims. Thirdly, disenchantment with modernity is not an Islamic concern, but a shared and distinctly modern, even postmodern, concern. It transcends both religious faith and the modern paradigm. Fourthly, and most importantly, any charge of nostalgia is closely allied with an ideology of progress, which dogmatically adheres to current ideas of truth, claiming to “know better” and in so doing ignores profound existential and moral questions regarding underlying causes, unwitting assumptions, as well as the ephemerality of the present moment that one day will also be history.

The Modern State:

Despite vast differences in theories of the state (Weber’s bureaucratic, Kelsen’s legal, Schmitt’s political, Marx’s economic, Gramsci’s hegemonic, Foucault’s cultural and so on), all these are merely differences of perspective. Despite also vast discrepancies in the actual content of the modern State, ranging from the communist Soviet Union to the democracies of Sweden and the United States, its essential characteristics are shared form-properties: (1) a historical product of a particular culture at a particular time, (2) its metaphysics of sovereignty, (3) its legislative monopoly and monopoly over law and violence, (4) its bureaucratic machinery, and (5) its cultural hegemony and production of the national subject.

(1) All things are historically specific, but the state defined in terms of territorial boundaries is concretely so. Through a scientific process of self-observation beginning in the early eighteenth century, the European state conceived of itself as universal and timeless and subject to scientific analysis. This analysis of content presupposed a prior metaphysics of existence. (2) The concepts of statehood are secular translations of Christian theological ones. The omnipotent God becomes the omnipotent sovereign, but the structures remain the same. Sovereignty presupposes not only a state, but also the shared imagination of a nation by its people. It exists for its own sake, an end for which the individual may even be sacrificed. This false idol is made explicit by Hobbes’ Leviathan. (3) Sovereign will gives birth to sovereign law and violence to realize that will. (4) The administrative order is a necessary extension of the legal order, and the image is of the blind lady of justice. Bureaucracy does indeed prioritize equality, but it also conceals structural inequalities and creates top-down pyramid structures of power controlling every aspect of life. It intrudes into the private sphere and fosters community, but on its own terms, the community of the state. (5) The internal strength and coherence of any state depends not only on organizing society, but also penetrating it culturally to form national identity. Should any of these five form properties change, the state would necessarily be a very different concept. But these five are also very closely intertwined, so any change in one would necessarily also entail a significant change in all.

I agree with Hallaq that the modern state identifies society’s interest with national interest. However, this identification is not purely ideological, but also representational. It is less an idol than an ideal of coherence, a tool bringing people together in the pursuit of moral ends. The belief in the state even to the point of sacrifice is a belief that the state is protecting morality and so worth fighting for. In so far as this ideal fails, the state is indeed weak, and falls into disrepute. Hallaq is right to warn that the state can become an ideology, continuing to exert its will when no longer serving its intended function. However, since it is constructed on human belief, it can also fail in its moral ends as a mere consequence of people no longer believing in it. When people lose confidence, are no longer willing to put the good of society before personal interest or are too cowardly to fight for an ideal in which they have lost faith (be it the nation or another kind of spiritual community), the result is the breakdown of society, and susceptibility to both internal and external corruption, criminal elements, and even military power. Hallaq is of course right that the state should not be an end in itself, and most Europeans do recognize that. Europe’s history testifies to the dangers of nationalism.

I would like to suggest the possibility that the modern state is not of European origin at all. The bureaucracy of the Chinese state comprising its emperor and civil service were over a thousand years old before the corresponding British institutions were even born, and perhaps even inspired them. The rise of the state in Europe follows the discovery of China. The birth of capitalism attributed to Adam Smith built upon the ideas of the French physiocrats who were in turn heavily influenced by the Chinese. Like the Chinese, they valued agriculture above all, identified society with the human body, compared money in the state to the circulation of blood round this body, from which they deduced the importance of exchange and saw the need for a general will to regulate this body’s well-being. For Rousseau, this general will arose through respect for the state, love for one’s fellow citizens and equality under the law. The correlative of the frontier which limits the state externally is the absence of internal limit of the “police” state (governing subjects, regulating economic activity, production, and the price of goods). The compensating mechanism for this absence of limit is law and political economy, or what Foucault termed the rise of “governmentality” in 18th century Europe. This Tang dynasty poem by Du Fu from 8th century China, inspired by sources even earlier, brilliantly encapsulates one aspect of “governmentality”, namely the skilful and appropriate use of force. It is not far-fetched to imagine the modern state and its law to be a translation of Chinese ideas into an Enlightenment context.

Ballad of the Frontier (Du Fu)

If you draw the bow, draw the strongest.
Choosing arrows, take the longest.
To down the man, aim for the horse.
Confronting bandits, aim for the chief.

Killing, let there be a limit,
And to each land, its own bounds.
If you can repel invaders,
What use in killing, maiming more?

To conclude with an even crazier thought, while the British imposed a Chinese-looking bureaucracy on India (and its other colonies, including Victorian England itself in the 19th century), it used a more Ottoman or Indian-looking extra-territorial law of the sultan to control (through treaties of tax and trade) China and other countries which it never formally colonized. There is something almost paradoxical and unnatural that this should have functioned with any degree of success. On one level it did, yet at a deeper level this also perhaps explains why the experience of European colonialism is said to have been traumatic in ways that even centuries of despotism or pre-modern colonial movements were not.

Separation of Powers:

There is an ideal in Western democracies enunciated by Montesquieu of a separation of powers to ward off the dangers of authoritarianism. In practice there is only a loose separation of functions (legislative passing law, executive and administrative enacting it, and judicial interpreting it), with power resting absolutely with the elected legislative body to indicate how law should be applied and interpreted. As the body supposed to represent the general will of the people, and accountable to them, it seems right that this should be so, and indeed breakdowns of democracy have always been allied with a ceding of legislative power to a presidential or military executive ruling by decree without consultation or to a judiciary forming an anti-state within the state.

Islamic governance also achieved a separation of powers with ultimate authority in the legislature, but by very different means and it is interesting to explore how it did things differently. First, there was no such thing as an “Islamic state”, but an Umma (Community). Muslim territories were known as Dar al-Islam, and non-Muslim as Dar al-Harb. The Community did not possess sovereignty, nor autonomous political or legal will. Sovereignty lay with God alone, and decision-making was by consensus, but restricted by general moral principles beyond the Community’s control. Care for the poor for example was their right, as all members of the Community were equal, and all wealth belonged to God. Islamic law was a bottom-up system of governance, and the power of the executive (the sultan) was limited, derivative and compared to the modern state relatively marginal. The sultan had little influence over the local culture and legal system. Analogous for example to native White Cap Chiefs in African customary law, they were not owners of territory, but holders on trust.

Meanwhile, the jurists of Islam lived with and by the values of the common social world, representing especially the lower and middle social strata of which they were mostly part. They were advocates of the disadvantaged to the higher reaches of power, and represented for the masses the ideals of piety, rectitude and fine education as “heirs of the Prophet”. As well as playing a pedagogical role, two particular legal functions were that of the mufti (legal specialist)  and the qadi (judge). The mufti was the legislative authority who issued legal answers to abstract questions he was asked to address. Consultation was free, so accessible to all. With time, these answers were brought together and systematized both in memory and in writing as “law books”. Legal opinions, called fatwas, though non-binding, were routinely upheld and applied in the courts. A judge in Cairo might even send a letter to a mufti in Muslim Spain or Syria. Because legal knowledge was widespread, social underdogs knew their rights before appealing to the courts, so won the great majority of their cases when they were plaintiffs. They could also ask for an opinion which then dissuaded them from proceeding to court, opting instead for informal mediation. The Muslim court could not make up its own law, its ultimate reference neither the executive nor itself but the authority of the mufti.

The qadi was a member of the community who, for a small and affordable fee, was expected to apply the law to judge cases and resolve disputes. He was not required to have the same expert legal knowledge as the muftis or author-jurists. The language of the court was the common language, so understandable to all. Unlike a jury member today, the qadi’s scope of consideration was not limited by a superior power (they might for example address underlying causes to a dispute), they were expected to be intimately familiar with the local customs and ways of life of the community they served, and their decisions were final. As well as passing judgments in court, they also oversaw public works and endowments to the poor and helped arbitrate in non-legal family disputes. Though chosen by rulers, qadis held their positions only a few years in parallel with existing employment, so they could not be so easily pressured or corrupted.

The law applied by the qadis was the result of a centuries-long hermeneutical project. However, it was also legally pluralistic, with different legal schools developing very different legal opinions. Each jurist could exercise ijtihad (creative reasoning) to arrive at the best guess of what the law should be. This chimes with Lauterpacht’s optimistic vision of the lawyer as a Herculean gap-filler applying law for law’s sake, law assumed a priori to be logically coherent. But contrary to modern law, it was stable only in form while being remarkably flexible in both place and time depending on social and popular interests and concerns. On the one hand, only God knows the truth. On the other hand, it was an established maxim that every mujtahid (jurist conducting ijtihad) is correct!

The sultan possessed no real sovereignty, and without the bureaucratic machinery of the modern state was unable to penetrate society. The sultan could appoint judges and raise taxes so long as he protected life, property, and communal harmony (a sacred concept in Islam), his executive authority (the final decades of the Mamluk’s rule being an exception) restricted to protecting against disorder, including any reported misconduct by government servants or by the qadis. The system was based on an ethic of moral accountability of the individual, seen as indispensable for political legitimacy (corporations didn’t exist) and the well-being of society and dynasty. Qadis, muftis and tax collectors sat in governors’ assemblies, acting as intermediaries representing their communities’ interests. There were even times when the rulers of Islamic lands were non-Muslims, yet local Islamic values, customs and language remained.

Perhaps one reason why Islamic law persisted for twelve centuries was because of local homogeneity despite differences between localities. Rawls’ conception of a “well-ordered society” is one in which (i) everyone accepts (and knows everyone else accepts) the same principles of justice, (ii) social and political institutions are respected for satisfying these principles and work in harmony, and (iii) citizens comply with these principles and institutions. However, once local homogeneity is lost, and established principles are no longer accepted as obviously true, then the risk of arbitrariness becomes a problem, and a central presiding authority is inevitably needed to maintain predictability of the law. Islamic law in its time was a model of the separation of powers with legislative power residing with the private unpaid scholars within society, who through the mouthpiece of Islamic law represented the poor, protected their interests, and acted as intermediary to the politically powerful. However, that age has passed, and the future will need new ideas, with lost consensus locally reconstructed.

The Legal, the Political, and the Moral:

Hallaq next addresses the distinction in the Western history of ideas between the “is” and the “ought”, between positive law and morality. For Christian as well as Islamic theology, there was only morality. For Bentham, Nietzsche and Schmitt, there is only positive law. Law that once expressed a moral ideal or utopia has for some modern thinkers become entirely political, regulating a conflicting mass of private interests and dividing the world into friend and foe. Hallaq blames the possibility of such moral evacuation of law on the creation of the is/ought distinction in the first place.

He derides Kant in particular for his categorical imperative as well as much of Western philosophy in a strident tone uncharacteristic of the rest of the book. Kant’s imperative is not without its problems: it dictates one ought to act in such a way as one would wish to be a universal law. It is the duty of the moral subject to unite the “ought” and the “is”. Kant was a deeply moral man. If Germany had been a Muslim society, Kant would be a mufti, and his categorical imperative a fatwa which would have been widely respected and applied by the qadis in making their judgments. If Hallaq cannot respect Kant as a mufti of his age, how can the reader respect Hallaq as a mufti of our own age, and if not Hallaq, then who? This only goes to emphasize how the age of the mufti has passed.

Let us criticize ideas, but not people or traditions (unless done in good humour). Instead of polluting the wells of our mutual intellectual heritages, we should be asking, “what is wrong?” and “how to purify it?”. Islamic fatwas would be equally susceptible to critique, though this does not serve Hallaq’s purpose to recover a subjugated source and balance out against Western prejudice. Nevertheless, the dangers of Schmittian distinctions exist in Islamic law also: for example between Muslim lands, and non-Muslim; between the Muslim citizen and the “slave soldier” who had no choice but to fight; between the law as written and as applied by the qadi who used ijtihad and forgiveness; and even in the Quran itself between the prescribed forms of violence which say one thing (legal), but “better to forgive for God is all-merciful, all- compassionate” (moral). Hallaq’s very own argument takes on a friend/foe characteristic in pitting Enlightenment and Islamic law as enemies, instead of as in the rest of his book as merely incompatible ideas in need of new thinkers to find the best from both and reject what rightly should be rejected from both.

The identification of “is” and “ought” is reflected also in ancient language. For example in Pali, the language of the Buddha, the word “dhamma” means nature itself, the law of nature, the duty that must be performed according to that law of nature, and the fruits or benefits that arise from the performance of that duty. No distinctions are made between these four. However, once these divisions are made which Kant was trying to heal, no doubt unsuccessfully, there is no going back unless we can have faith in a kind of wisdom that transcends personal opinions. The contradiction between “only God knows the truth”, and “every mujtahid is correct” is no longer acceptable. Since God’s truth is inaccessible, Kant’s injunction is both demanding and inspiring: every person must become a moral subject and mujtahid in their own right! However, Kant falls short on an egalitarian ideal because those whom Kant deems incapable are not afforded equal dignity in his moral system.

Some Concluding Thoughts:

Whenever a society’s homogeneity of belief breaks down, some amount of positive construction is surely needed, which then needs to be mythologized. There follows an age of disenchantment and the cycle repeats. Enlightenment values of reason, progress and the state should perhaps be seen as temporary mediators to any breakdown of consensus, to try to help build it up again. What Hallaq warns is that they can also be divisive and a source of civil strife.

One important part of the cure is what Hallaq calls “technologies of the self” that build up the moral subject from the inside out instead of the outside in. The term, borrowed from Foucault, means techniques of self-transformation for the sake of “happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection or immortality”, in short a positive kind of self-discipline, founded less on rationality (self-knowledge) and more on love (care of the self). These techniques of self-mastery and virtue are universally known and ingrained in the pre-modern mind, but also easy to forget, so it is worthwhile to continuously remind ourselves of and practice them. They contrast with the biopolitics that engenders the docility and utility of the subject through systems of surveillance, education and healthcare, operating not from the volition of the subject, but from a political will located outside it, whereby the state constitutes itself as a problem-solving machine in the service of the people, the child a site of institutionalization, and in which the patriarchy of the family is replaced by that of the state. The crisis of the family and disintegration of the social fabric (which Durkheim termed anomie) seem to coincide with the emergence of the modern state that problematises the individual. In the place of religious, tribal and familial identities, we see on the one hand the emergence of nationalism and on the other the rise in consumerism and narcissism of the modern subject who rejects his or her own problematisation, yet does so in ways that are socially sanctioned and unwittingly encouraged. So what are the technologies that might liberate us?

In Islam, they are built upon the five pillars: (1) the faith in one God and in His Messenger, (2) prayer, (3) alms-giving, (4) pilgrimage and (5) fasting. While Rousseau concludes his “Social Contract” with a discussion of religion, Islamic social tracts always began with religion, and in particular the five pillars. As discussed previously, law and morality could not be separated. Through the five pillars (as well as ritual purification), practiced with niyya (intention), the Muslim comes closer to God and trains the heart to be compassionate and to do good. I cannot do justice here to Hallaq’s beautiful explanations, but suffice to say that each of these pillars and their performative acts carry a deeper mysticism and meaning, accomplished not out of obligation but with willingness and pleasure. They engender an inner peacefulness of the nafs (soul, or consciousness).

Ultimately, the risk of breakdown of the state is just as much a problem of the state as its continuing existence, so I do not read Hallaq’s book as anti-state, but as a thorough dismantling of the ideology of the state. As with any negative project, we need a positive vision. Hallaq’s vision is a re-centreing of society on the moral. What of the enlightenment ideal that if the moral is not discovered for oneself, with one’s own heart, then it is externally imposed and so replicates patterns of domination that regulate the individual externally as if he or she were a child from birth till death? Does this Kantian ethics of autonomy stand in contradiction to Hallaq’s autonomous morality? I don’t believe so, but Hallaq’s misgivings run deep. Citing Gray from “Enlightenment’s Wake” (1995):

“The most fundamental Western commitment, the humanist conception of humankind as a privileged site of truth, which is expressed in Socratic enquiry and in Christian revelation, and which re-emerges in secular and naturalistic form in the Enlightenment project of human self-emancipation through the growth of knowledge, must be given up…It is in reaching a new relationship with our natural environment…in which human subjectivity is not taken to be the measure of all things, that a turn… can be accomplished…dwelling together on earth in peace.”
But what else is there apart from subjective experience and revelation? Is that not the meaning of enlightenment — the turn must come from within. I believe so anyway.

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Like Water, Like Light — A Contemplation on Freedom

I'd like to share a lovely thought I had this Christmas morning. Merry Christmas all!


There is an economic idea, wonderful in theory, that the free movement of money and people and goods and ideas is in the best interests of everyone. But in practice human beings and the things they want are not like water. When we enter a cup, we do not "become the cup" as Bruce Lee wisely recommends us. We have culture, and home, and it's impossible to ask for freedom from others when we are not ourselves free. And even in cases where we would like to be free, we are discrete units and we have a natural resistance to movement and change. A good image to have is of a traffic jam. Even if the road ahead of the first car is empty, it takes a while until the last car can get going. How to adjust for this? Is it possible to "be like water" and so regain our freedom?

The solution to the traffic jam problem would be if cars could hold on to each other like carriages in a train. Paradoxically, it is through a lack of freedom that discrete units can best realise their freedom. The important thing is to be able to bind ourselves in the direction we wish to be going. The freedom to bind to a future intention actually gives freedom of movement instead of taking it away. Connections to family, friends and society as a whole makes us continuous beings. The traffic jam is a product of modernity and discreteness. But of course we are both.

It's fascinating to think that even at the smallest scale, light particles/waves are both discrete and continuous simultaneously. Perhaps when light is behaving like a wave in the twin-slit experiment, the interference pattern it creates is in some sense caused by interferences of intention? When the intention is observed, light behaves like a particle and the interference resolves itself one way or the other. If light is a symbol of absolute freedom, then what can we learn from it?


... One would imagine light to be forgetful of where it's been or where it's going. But there is a phenomenon called quantum entanglement which means two photons can be at opposite ends of a galaxy, but they still maintain the other within themselves.


A friend of mine posted today "a free spirit is someone who lives by their own wishes and is unconstrained by society". I would like to be a free spirit, but would define it differently (inspired by Nietzsche): "A free spirit is one who has the resilience of an ass, the courage of a lion, the innocence of a child, yet doesn't fight the world but flies in the tailwind of eternity."

Does a free spirit ever think they are free? I know that I'm not free, very far from it, but I have the aspiration nonetheless. In order to realise freedom, I think we need to acknowledge that we are not free, how in a limited sense we are the result of our whole life up to now, but also we are completely free in this moment to change a tiny bit, and bit by bit to become more free. To be like light, to be like water.

And that means to be willing to surrender to the universe, to let go of conflicting intentions within ourselves, to let those conflicts resolve themselves by themselves. And when we have clarity of intention and the way becomes clear, to bring the future into the present and hold firm to that intention to take us where we want to go. And wherever we go, like light, to remember our friends, even on the opposite side of the universe.


Photo: 'Waves in the Sunrise' (2009) by —okei