Sink or Sing?

9 03 2015

Michael leaping

My heart sinks when I go to turn on the laptop these days. If I can avoid turning on the laptop at all, I will now take that option and it feels like a painful rebellion against the tyranny of work. Just tonight I’ve realised that not turning on the laptop doesn’t mean that I’m not working. Avoiding coming home to my desk doesn’t mean that I’m not out there building something I can be proud of. Spending time with horses makes my heart sing on so many levels and when my heart sings I feel alive. I feel like my best self, and my best self is who I want to be without compromise.

Horses are never less than themselves. They don’t fret about all they have to do in a day. They take care of their needs naturally and easily. If they want to go for a walk, they take a stroll down to the far end of the field, only pausing to watch a raven lift off a tree. If they need a scratch, they find a fence post or a willing human to relieve the itch. Every action has meaning and purpose. As social animals horses spend a lot of time doing what social animals are meant to do – socialise with each other – and the more time I spend with them, the more I want to be with them.

To work I must sometimes cut myself off from other people and that is difficult when you are naturally sociable, when what you do best is learning through being with others. My work with people and horses never feels like work. It feels more like play. It feels like the work I’m meant to be doing.

Horses have profoundly changed me as a person. In the twelve years I’ve worked with my own Arabians I’ve learned more about myself than I ever could have believed possible. This morning I made a list of some of the key lessons I’ve taken from being with horses. Here are the first three:

That I can hold my ground and stand up for myself without fear or aggression

That respect comes from within

That I can live with honesty

I’m still learning especially since taking on two semi-feral Dartmoors over the past year who have taught me about more wildness and having fun than I thought possible. You cannot train a wild pony to be civilised or follow the rules because a wild pony thinks instinctively and acts out of self-preservation. A wild pony does not understand electric fence tape as I discovered in the second week when both ponies ran through a fence line that had taken me over an hour to assemble. They were just escaping horse flies. When I lifted the tape and waved my arms to try to get them to reconsider, they ran faster, pulling the tape with them which somehow pushed against my chest and flung me backwards on the ground.

It marked the end of a long time since I was floored by a horse. In my early days of learning how to work with highly spirited young Arabians there were a few trips to casualty. Even though I had ridden horses since I was a child, training horses was another matter altogether. Early on I realised that I had to up my game, or be killed. Discovering that there was a whole realm of horsemanship and way of being with horses that didn’t mean pushing them around or forcing them into obedience was the beginning of a completely new way of experiencing the world. Twelve years on, the biggest surprise is how differently I now view humans.

The idea that animals have something to teach us about being human remains controversial because humans are supposed to be the rational, thinking beings. Humans are supposed to have all the answers, but my experience of looking after large social animals daily over the past twelve years has taught me that my human actions are sometimes gross, offensive and excessive. It takes a more subtle, gentle intelligence to show us supposedly rational creatures that we don’t have all the answers. In this respect, horses have refined my thinking.

I’m fascinated when people change through their connection with horses, when the animal enables the human to learn something new, often in a wondrous, thrilling way. Looking at it Socratically, these lessons are insights, recollections of knowledge that we have forgotten as we have evolved. I remember one young man, who had little support in his life, lit up after working with an untouched pony on Dartmoor. He had learned how to help the pony to trust the touch of a human hand, an alien feeling for a prey animal, and in teaching that simple lesson to the pony this young man had learned how he could be valued himself. For the first time he had felt deep in his being the precious feeling of self-worth and he was radiant with it. He was dancing as he told us about it.

It still seems strange to me that animals can give humans, the so-called higher mammals, feelings of self-worth and of value. But if I turn to Socrates again for help, I’m less puzzled. Socrates believed that the way to fulfilment and happiness was through self-awareness.  Because they are both like us and utterly different to us animals can help us to study ourselves. Animals reflect back insights which we can so easily ignore from another person who may not always have our interests at heart.  Animals are self-interested without being self-absorbed, and this applies particularly to highly sensitive and self-aware horses. Horses know instinctively what feels good and that is of enormous benefit to us in helping us to know ourselves, and ultimately feel good about ourselves.

I found this clip of Ulrika Jonsson working with a horse and I’m sharing it because it’s so brave and moving. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnb0eM8WohA

A short clip showing some of the work we’ve been doing at the Dartmoor Pony Training Centre Community Interest Company. http://youtu.be/5QzKHjNaeN0





The story of the old trough

14 01 2015

old trough
Inspiration can come from the unlikeliest of places. Not so long ago I was clearing out this old stone trough at the field where I keep my horses. Accompanied by a young Dartmoor Tinker who needs to check out all new activity, especially if it involves a possibility of food, I spent a morning sweeping the dead leaves at the bottom of the trough into a dustpan, which I then emptied out into a hedge. It was one of those rhythmical field maintenance tasks that I find curiously satisfying, and the company of the pony who easily settled into my working rhythm, mirroring my pauses and bursts of sweeping and scraping activity, made what could have been a simple, mundane task a delightful chore.

At some point in my emptying of the old mushed leaves from the dustpan I noticed a dull gleam of metal at the back of the trough. With the pony nosing at my elbow, to check that I wasn’t laying down a tasty trail of sugar beet as I cleared away the leaves, I worked until the stone floor of the trough was clear. I emptied my final pan of debris and then I saw that the metal gleam came from something solid and round. Leaning over to inspect it more closely I saw that it was a fist-shaped ball that had rolled against the back of the trough where it had probably remained hidden for years.
old trough corner detail
The idea that this metal ball had lain under cover for a while led to a curious associative train of thinking that went something like this: that ball looks like a small artillery shell. I wonder whether it is a shell? Could it possibly be a shell? I know that shells from the Second World War have been discovered in fields. This trough obviously hasn’t been cleaned out in years. Maybe no one has realised that there is a shell behind it. Maybe (getting excited) I’m the first person to discover this shell? Maybe (getting worried) I need to do something about it? Maybe (looking at Tinker who is trying to lick the new discovery) we need to get out of here, or call the army to come and safely defuse it. Maybe…
field view Netherton
Looking up I saw someone coming towards me that at first I didn’t recognise, so enraptured was I by my mental narrative. He was waving at me and in my state of alarm I thought that he had broken into the field. Another problem to compound the problem of the unexploded shell that I needed to deal with: how was I going to get this crazy trespasser off the land? He got closer and I saw that it was Brian, the owner of the field. Our conversation went something like this.

Hi, B, I’ve left some biscuits in your shed.

Oh, thanks Brian, you won’t believe this (he didn’t), but come and have a look at something. I think I might have found a shell behind the old trough.

What sort of shell?

Well maybe it’s left over from the war, but you would be able to tell me, what do you think?

Brian leaned over the trough and his eyes shone as he retrieved what he promptly announced was an old brass ballcock. ‘I’ll take that, useful bit of metal.’ He had the shell in his hands and I still couldn’t quite believe that it wasn’t going to explode in his face. I still needed time to reset my thinking. Brian read my expression ‘Boom!’ he said as he pocketed the ballcock and wishing me a good morning strode up the field.

I laughed with him, but the discovery stayed with me. What I had uncovered was an insight into a habitual and superstitious way of thinking. Why did I assume that the ballcock was a Second World War shell? Why was I convinced that I needed to go to great lengths to sort out a problem that was not even a problem? Why did I fail to recognise Brian?

Interestingly madness was my first thought (you can see how this habit of catastrophic thinking is totally ingrained) of course I thought it was a shell because I’m going mad. Those headaches I’ve been experiencing are part of the madness and the fact that I didn’t recognise Brian confirms that I’m going mad.

What I needed to do was to get a grip on my loopy thoughts and stop believing in them. Taking our random thoughts seriously is something we all do. We habitually try to give a shape or narrative to our random thoughts because we can make sense of randomness when it becomes a story. Telling stories is an ancient way of thinking. Ships didn’t exist for islanders until stories were invented to describe them. Maybe nothing exists without a story. I’m still slightly disappointed that I didn’t have to call the army.My story didn’t end in the way that I expected.

The point of this story, though, is that it has made me realise how easy it is to believe in the story rather than seeing things as they are. Boom!

I’d be interested in hearing from anyone else prepared to share their own random thought stories.





Being and time

4 01 2015

Spending time with friends is the reason why I’ve not been writing as prolifically as I thought I needed to. During my career as a professional author and teacher I have at times considered spending time with friends to be a luxury. When the time came for me to go deep into a new work then my friendships were rationed, to be indulged only on special occasions.

I splurged on my friends this Christmas and New Year. Instead of buying expensive presents that I could not afford, I wanted to be generous with time instead. If a friend called or texted and asked whether I wanted to meet for a walk or a pub lunch, I replied with an enthusiastic ‘yes,’ and ignored the scrooge voice that urged me to sort out my end of year accounts or respond to work emails. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve committed to a social life that reminded me of how carefree I used to be in my teens and twenties until I got seriously into writing books. Breaking my self-imposed limits has been liberating and has made me appreciate the benefits of keeping friends closer and made me think about how I might live more spontaneously now that the holiday is over.

The temptation is to return to the grind, to fall back into work and lurch towards the next holiday. Teaching in schools encourages this mentality and I know that some of my colleagues will be jokingly counting down the days until half-term. Instead of pushing on regardless, I’d like to create some more room in my life for the people who matter most to me and the people who interest me the most. I realise that this requires an adjustment in attitude. Spending time with great people is not indulgent, it’s a privilege. It’s essential for a full and vigorous life.

I haven’t really understood how not being able to afford time for people is the ultimate poverty. I suppose I just thought that I would make time to catch up when I had more time to give. I now have a better insight into how much more productive and creative I can be when I have spent time in ways that enrich my life, whether that is long frosty or windy walks and talks while out and about with much adored dogs, playing Happy Families after having feasted and drunk champagne at New Year or a lunch at an old-fashioned pub in Dunster when my friends instead of complaining about my lateness simply ordered for me and then navigated our way across Exmoor so that all I had to do was to enjoy their company.

At the start of 2015 I’d like to say a huge thank you to my friends from all elements of my life for reminding me what life is for. And for showing me that the work-holiday dichotomy is a habitual way of thinking. This time has made me realise that I don’t need to ration or be mean with my friendships. The demands of work and other daily commitments will always do that for me. Ever since hearing Jonathan Rée lecture on Heidegger and hearing him say that the greatest gift that anyone can give to another person truly is their time and full attention I’ve understood this intellectually. But I don’t think I’ve fully got how to go about it until now. Allowing myself to actually afford time is the best gift I’ve had in years.

Happy New Year.

Some of my happiest moments from the year were spent working with horses and friends.

Michael leapingBelinda with dusters

Dom with Trixie jumping

Jo with Dragonfly

Horses at Netherton3

Setting up





On civilisation

16 06 2014

 

 

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After years of living in a charming thatched cottage made of lumpy damp cob, I appreciate the joys of the smooth walls and year-round dry warmth of my current flat. I’ve rented the flat for nearly five years now and at the end of the summer when the heating clicks back on I feel the glow of knowing that I won’t have to sit through a winter at the laptop suffering with stiff, cold fingers, icy feet and a chest infection.

Wherever I have lived I’ve appreciated the convenient delights of hot water for washing up, daily showers and the simple pleasure of being able to boil a kettle for a pot of tea. When it falls dark in the evenings being able to turn on a lamp is reassuring. These small daily conveniences confirm that all is well with the world.

For many people in the western world heat, water and light are considered essential for a civilised existence. Take away just one of those elements and many people would feel deprived. Perhaps I have become soft, but there is no way I could live in cold, damp ancient places again. The rat thudding up the bedroom stairs and out through the charming little cottage window under the eaves ended romantic dwelling for me. Given the choice I suppose I could cope with candle-light as long as I had warmth, but it would be irritating and tiring reading and writing by dim light. It makes me wonder how the writers and thinkers of the past managed to get so much work done.

The desire to read a book in a warm well-lit room might seem innocent enough, but the romantic 18th century thinker Rousseau felt that a comfortable, intellectual existence prevented people from living rich lives.  In the words of Bertrand Russell, romantics ‘did not aim at peace and quiet, but at vigorous and passionate individual life.’ Rousseau believed that civilisation enslaved people. Real life was lived with intense feeling, preferably outdoors as much as possible. Think Wordsworth swooning against a tree and you get the picture.

The romantics rebelled against convention. Individual freedom was worth fighting for and worth all the hassle of going against the status quo. Perhaps this leads to solipsism. Bertrand Russell certainly thinks so and condemns romantic values as destructive. ‘Hence the type of man encouraged by romanticism, especially of the Byronic variety, is violent and anti-social, an anarchic rebel or a conquering tyrant.’

Rousseau fitted the stereotype. True to the romantic spirit he sold his watch (being Swiss that was obviously the first thing he thought of) and spent time wandering through France homeless, pick-pocketing and befriending wealthy women when he became short of cash. He had a long-term affair with a chambermaid with whom he fathered five illegitimate children, and all of them ended up in orphanages. He became a social celebrity and was granted favours by Kings. His writing was banned. He inspired a revolution and he fell out with the most benign of philosophers David Hume.

I like to imagine the scatty Swiss and the sober Scot settling down with a good malt whisky or two to discuss the idea of taste and what constitutes human identity, but this philosophical friendship ended badly when Rousseau accused Hume of going along with a plot to kill him. A broken-hearted Hume mourning the loss of his crazy companion remained generous to the end. ‘He has only felt during the whole course of his life,’ Hume said of Rousseau. ‘He is like a man who was stripped not only of his clothes, but of his skin, and turned out in this situation to combat with the rude and boisterous elements.’  Rousseau returned to France where it is believed he ended his own life.

It’s easy to see why 18th century society with its emphasis on land and property rights seemed so depressing to someone who had no home of his own, but had Rousseau lived in the 21st century he might have recognised the benefits that modern civilisation has brought: not only electric light, but high speed trains and air travel. Civilisation has enabled us to build hospitals, waste systems and recycling plants. It has created reservoirs and universities, nature reserves and clean beaches.  It has given us digital photography and film and free music.  It has brought us vaccinations, the world wide web, safety lamps, flushing toilets, postage stamps, pencils, and rubber bands, all of which the Sun newspaper reminded everyone (or at least the 22 million who received the free copy this week) were invented by the English, brand leaders of civilisation itself.

Civilisation is no longer the chain that shackles us, but rather the bridge that takes us to where we want to go. Seen in this light civilisation frees us.





For curiosity’s sake

14 04 2014

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What was this like before we got here?

Sometimes when I look around it seems that we’re living in a self-service world, an automated world that points us down a particular avenue. It’s easy to be lulled into a false sense of security by all the conveniences of living in the contemporary western world. In our post-industrial quest for efficiency and productivity, we have made things streamlined, safe and standardised. We have ironed out the idiosyncrasies. In such a world it’s easy to become dull and live on auto-pilot. It’s easy to forget how to think for ourselves because the world we have created doesn’t want us to. Where does that leave curiosity?

If I had to lose any one of my senses then I’d fight hard to save my sense of curiosity for it seems to me that being curious means being truly alive and awake. Without curiosity there would be no challenge for who could be bothered to explore, to discover, to enquire, to create or to reach out with no curiosity? Without curiosity we would become shut-in to the self. Without curiosity we would imprison ourselves.

Thinking philosophically is a curious occupation. It requires very little except an open mind and perhaps a notebook to catch new insights and understandings as they come. Thinking philosophically is something that anyone can do given a little time and attention. Philosophy is for the curious. One reason why thinking philosophically comes naturally to children is that their minds are more curious than adult minds.

Yesterday after a picnic with friends and their children under the oak trees I asked Anna, ten, and Elen, six, what they were most curious about. Anna said that she was most curious about the boy who cried wolf. She’d heard the story the day before and kept thinking about it. ‘I’m curious to know why he didn’t get a book or do something else. Why did he have to keep tricking people?’

She thought for a minute then added: ‘Also why do people say that cows lie down when it’s raining?’

Elen wanted to know why her friend Charlotte had left school and yet her sister Bella had stayed. She also wanted to know how cows make milk.

Her father Jeremy said that he would be curious to ‘have a chat with Darwin or Julius Cesar to see what they think of what we’ve made of the world.’ The girls’ mother Annaig was also curious about talking to people about lived experiences of the past. Annaig noted that when we start thinking about curiosity we end up with questions about the beginning and the end. Curiosity leads us into the big questions of philosophy.

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Declan is most curious about how he can carry the biggest stick 

After our picnic we went for a walk on Dartmoor through an ancient and curious landscape. As we warmed our backs on granite rocks more than 20 million years old, we wondered what the world might have been like before there were humans to experience it. As I tried to imagine a perfect, pristine wild landscape, I realised that what we think about the world is part of evolution, too. Old models of thought erode and change over time. Old ideas become replaced by new and fresh ideas. The things we are most curious about today will shape our future in some way and then be replaced by other ideas to get curious about. It’s only when we stop being curious that the light goes out on human thinking.

Here are some of the things I’m most curious about at the moment:

Is curiosity a sense or a skill?

Why do people still fall out when all their needs are met?

What will the drowned wreckage of the missing Malaysian plane look like?

Will my fancy ruffled tulips open today?

I’d be curious to hear from anyone who wants to share their own curiosity list.

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Medieval Mind Blast

2 04 2014

 

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Life as a medieval monk provides almost the ideal conditions in which to practise philosophy: plenty of uninterrupted time, like-minded fellows and few worldly concerns. As long as they could endure chilled fingers, cramp  and eye-strain from hours of work under candle-light, monks could devote their lives to searching for answers to the most mind-expanding questions of all.

Saint Anselm,  a Burgundy-born monk, who became Archbishop of Canterbury in 1092, was one of the most prolific and influential of the merry medieval thinkers. He wrote On Truth, On Freedom of Choice, On the Fall of the Devil and On Language. He also wrote numerous letters.

He is probably best-known for his argument for the existence of God, known as the Ontological Argument. Ontology means ‘being’ and Anselm’s argument is an attempt to show why God’s being is necessary. He begins by claiming that God is ‘that than which nothing greater can be conceived.’ For Anselm’s argument to get off the ground we need to agree that the idea of God is the most superior being we can conceive of, and even if we have no faith in a religious or personal God, we can still think about what the concept God means. If we can think of something greater than God, then that would cancel out God as being the most supreme being.

In the next step Anselm points out that an idea of a supreme being is not the greatest thing we can think of because something that exists only in our minds is not as great as something that exists in reality. A God that exists would be supreme, whereas an imagined God would fall short of greatness. It is not possible for an imagined God to be greater than a real, existing God so therefore God must exist in reality.

Anselm’s reasoning is known in philosophy as an a priori argument in that it does not require experience or observation to be proved true. The argument has instead an internal logic. Anselm believed that because God is the greatest being we can think of, it means that the idea of God is contained within the definition of ‘greatest being.’

Now you can imagine winning the lottery, but actually having the cash is much better (greater) than dreaming about it. Isn’t it?

Anselm was quite proud of his ontological argument and claimed that only a ‘fool’ would deny that God existed, which rather irritated another monk Gaunilo who decided to think like a ‘fool’ and prove Anselm wrong. Gaunilo used the example of an imaginary island. We could imagine the most perfect island that ever existed with clean beaches, crystal clear waters, abundant vegetation, exotic fruits and flowers and extraordinary wildlife. Now we could add as many other perfections as we like: my island would have talking animals, extravagant birds and hot springs the temperature of a warm bubble bath. Now if I said to you that my island only existed in my imagination that would make sense, but if I tried to persuade you that this island of talking goats, gold-winged birds and bubbles had to exist because that made it even more perfect you would probably think that there was something dodgy in my logic.

Gaunilo thought that there was something dodgy in Anselm’s logic. The problem as Gaunilo saw it was that you can’t just imagine things into existence. We could imagine the perfect horse, the perfect house, the perfect holiday, but that doesn’t mean that we can make them real. As a fellow monk Gaunilo believed in God, but he thought Anselm had been perhaps burning the candle way too late into the night and had made a few mistakes with this line of reasoning.

Undaunted Anselm came back to Gaunilo and said that his argument for God worked because God was perfection itself and not an example of a perfect place or person or thing. If there is such a thing as perfection and the most perfect of all perfections is God, then God has to exist.

Thomas Aquinas, who came two hundred years after Anselm, took a rather different approach to the same huge question. Aquinas outlined five ways of demonstrating God’s existence. The second way, known as the First Cause Argument, grapples with  the question of why there is something rather than nothing. Why does the cosmos exist? For this reason, it is known as a Cosmological Argument.

Aquinas also burned the candlelight and wrote voluminously. He was interested in synthesising his study of ideas from Judaism, Islam, Plato and Aristotle into a theory of everything, a bit like the Bill Bryson of his time.

One of the key ideas that Aquinas developed from Aristotle is that all knowledge is gained through experience accessed through the senses. We might recall riding a bicycle for the first time and that first bike ride is part of a whole library of memories that are built on experience. When we remember anything we essentially browse through the history section of our lives. There is nothing in our memory library that was not part of an experience we either saw, heard, felt, touched, tasted, smelled or dreamed.

Aquinas reflected that everything he could see around him – probably not much in his case except a narrow bed, blank wall and monk’s robes – had been caused by something else. The bed had been made by a carpenter from planks of wood that had once been a tree that had once been a sapling and so on and on. Aquinas reasoned that we could keep tracing the causes of everything that we observe in our world, but at some point we have to stop. We can’t go on forever. At some point we have to say: HURRAH! Look, here is THE cause of everything!

For Aquinas the First Cause is something that cannot itself be caused. It is similar to Aristotle’s idea of the Unmoved Mover, the generator of the universe, although for Aristotle the unmoved mover need not care about the universe it moves. For Aquinas, however, the First Cause does explain why the world is so wonderful. For Aquinas the First Cause is the wonder-maker.

The Cosmological Argument concludes that there is something rather than nothing because something (perhaps a great wonder-maker) started the ball rolling. Interestingly, new discoveries in cosmology seem to both support the argument and disagree with it as some of the recent coverage about the ripples of the Big Bang demonstrates. As Jeremy Paxman said on Newsnight: this really is news: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um9TUFXkSsE

The really big question and perhaps the task of the next age of philosophy is to ask: if we know for certain what lies behind the existence of the universe how does that change things for humanity?

I’ll leave you with Anselm in his own words, not intended as a source of mirth, but it had us in hysterics at last night’s seminar:

“And, it so truly exists that it cannot be thought not to be. For, a thing, which cannot be thought not to be (which is greater than what cannot be thought not to be), can be thought to be. So, if that than which a greater cannot be thought can be thought not to be, that very thing than which a great being cannot be thought its not that than which a greater cannot be thought, which cannot be compatible. Therefore, there truly is something than which a greater cannot be thought, and it cannot be thought not to be.”

Now I wonder, could he have put that any clearer?

 

 

 

 

 

 





A cynical dog’s life

16 03 2014

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The Cynics were a school of Greek philosophy and early fans of self-sufficiency. Living well for the Cynics meant living off the land. Hard work equated to a virtuous life. The four schools of philosophy: the Cynics, the Sceptics, the Epicureans and the Stoics were established in the early part of the third century BC partly as a reaction to the collapse of the old form of society based on independent city states.

One of the first Cynics was Antisthenes, who followed Socrates and who lived a fairly conventional life, mixing with other thinkers in the rather elite circles of early Greek philosophy, but after the death of Socrates and the collapse of Athens, he seems to have gone through a mid-life crisis. He rejected the fine clothes, high conversation and the wining and dining favoured by his aristocratic friends and instead starting hanging out with the workers, apparently dressing like a labourer.

Declaring that refined philosophy was worthless, Antisthenes left the rarefied atmosphere of the academy and started teaching philosophy in the open-air to those without education in what might be considered the first open university. He wanted to return to a so-called more ‘natural’ way of living and that meant doing away with government, private property, marriage and religion. He also thought slavery should be abolished. So what did that leave him with, apart from smelly clothes and clean conscience? Well, not much, according to historians. Antisthenes disliked any form of luxury and thought that indulging the senses was wrong.  He reputedly said:  ‘I had rather be mad than delighted.’

Few people would echo his view nowadays. Given a choice, most people would prefer to be delighted rather than mad, as delight in our understanding carries much less stigma than madness. But perhaps we need to consider Antisthenes in the context of his time. He was by no means the only philosopher to despise luxury. Socrates before him created the identity of a philosopher-eccentric by dressing in old rags and sometimes neglecting to put on his sandals.  Granted that a Mediterranean climate makes it much easier to wander around in the ancient equivalent of beach wear all year round, maybe these philosophers were not as rebellious as they seemed, but their example in giving up luxury is worth examining.

A new Waitrose opened in my home town this week. The giant high street mobile advertising, the wrap-around sandwiching front and back of the local newspaper, the texts, the endless stuff in the letter box, the home visits from freshly uniformed Waitrose butlers bearing free cheese and wine samples on silver platters ensured that I took notice.  In the interests of philosophical research I went to see what all the fuss was about.

As I stalked the shelves, browsing what looked to me to be the same sort of produce and goods you get in every other supermarket, I wondered why people had chosen to come to Waitrose in droves. Apparently on opening day people started queuing at 7am, an hour before the store officially opened. So what is going on? What’s the appeal? Part of it must be that Waitrose is a marketing triumph: it packages things nicely, makes everything look pretty, trains staff to smile and to help the customers feel good, and then makes a huge profit. If that sounds cynical, it’s meant to in the spirit of the original cynics who would not have been seen dead near Waitrose.

Nevertheless, my visit to the shiny new store made me wonder whether there is something interesting going on because from what I could see most people shopping in Waitrose know exactly what they are doing. Most people shopping in Waitrose are buying what they can’t get elsewhere and that’s the feeling of a shop that cares, even if it is manufactured.

Walk into Waitrose and you feel uplifted by the sense of abundance and plenty, by the sense that the age of austerity, exemplified by the dusty cut-price world of Lidl and Aldi and the now struggling Morrisons is over at last. Goodbye cruddy old Co-op with your worn-out slippers and cardigan and your unappetising deli. Hello Waitrose with your Easter-egg colours, your outlandishly priced delicacies and your sweet smile. Spring is finally here!

For the Cynics, luxury was to be avoided if you wanted to feel good. For people living in 21st century Britain, luxury is what makes us feel good. So why have things changed so radically? Why is it now that when we want to cheer ourselves up, we are encouraged to do so by brands that parade their luxury status. I bought muesli the other day; wholesome muesli that used the word ‘luxury’ prominently on the front of the packet. Why? I didn’t buy it for that reason; I just wanted some breakfast cereal, so why did the company try to persuade me that I’d somehow invested in my wider well-being? It is precisely this form of marketing that makes many people feel cynical.

Dropping out to grow my own muesli seems a bit extreme, but not as extreme as Diogenes, another Cynic who followed Antisthenes. Diogenes famously claimed to be ‘a citizen of the world,’ but decided rather bizarrely to live like a dog. Indeed the word ‘cynic’ is derived from the Greek word kynikos, which means canine. He ditched most of his clothes, didn’t wash and moved his bones into a burial urn, a big terracotta pitcher. He was visited by many dogs and considered them to be his friends. Naturally when people annoyed him (and you can just guess at how much he was teased) he barked and howled and sometimes sank his teeth into his tormentor’s ankles.

Alexander the Great apparently dropped by one day and the great leader famously asked Diogenes if there was anything that he could do for him: some more Winalot, perhaps, or maybe a brisk run on the seafront followed a good scratch on his tummy? Diogenes famously told Alexander that yes there was something that Alexander could do for him and that was that he could get out of his light. Alexander’s reply is lost in history.

Diogenes believed that living simply was the only way to live freely. For him, moral freedom is only possible without desire for material possessions. In this respect he belongs to a long tradition of ascetics and alternatives who believe that withdrawing from the temptations of society is the way out of the bind of consumerism. But for modern society it certainly is not that clear-cut. We have recognised that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. We are not about to start lining our kennels with newspaper. Most people don’t mindlessly consume luxuries. We are canny enough to know the real motivations behind supermarket temptations, and we are open-minded enough to make our choices. We don’t need to give up on comfort in order to achieve wisdom. True wisdom lies in the subtleties of discernment.

Woof…








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