by Rachel Robison-Greene
People all over the country wake in the morning and instantly dread the news headlines awaiting them on their phones. Have Americans bombed another school? Gutted one more procedural safeguard? Facilitated the reemergence of some long controlled infectious disease? Too often, we realize that one of these things has indeed happened. We carry on with our absurd lives anyway. We do dishes and pay bills. We run in place on treadmills and wash our hair. As Camus beautifully puts it in The Myth of Sisyphus,
Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm – this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the “why” arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.
It’s difficult to manage the cognitive dissonance. Bad things happen every day, but we must carry on as if they don’t. How can we react to that without feeling crushed by the tragic absurdity of it all?
One proposal is that we could follow the advice of the Ancient Stoics. Thinkers like Epictetus and Seneca reflect on the human tendency to tie happiness to external goods and events. We want other human beings to make reasonable decisions. We want good things to happen in the world rather than bad things. We want to see others exhibit love and empathy rather than hatred and fear. These are reasonable preferences, but, as the Stoics point out, none of this is fundamentally up to us. Those of us with good intentions can each do our part, and it still might not be enough. What we can do instead is focus on what is under our control. We’ll never be able to fully control our fortune, the actions of other people, or the way global politics operate. What is up to us is what we are doing internally. Our own individual virtue is up to us, and that is what fundamentally matters anyway.
The Stoics advise detachment. We can endure the horrors of the world by disconnecting from the parts we can’t do anything about. One may reasonably object that taking this position alienates us from our social nature. This reaction seems particularly apt when one considers a passage like the following from Epictetus’ Enchiridion,
With regard to whatever objects give you delight, are useful, or are deeply loved, remember to tell yourself of what general nature they are, beginning from the most insignificant things. If, for example, you are fond of a specific ceramic cup, remind yourself that it is only ceramic cups in general of which you are fond. Then, if it breaks, you will not be disturbed. If you kiss your child, or your wife, say that you only kiss things which are human, and thus you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.
Wives everywhere may object. Or consider the counsel that Seneca provides for his grieving friend in his Letter to Lucilius,
If a man who has lost his one and only tunic through robbery chooses to bewail his plight rather than look about him for some way to escape the cold, or for something with which to cover his shoulders, would you not think him an utter fool? You have buried one whom you loved; look about for someone to love. It is better to replace your friend than to weep for him.
It would hardly compliment our friends to learn that we view them as so easily replaceable. Detachment has its benefits in certain contexts, but living lives of detachment may alienate us from the things that make life meaningful.
Big moments, especially moments of tragedy, can appear to rob more mundane actions and happenings of their significance. For instance, philosophers and have reflected on the connection between death and meaning in life. Consider Dylan Thomas’ powerful line from Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night,
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
If death is the final punctuation mark to the story of a life, the words of the story better “fork lightning” or what was it all for? We don’t need to face the extreme case of death to encounter this sense of meaninglessness. Why should I bother planting a flower when my neighbor has been deported? Is it meaningless to create art as democratic institutions disappear? When the world is burning, isn’t it silly for me to sing?
Perhaps not. When we take an action, we reaffirm what matters to us. We could let the ugliness of the external world paralyze us. We could follow the advice of the stoic and detach. Or, through our actions, we could reaffirm that there are things worth caring about, even when circumstances are dire. Cooking may seem like a Sisyphean task, but when I cook for loved ones, I reaffirm my affection. When I plant a flower, I express my appreciation for the transcendent beauty of nature.
Many of our projects are endorsements of not only our own subjective values, but the shared narratives of generations of people. When a person makes art or music, they are often conscious of their influences and the traditions in which they are creating. When we cook an old family recipe, we are cognizant of the care passed down through generations. When we participate in these activities, we reaffirm that the enduring contributions of generations matter, at least to us. When we teach others, we commit to the importance of future generations. In social conditions that pull us strongly toward detachment or even nihilism, our everyday actions reaffirm that values and human connection won’t be ground under anyone’s boot. As Victor Frankl puts it in Man’s Search for Meaning,
We must never forget that we may also find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that cannot be changed. For what then matters is to bear witness to the uniquely human potential at its best, which is to transform a personal tragedy into a triumph, to turn one’s predicament into a human achievement. When we are no longer able to change a situation—just think of an incurable disease such as inoperable cancer—we are challenged to change ourselves.
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