How Wise Shall We Be?
By: Timothy Dechenne
Tags: Buddhism, Meaning, Psychology, Wisdom, Philosophy

The most important philosophical attempts to eliminate human suffering are probably Stoicism in the West, and Buddhism in the East. The premise of this piece is that, even for their devotees, they failed.

Both of these systems emphasize equanimity, which refers to maintaining composure or evenness of mind. This is achieved by letting go of attachments, by no longer clinging to some things and pushing others away. Ideally this results in a complete and easy acceptance not just of adverse events, but of all kinds of change on a moment to moment basis.

Stoic practice approaches this through certain understandings, exercises, and virtues. Buddhism approaches it through a variety of conceptual, ethical, and meditative paths.

The importance of this ancient wisdom is enduring. Even our casual speech seems to acknowledge it. The meaning of the old phrase “taking it philosophically” refers to the very quality of acceptance or equanimity these ancient traditions advocated.

And these traditions were bold. They claimed there was a way to eliminate suffering, not just reduce it. Buddhism in particular was very specific. The Third Noble Truth, which translates most economically as “There is an end to suffering”, laid it on the line.

It was essentially a claim that “nirvana” is possible. In Buddhism that term refers mostly to two things: the mythical issue of escaping rebirth, and a related psychological state. That state, something that supposedly can be achieved with practice, is a complete release from attachment and the suffering it brings. It is largely this latter sense in which Western, secular Buddhists understand the term.

I like to think myself among them, an aged fellow traveler. Nonetheless, I submit to you: nirvana is a myth. Can anyone achieve complete non-attachment? If anyone has a living candidate they would like to nominate for extensive evaluation — including covert monitoring 24/7 over the course of their days — let me know.

And if the Dalai Lama comes to mind, rest assured he would be the first to deny such an achievement for himself. Another Buddhist teacher, Sylvia Boorstein from northern California, suggested a gentle way out of impossible ideals. She recommended her “Third and a Half Noble Truth”.

By which she meant that suffering may not be eradicable, but it can at least be reduced. A meliorist after my own heart.

But aside from what’s possible, there is the actually more important matter of whether we, whether anyone, would truly want to be completely equanimous.

We are goal-making creatures, undoubtedly by genetic disposition. Goals large and small. They consume our day. When there are goals we pursue over an extended time, goals with which we somehow resonate, we talk about a sense of meaning. (See another of my articles on this site, “What’s the Meaning of This?”) Thus meaning is bound up with, in fact largely springs from, attachment. Attachment to goals we consider important.

If equanimity is indeed the heart of wisdom, then we must ask: how wise shall we be? Most people, I suspect, would choose the satisfaction of a sense of meaning, even if it came at the cost of suffering.

For example, if caring for others was something that truly gave meaning to my life, I would choose to have skin in the game. I would chose to be at least somewhat attached to my goal. And I would be willing to accept the internal, collateral damage such attachment always guarantees.

Now to be clear, I haven’t abandoned my sitting practice, and I’m not recommending you toss your copy of Epictetus’ Discourses. Strategies to reduce at least some of our attachment are invaluable, and a much needed relief.

But I am advocating for a gentle realism about the human condition. Much of the time equanimity will not be appealing to us, falling by the wayside as we pursue meaning. And even when it is appealing, we are wise to remember that only a partial mastery is ever feasible. And that is more than enough challenge for of us all.

It amounts, I suppose, to a kind of self-forgiveness, a kind of amnesty for those multiple instances of attachment and suffering — large and small — that will assuredly continue to populate all our days, from morning to night.

And this amnesty has a hidden upside. Sometimes self-forgiveness sneaks away from you, ventures out on its own, reinvents itself.

And becomes forgiveness of others.