Aristotle once made a distinction between five forms of knowing: Phronesis (practical knowledge), episteme(knowledge), sophia (wisdom), techne (skill), and logos (reason). Phronesis is expertise forged by experience, the authority of a subject earned through practice. Episteme, on the other hand, is declarative knowledge generated through research and study. The challenge of shaping a life lies in the integration between episteme and phronesis, knowledge and action. Division within the self is often found in the gulf between what I know and what I do. I know that the next hour is better spent sweating at the gym, but the couch is more alluring; I know that that a salad is healthier, but the candy bar is more enticing; I know that the next 30 minutes is best spent in meditation, but YouTube keeps me rivetted with videos.
The path of development is paved with these tensions. To surpass oneself is to overcome the ruts of habit and transcend the rule of disposition. These are the pitfalls faced by pleasure-seeking, energy-conserving apes whose evolutionary inheritance — those traits that eked out survival for our distant ancestors — are now stacked against us in developed societies with a surfeit of comforts and confections. The same brain that prizes fat and sugar for their high caloric content must also produce the conative force to resist them. The ubiquity of entertainment makes it easy to be swept away, sent adrift on waves of distraction. A life of single-minded effort applied to the task of awakening is easily lost in this fog of comfort and pleasure.
The psyche exudes its own gravitational field. One can recognize that a habit is detrimental, or that a pattern is self-defeating, while also deploying a full suite of defences to prevent reform. The salubrious regimes that nurture physical and mental health (exercise, a balanced diet, steady routines, quality sleep) are not guarded secrets. Yet, many of us struggle to pattern our lives accordingly because we are not neutral agents free to elect the best among a spate of options. Rather, we are inclinational creatures with preferences, tastes, and impulses that dispose us to the familiar. Pierre Bourdieu has posited the habitus as the dispositions that produce — and are produced by — prevailing practices. What we do becomes what we are likely to do. A teetotaler will find a pint of beer a harsh imposition, but the same pint is hardly worth a mention for an alcoholic. Conversely, abstention is a taller order for the latter than the former. The significance of habit lies not in the act itself, but in the inertia that looms behind it.
How then do we find the impetus for change and the resource to shift our own habits? Let’s begin with recognition. If my habits carry the force of patterns, then my reluctance is a marker of disruption. Because I always take to habit with ease, the interruption of habit will be met with resistance. When reluctance rises from within, I know that real work is about to begin. The fullness of this recognition puts me square in front of the challenge. I expect nothing else and do not pine for anything to deliver me from hesitation. This is the work, and there is no other time for me to do it except in the here and now. Instead of viewing my reluctance as an oppressor, I can see it as a guide who points out the hidden passage that leads to new vistas.
Here are some suggestions for those who have trouble taking up practices that promote healthier dispositions, from physical exercise to meditation.
I do not want to go to the gym. No muscle in my body wishes to move. Although I find myself resisting, I can still put on a T-shirt and shorts. I can cue up some upbeat music. Once I’m dressed and the music is on standby, I’m already on the way to a workout. No, I still don’t want to go to the gym, but I can put on my runners. By then, I’m already at the door, and all I have to do is step through it. Leaving the apartment is half the effort. Having gone all this way, I may as well put in the time in the gym.
The clock strikes nine, and I dread the next hour, having set aside time for meditation before bed. The brightness of the screen draws me into a stupor, and I loath to leave the glistening images. Though I do not plot myself on the cushion in an instant, I turn down the lamp, light a candle, and relax on the couch for a moment. The dimness of the room settles the day. Thoughts start to subside. Then, having tuned into silence, I take my seat on the cushion.
Action is often accompanied by gestures and rituals that precede practice. We can use them skillfully to usher us into the work. The little steps of preparation, the movements that prime us for practice have their own flavour and texture; they are transitional acts that set us to the task. When we are accosted by reluctance, these preparatory acts can ease us into practice despite our resistance.
Do serious work, but don’t take yourself too seriously
I once noticed a certain quality of seriousness and playfulness in candid photographs of former president Barak Obama, captured by Pete Souza. Souza’s photos depict a man who took to the work of leadership with utmost dedication, but who nevertheless took time to play with children and connect with citizens from many walks of life. The man who huddles with world leaders also crawls on the floor with babies. The photos reveal the stature of a man who discharged his duties with honour while retaining the spark of joy and lightness.
There is a way to go about difficult work without gripe and fuss. In my dissertation, I discussed a form of practice that I call Morphesaria. The coinage combines morphe, a Greek word for “change,” and aria, an Italian word for “air.” Morphesaria refers to practice in which a difficult task is met with an airiness in comportment. Serious work can be done with an attitude of lightness that does not lapse into dourness or acerbic intensity. The task is its own thing. We can take it up with grimness or levity. Though we are disposed to the former, the possibility of reforming our nascent possibilities lies in the latter.
There are practices that challenge our inclinations. The difficulties they present to us may never subside, but we can manage our own attitudes toward them by softening our rigidity and letting slip our conditioned responses to challenge. Morphesaria is about doing things without exacerbating their difficulty in our own minds, doing serious work without taking ourselves seriously. From daily meditation, to shifting our eating habits, to establishing a more active lifestyle, each is an invitation to experiment with morphesaria, to do important work without the aura of self-importance.
During my first Vipassana retreat, I asked the meditation teacher: “What is the one common mistake that students make after they finish the retreat?” The teacher paused for a moment and replied: “Not sitting. If you sit every day for a year after the retreat, you’ll sit the rest of your life.” Her words rang deep. That year, I sat regularly. Meditation became a fixture in my life. Though I still go through periods where meditation wanes, I feel something missing if I neglect my practice. Genjo Marinello, Abott of Seattle Zen Center, has taught that “our job is to find one good seat, and to sit in it.” The ruts of habit and the responsibilities of daily life often weigh against disciplined practice. At the same time, if our habits carry the inertia of habitus, every alternative that we put forward with intention also carries its own energy. With persistence and patience, our stumbling efforts gain steadiness and momentum. What we do for a day becomes the antecedent for the next. There is no success or failure, only honest engagement, moment after moment.