Life is short. That’s what people say. For most of us, when we hear or consider this,
it compels us to take more risks, to get more done, to move faster, to see more places and
meet more people, to acquire new things and achieve new heights of social and career status.
Afterall, we only have so much time left before time is gone forever.
But perhaps for this very reason, that our time is limited and maybe short, we should often take
this phrase to mean the opposite. Since life is short, we should slow down; we should simplify.
Many of us, at least at some point, have wanted an extraordinary life—a lifestyle in which the
calendar is always full, and everyone wants us to be somewhere doing something; where we
have tons of friends and contacts, things to do, places to visit, new items to acquire, new social
levels to achieve. Perhaps this ideal came from childhood when we were conveyed that our sense of
self-worth was validated only by our display of extraordinary scholastic achievement. Perhaps it
came from the particular culture through which we were programed. Perhaps it is in our own,
personal nature. Perhaps it is all the above or something else entirely. Whatever the origins,
this idealization can compel many of us to pursue these sorts of highly active, highly
consumptive lives. None of which is inherently bad. But likewise, none of it is inherently
good. What is bad, however, is not knowing the difference for oneself and not living accordingly.
Transcendentalist philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote:
I do believe in simplicity. It is astonishing as well as sad, how many trivial affairs even
the wisest thinks he must attend to in a day; how singular an affair he thinks he must omit. When
the mathematician would solve a difficult problem, he first frees the equation of all incumbrances,
and reduces it to its simplest terms. So simplify the problem of life,
distinguish the necessary and the real. Probe the earth to see where your main roots run.
Time is often regarded as one of the most valuable things. It isn’t really. What’s
valuable is our perception of it—how we handle and consider it. Having more or
less time makes no difference if the majority of it still isn’t spent and experienced well.
Stoic philosopher Seneca wrote: It is not that we have a short time to live,
but that we waste a lot of it. Life is long enough, and a sufficiently generous amount has
been given to us for the highest achievements if it were all well invested. But when it is
wasted in heedless luxury and spent on no good activity, we are forced at last
by death’s final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing.
So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short,
and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it… Life is long if you know how to use it.
The philosophy of stoicism is a very useful school of thought to refer to and draw from
when considering these concepts—simplifying one’s life and using one’s time well. Fundamentally,
the stoics argued that the individual should strive to reduce all dependency on unnecessary
externalities—wealth, material items, fame, control over other things and people, and so on.
“Almost nothing material is needed for a happy life, for he who has understood existence,”
wrote stoic philosopher and Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius. Instead, one should strive to focus
their time on fulfilling their responsibilities and work, cultivating a command over their
internal domain, and preserving their remaining time for philosophically focused leisure,
only enjoying the fruits one’s labor if it comes, while not being motivated or affected by it.
Although we don’t necessarily need to arrive at the exact same conclusion as the stoics,
it is, at the very least, a good place to start. In order to see time clearly and
determine what we believe is a valuable use of it, we should at least conceptually strip
all unnecessary spending of it away, and only put back what we truly want and need.
In the 17th century, French philosopher Rene Descartes provided an analogy in his second
edition of Meditations on First Philosophy for a sort of thought experiment that he had conducted
in order to determine only what he could know with absolute certainty to be true. In the analogy,
Descartes suggested to imagine that you have a basket of apples. You’re concerned that some
of the apples might be rotten, and the rot will spread to the other fresh apples. The
only way to ensure that this doesn’t happen is to empty the whole basket,
inspect each apple for rot one by one, and then only place back the fresh apples.
Again, Descartes used this to illustrate his process of doubting empirical and ontological
beliefs, but the same thought process can also be applied when considering how we should spend
our time. How we choose to spend our time, when we have a choice, is likewise also a belief. It
is what we believe about how life should be lived. But in truth, how often do we actually
inspect the apples of our life? How many of ours are rotten right now? How much has and
how much will the rot spread if we don’t, at least on occasion, empty the basket to check?
A key factor to all of this—to not only understanding how one wants to spend their time,
but also successfully executing on what one determines—is somewhat paradoxical. It is both a
driving force behind the avoidance of doing what we want and what we know we should do, and the
solution to doing what we want and know we should do. The problem and the solution is boredom.
The compulsion to do things all the time, be it filling up our life with ceaseless desires,
filling up our schedules every week with plans and events, or filling up every quiet moment with the
noise of a phone or computer or video game or whatever else, is largely driven by our effort
to avoid boredom—both the feeling of boredom and the feeling that others see us as boring. But it
is in boredom that we are allowed to think; and it is through boredom that we will discover great
comfort, focus, authenticity, and productivity. When we are not compelled to fill our schedule
with anything and everything in order to simply avoid boredom (or seeming boring); when we are not
compelled to satiate the slightest intimation of boredom with a phone or console, we will, instead,
begin to more often do the things we otherwise put off but actually want to do and work on.
Like most things, boredom is relative. If, let’s say, one has no plans on a Friday night, and they
are limiting their phone or video game usage or whatever else, writing that next chapter of that
book, or writing out that business plan for that business idea, or journaling about one’s thoughts,
or calling one’s mother or father, or presently enjoying time with just one person who is truly
close, or enjoying the night quietly with oneself, suddenly become the best and only game in town.
When the calendar is barer, when the day is slower, when the room is emptier,
what is there left to do but the things you haven’t eliminated; the things that matter to you;
the things that you put back in the basket? Consequently, not only is a simpler life perhaps
more enjoyable and of deeper quality, but it is also often more focused and productive.
Of course, this is all to reduce the process into simple terms. Ironically, properly simplifying
one’s life is rarely simple. But perhaps we can draw from another philosophy to help us with this:
the philosophy of Taoism. In Taoism, there is a concept known as Wu Wei, which translates into
non-doing or effortless action. This is generally applied to how one carries out work and tasks,
suggesting that one engages in tasks with a deep focus and complete immersion, loosening oneself up
and surrendering to spontaneous action. But we can also apply this same principle when determining
what activities we participate in to begin with. If we should strive to be less forceful
within our activities, perhaps likewise, we should strive to be less forceful about our activities.
Going with the flow is often taken to mean saying yes to everything and just letting things happen,
but perhaps a much more apt interpretation here would mean only saying yes to things
that feel natural. In other words, when considering how to spend one’s time,
perhaps if it is not definitely a yes, it is definitely a no.
In the Taoist text, the Dao De Ching, Lau Tzu wrote:
The supreme good is like water, which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain. Thus it is like the Tao.
In dwelling, live close to the ground. In thinking, keep to the simple… In governing,
don’t try to control. In work, do what you enjoy. In family life, be completely present.
None of this is to say that a quieter simple life is the right life, nor a better life,
but it is to say that it is the right, better life for some people,
and likely lots more people than those who currently live that way. And more yet,
a healthy dose of simplicity and boredom is still incredibly important and valuable for
everyone of all preferences and lifestyles. The point is not strictly to do more or less,
but to determine what our lives actually need to maintain the right flow. For some of us, perhaps
we genuinely want and need the waters to be rapid. For others, however, perhaps a steady current that
we can both comfortably paddle through and comfortably float in is more than enough.
In a world without clear direction, often far more important than being influential or world-renowned
or in a position of high-power is simply being sane and kind. Sometimes just being a good,
decent person—a good friend to a few, a dependable partner to one, a well-focused
participant in a thoughtfully chosen career—is as heroic and successful as anyone can truly be.
Perhaps some of the most successful among us are those who very few will ever know.