You know, Phaedrus, that is the strange thing about writing, which makes it truly correspond to painting. The painter’s products stand before us as though they were alive. But if you question them, they maintain a majestic silence. It is the same with written words. They seem to talk to you as though they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything about what they say from a desire to be instructed they go on telling just the same thing forever.
I’m away at a parkour event this weekend, lots of walking and playing and jumping. One session was a discussion of fear, and of consequences. And one particular question for discussion was, “When do you stop?” People raised lots of ideas—good ideas, wise ideas… lots of things I was in agreement about.
But I was also thinking, “Wait. Why do I have to decide that?”
I know I’ve certainly faced decisions about stopping. Work, play, relationships, sports, parkour practices (ask me about the time I climbed across a train station outside of Paris,) … yes, deciding if, when and why to stop is an obvious question.
If I think about two paths—perhaps diverging in the woods, if you like that imagery—an hour’s hike along the path of one choice, I might decide I’m going the wrong way. There’s one of those when-to-stop decisions. But the mistake was an hour before, where the paths diverged.
This business venture: what if I had truly been committed, and had planned clearly the way we’d know when to stop? The question is gone. This relationship: could it be planned, or could two people be so honest, that the question doesn’t appear? This parkour jump, at the end of an exhausting day of training: why am I standing here, right now? If I’d planned better, could I have gotten all the same benefit, but a few minutes before right-now, I’d have moved to something else?
Might it be possible to still have challenge, commitment, growth, love, spontaneity, and humor… without ever having to decide, “should I stop this now?”
When you have considered all these things with care, then, if you think fit, approach philosophy, and be willing to give up all of this in exchange for serenity, freedom and an undisturbed mind. Otherwise, do not come near; do not, like children, be at one time a philosopher, later a tax-collector, then a rhetorititian, and then one of Caesar’s procurators. These things are not compatible. You must be one man, either good or bad. You must cultivate either your own ruling faculty or externals, and apply yourself either to things within or those outside; that is, you must assume either the attitude of a philosopher or that of a layman.
It can be hard to say no. It means refusing someone, and often it means denying yourself instant gratification. The rewards of doing this are uncertain and less tangible. I call decisions like this “first-order negative, second-order positive.” Most people don’t take the time to think through the second-order effects of their choices. If they did, they’d realize that freedom comes from the ability to say no.
I think the “slavery” [to things, to money, to “more”] metaphor is inappropriate, but philosophers from Epictetus and earlier have been using it, so it’s entrenched. “Freedom” is mentioned in the pull-quote, and the metaphor also appears in the article. None the less, it connects a few different ideas together and gives good guidance if you’re new to the ideas. (Or if you could use a wee refresher.)
For me, the last vestiges of the yearning—as Wu Hsin put it—is the yearning for experiences. I am quite often restless. I often joke: “I do not idle well.” In my series on parkour-travel I even mentioned the idea of, when spare time exists, move towards the next scheduled-thing, and kill time there. I believe this yearning springs from my bias to action. As a counter-practice, I like to pause—often seemingly randomly—to remind myself: If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.
That phrase can get tossed around lightly, but there’s deep wisdom in it. Once I understand that this is in fact nice, right now, then when I realize that I wasn’t—just then, in the moment—feeling how nice it is… then the second part of the phrase has power: I don’t know what is. Put another way:
There is only the thinnest veneer separating our society from chaos. Some cell towers have enough fuel for 8 hours of service if the power goes out. Many do not. And that crazy driver? …one pothole separates us all from a cascade crash. It rained 6 inches. The next day I passed 100 broken down, abandoned, cars along the highways. At one point I slowed to a crawl, on an interstate, and slowly drove around three cars, abandoned in the highway… no cops, no people, no tow trucks, just cars lying randomly in what must have been flooded. I passed miles and miles of traffic jams… the kind where people stuck in traffic run out of gas and the jams get complicated to clear. New York City simply closed… all non-emergency travel forbidden. The next day, no trains were running into the city.
Meanwhile, the drivers were their usual rude and rushing selves.
To trace something unknown back to something known is alleviating, soothing, gratifying and gives moreover a feeling of power. Danger, disquiet, anxiety attend the unknown—the first instinct is to eliminate these distressing states. First principle: Any explanation is better than none […] the cause-creating drive is thus conditioned and excited by the feeling of fear.
No sign of any good habit, no attention or regard to yourselves. You do not watch yourself closely and ask, “How do I deal with the impressions that befall me? In accordance with nature or contrary to nature? As I ought, or as I ought not to? Do I say to the things that lie outside the sphere of choice that they are nothing to me?” If you are not yet in this state, fly from your former habits, fly from all laymen, if you ever want to make a start on becoming somebody.
Staring this month, I’m making another large change to how I’m structuring my mornings. For as long as I can remember I’ve woken up about 5:30. There’s variability, but it’s a rare morning if I’m not actually awake, vertical and puttering towards my desk by 6:00. Unfortunately, for what might be two years now, what I’ve been doing upon reaching my desk has been an every-morning battle between my intention, and what I had actually set myself up for.
My intention was: Do self-focusing, restorative things. Meditate, some movement [yoga, mobility, etc.], maybe a quiet podcast, then do my reflection reading, and write in my journal. Then “surface, ” which means waking up a computer and checking in on a variety of places—multiple email programs, web sites, etc., to get a pulse for what today looks like. Checking the calendar to verify appointments, calls, etc.. And then, at 6:30 exactly, Tracy and I would have a quick morning meeting to compare our days. We’d discuss the day’s activities, meals, chores, our respective meetings, etc.. Each morning I make up a very crude, quick listing of things for the day, in a very small notebook that I carry around. But what actually happened was that, because I use a program to track everything, and I need to look some stuff up to fill out my little notebook to start my day, I’d end up starting by just peeking into one or two things… and bam! It’s 6:30 meeting time. Dammit.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I must begin the morning without any devices. (Pretty sure that’s safe to do without checking with my doctor, since it was fine for the first 25 years of my life, right?)
Have our evening meeting, figure out the basic layout of tomorrow, and jot my notes in my little notebook. In the morning, get up, gather my coffee, and start my day with the little notebook. No phone for podcasts, nor music… just me and my notebook. We shall see.
How does creating a podcast foster meaningful connections and personal growth for both the host and the guests?
A shared journey through vulnerability reveals how podcasting fosters authentic human interaction.
It’s so important to share, and I wouldn’t assert that it’s what you have to do in order to receive— but it almost is, right? You have to give in order to receive.
~ Rien MacDonald (7:14)
The conversation revolves around the transformative power of podcasting as a medium for deepening communication and fostering authentic connections. Rien reflects on how podcasting has sharpened his listening skills and provided a platform to explore and share stories. A poignant example is his mother’s revelation of a deeply personal family secret during an interview, highlighting how vulnerability can unlock moments of unexpected emotional resonance.
Another significant topic is the balance of power in podcasting. While the host controls the technical aspects, genuine collaboration and openness foster trust and enable guests to express themselves fully. Rien also discusses their journey from meticulous editing to embracing the rawness of conversations, emphasizing the importance of shared human experiences.
Takeaways
Creating invitations through questions — Open-ended questions encourage guests to share meaningful insights.
The host’s role in vulnerability — Being authentic and sharing personal stories can inspire guests to do the same.
Magic of storytelling — A microphone often becomes a catalyst for untold stories to surface.
Transformative listening — Actively listening improves not just communication but the ability to connect with others.
Evolution of podcasting skills — Transitioning from over-editing to embracing authenticity refines the podcasting process.
Balancing power dynamics — The host’s vulnerability and kindness can counterbalance their inherent authority in a podcast setting.
Podcasting as collaboration — Episodes become meaningful through shared effort and mutual storytelling.
Personal growth through podcasting — The medium helps hosts and guests reflect on their own lives and experiences.