Ingen forbudte spørgsmål

Forfatter og ph.d i praktisk filosofi Finn Janning tror og håber, flere vil tage de erkendelser, de gør sig sammen med familien under coronakrisen, med videre.

”Travlhed er ikke et udslag af handlekraft eller vigtighed, men snarere et vidnesbyrd om, at den forjagede person ikke ved, hvor han eller hun er på vej hen i livet.”

Sådan skrev Finn Janning, der er forfatter og ph.d. i praktisk filosofi, tidligere på ugen i et debatindlæg i Information. Heri pointerede han også, at ”hastværk er tæt forbundet med generel uopmærksomhed”.

Men hvordan mener Finn Janning, det ses i forhold til familielivet, var jeg nødt til at spørge. Her er han ikke i tvivl:

– Mange familier kører efter et ret stramt skema; skole, arbejde, fritids- og sportsaktiviteter, legeaftaler mv. Det betyder, at der kan være en tendens til at kigge mere på uret end på ens børn eller partner. Det handler mere om at nå frem i tide, end at være til stede. Dette er en triviel pointe, men ikke desto mindre glemmer mange at efterleve den, selvom det er klart, at den største gave, vi kan give vores børn – og andre – er vores opmærksomhed, siger han til fødslen.dk.

Læs resten af interviewet her.

Efter 14 dages husarrest …

Jeg forudser, at de fleste i løbet af de næste 14 dage vil opleve udgangsforbuddet medføre en frigørende klarhed om eget liv. Coronaen kan fortælle os, at frihed er at være bundet af nogle meningsfulde bånd. Og at disse bånd aldrig er kapitalismens, men kærlighedens, skriver forfatter og filosof Finn Janning i dette debatindlæg.

Læs kronikken i Information.

Samfundssind og cykling

Jo mere sammensindet styrkes af corona, des mere lider kapitalismen

Kapitalen er styret af tanken om, at den stærkeste overlever. Men i coronakrisen klarer vi os kun, hvis vi samarbejder.

Cykelsporten kan lære os at håndtere coronavirussen som et hold. De, der er bekendte med cykling, kender til fænomenet, når fem forskellige ryttere i et udbrud arbejder sammen. Det kan virke underligt, da de netop ikke kører for samme hold eller nation. Filosofien er dog simpel: Ingen af de fem ryttere kan komme alene frem til målet uden samarbejde. Hovedfeltet, i dette tilfælde virussen, vil æde dem op, en efter en. For at undgå det, må de skiftes til at trække læsset, mens de fire andre ligger i læ. Sådan skifter de.

Samme altruistiske princip gør sig også gældende på de enkelte cykelhold, hvad enten private eller nationale. Her er der en kaptajn, vores er Mette Frederiksen, men vi kører ikke kun for hende, vi kører for at vinde, som hold. Og så længe hun har gode ben, altså fremstår dygtig og handlekraftig på en meget svær rute, så arbejder vi loyalt.

Det interessante spørgsmål er, hvorvidt de personer, der ikke arbejder for holdet og heller ikke vil arbejde på tværs af holdene, hvis det er nødvendigt, simpelthen mangler holdånd. Holdånden er demokratiets styrke, men kapitalismens akilleshæl.

De mennesker, der mangler holdånd i Spanien, hvor jeg bor, er gerne de velhavende. På grund af deres penge føler de sig bedre – tilsyneladende også moralsk bedre – end andre. De tager ud af byen til deres små ekstrahuse for at redde sig selv, fordi de kan. Men de tænker sjældent på, at de måske tager virus med til en landlig og afsides region, hvor der er få læger, men gerne mange ældre.

Sporten, som ellers bliver klandret for at være styret af penge, handler reelt om samarbejde. Det samme kan siges om fodbolden, hvor den bedste fodboldspiller Lionel Messi mangler et godt hold for at vinde. Alene kan han ikke. De, der tager ud i deres sommerresidens, hamstrer eller trodser forbud, fordi de ikke selv er i risiko, mangler den holdånd, der kan sikre en sejr.


På en måde er det sigende, at jo mere samfundsånden styrkes i disse dage, desto mere lider kapitalismen. Det er selvfølgelig hårdt og trist, at mange mennesker lider økonomisk, men det er også en del af kapitalismens natur.

Kapitalen er styret af socialdarwinismen perversion: Den stærkeste overlever. Men den stærkeste er ikke den rigeste, det er derimod den som kan arbejde sammen med andre.

Det er ikke, når aktiekurserne stiger, at vi er kommet igennem krisen. Nej, det er vi først, når vi igen kan begynde at afholde cykelløb og spille fodbold. Så kan vi igen mødes med vores venner, nede på baren, drikke og råbe sammen. Den eneste forskel er dog, at vi nu ved, at sporten har lært os mere om livet, end kapitalismen nogensinde har formået.

Bragt i Politiken, søndag den 22. marts.

Jeg har også deltaget i podcasten Aftenklubben på radio Nova omkring coronavirussen. Den kan høres her.

Deep ecology

“I’m not much interested in ethics or morals. I’m interested in how we experience the world.” – Arne Næss.

As a student of philosophy, I read the Norwegian philosopher Arne Næss’s books about modern philosophy. He wrote in an engaging and clear style that demonstrated deep philosophical breadth and he invited the reader to think along with him.

One of his strengths as a philosopher was this inviting, almost conversational style, which was related to his intuitive approach to life. By “intuitive,” I refer to something necessary—an open approach in which you follow life wherever it takes you, because it leaves you no possibility of escape.

To some extent, Næss made philosophy available to all. Ever since, I’ve always liked the idea that all people can learn to philosophize with a little training.

Years later, I was hiking in Norway and it was here I that I really came to appreciate Næss’s work on the deep ecology movement. On an intuitive level, I experienced the harmony and co-existence with nature that he often mentioned.

I hiked with a friend for 20 days. We spent the days walking, sitting, and observing. At one point, I noticed that I shared the same rhythm with the life around me. I experienced the interconnectedness found in nature.

Becoming one with nature

Næss called his brand of philosophy “eco-philosophy,” or “ecosophy,” which fuses the words “ecology” and “philosophy.”

In his work, he expanded on the concepts of existentialism and life-philosophies. At first, this might seem banal, but he treated both concepts with scholarly depth while connecting them with real-life experiences. This is always risky, especially for philosophers, who fear nothing more than being called “shallow” or having their views labelled “pop.”

However, what Næss emphasized was, for instance, that based on solid scrutiny of some part of your life (such as your work or your partner), you can evaluate how much joy or sadness that particular aspect brings. Furthermore, we always have the choice of changing how we respond to what happens, so we have to assume some responsibility for the quality of our lives.

Næss was, among others, inspired by Rachel Carson’s 1962 book Silent Spring, which alerted the world to the dangers of the misuse of pesticides. The book opens dramatically with, “There was once a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings.”

Nature was once noisy and full of life, and then came devastating silence, according to Carson—the silence of the death of nature. “No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of new life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves,” she said.

The challenge for Carson, and later Næss, was figuring out how to change human attitudes towards pollution and pesticides; that is, how to change our relationship with the world.

Within his “ecosophy,” Næss linked people and nature. Ecosophy is “relational thinking,” he said, emphasizing that nothing lives in isolation. “The larger world becomes part of our own interest,” he wrote in Ecology, community, and lifestyle: Outline of an Ecosophy. Thus, everything is connected.

One of Næss’s key concepts was “self-realization,” which shouldn’t be mistaken for self-centeredness or egoism. Rather, it’s more of an ongoing and respectful process of becoming one with nature.

This is what many, including myself, often experience during longer periods of engagement with the natural world. Some experience something similar during meditation as a way of fine-tuning their relationship with the world.

Everything has intrinsic value

Another key idea for Næss was that everything has intrinsic value. Therefore, we shouldn’t use nature as a means to achieving something else.

Unfortunately, many see nature as a resource to be used for our benefit, which is partly due to the instrumental thinking that seems to permeate most of our education and activity today. For example, many view nature as something “out there,” whereas nature is actually part of us.

Similarly, the destructive mantra of economic growth, which only leads to stress, has nothing in common with spiritual growth. Nurturing your spiritual growth also means nurturing the growth of all other forms of life.

For this reason, Næss tried to move our care for the environment from the sphere of ethics to the sphere of ontology. For this to be helpful, we need to re-examine how we perceive and understand our world as we gradually become one with it, and develop a participatory and compassionate understanding of our relationship with life.

Næss was not only highly skilled in the classical history of philosophy, he was also influenced by Gandhi’s thinking. His meshing of Gandhi’s thoughts and Spinoza’s ethics of joy made his philosophy rather original. He emphasized the importance of respecting alternative ways of living even when he disagreed with them.

As he said in an interview, cited in Ecology, community, and lifestyle, “I think that intellectuals might consider their intellects in a more Spinozistic way, and cultivate … a loving attitude towards what (they) have insight into … without making the terrible mistake of becoming sentimental or fanatical.”

The deep ecology movement

A good introduction to Næss and the deep ecology movement is The Ecology of Wisdom: Writings by Arne Næss, which has an excellent preface and introduction by Alan Drengson and Bill Devall (two other prominent figures within this environmental movement). As it says in the introduction, “Mindful practice brings our ecosophy alive from moment to moment. Love and care live only in the present.”

Another option is the film The Call of the Mountain: Arne Naess and the Deep Ecology Movement (1997), which offers an interesting portrait of the man, his philosophy and the movement. Filmmaker Jan van Boeckel teamed up with Arne Næss himself to capture the spirit of the philosopher in his natural habitat, the mountains of Norway.

Regardless of what medium you choose to use, studying Næss is always a good place to start when you want to awaken or reawaken your relationship with nature.

First published in The Mindful Word

The Illusion of Transparency

Together with Wafa Khlif and Coral Ingley, I just published the book called “The Illusion of Transparency in Corporate Governance.“

Here we’re questioning whether transparency help or hinder true ethical conduct.

As we write:

Transparency is generally seen as a corporate priority and a central attribute for promoting business growth and social morality. From a philosophical perspective, society has experienced a gradual paradigm shift which intensified after the Second World War with the advent of the information era. As a fundamental part of an inescapable, hegemonic capitalist system and given the insistent emphasis on it as a moral imperative, transparency, this book avers, needs to be examined and challenged as to its true governance value in building a sustainable twenty-first century society. Rather than clinging to the fantasy of complete transparency as the only form of accountability, corporate governance is strengthened in this way by practicing true social responsibility, which emerges not from outward-looking compliance but from a deeper place in the corporate psyche through inward-looking contemplation and the development of moral maturity. 

See more about the book here.

A mindful philosophy

“The artist is a seer, a becomer,” wrote the philosopher Gilles Deleuze and the psychiatrist Félix Guattari in their book, What Is Philosophy?

I thought of this quote the other day, when a student of mine asked me, “What are you: a meditator or a philosopher?”

I’m not sure whether there is—or has to be—a difference, I told her, “I’m a philosopher who meditates. I guess like a carpenter, schoolteacher or football player sometimes does that, too.”

“So to philosophize is, in a way, to meditate,” she said.

“Yes.”

I’m certain that no one philosophizes without paying attention. The philosopher is a seer, I believe, or to put this in simpler, less romantic terms: To think requires us to be aware of what’s happening inside ourselves as well as outside in society.

Let me share a few thoughts from Deleuze that may show how philosophy is related to mindfulness or meditation. Let’s call it a mindful philosophy.

The writer as artist

The writer as artist has seen something—something that he or she passes on, in a way, that gives the reader enhanced access to this world.

For instance, a novel or a memoir is a communication of experiences that typically involve ethics and knowledge. A novel answers the question of how a person acts, reflects, thinks and feels during certain circumstances. This is why literature can be a way of gaining experiences that make us more mature, as it allows us to experience other forms of life.

Like the philosopher, the writer as artist is a seer and he or she confronts the reader with his or her ethical limitations. Deleuze states that “In the act of writing there’s an attempt to make life something more than personal, to free life from what imprisons it.” (from Negotiations)

To write is to resist

This means, among other things, resisting the urge to follow the dominant fantasies and ideas controlling our lives—just think of status anxiety. And yet, to resist means, first and foremost, to resist death.Report this ad

For this reason, you write to give the unborn a possibility to live freely; that is, to live a healthy life. The writer is affirming life when he or she sets free what lives.

“To affirm is to unburden: not to load life with the weight of higher values, but to create new values which are those of life, which make life light and active,” Deleuze stresses in Nietzsche & Philosophy (italics in original).

To release, set free and create values in life—this is why we want to spend time with certain writers. They extend our boundaries.

Writing and meditation

Now, let me be even more specific. I meditate so that my life can become meditative; that is, so I can let life pass through me while I try to pass on or affirm what lives.

The writer is generous when he or she passes on life. This idea also indicates that to produce art (or think philosophically), there has to be something at stake—a matter of life and death.

“A creator who isn’t grabbed around the throat by a set of impossibilities is no creator,” Deleuze says in Negotiations.

So, just imagine being grabbed by the throat. It’s not necessarily a nice image, but it’s essential. To breathe is to live. It’s basic.

Through meditation or writing (and perhaps other activities, as well), I confirm on a daily basis my intention to affirm what lives, to actualize that which is in the midst of becoming alive. And I do see this as a kind of resistance.

The capacity to pay attention

Today we live in a world in which people exploit themselves in their quest for status, prestige and power. We live in a world in which some repress and discriminate against others due to differences in race, gender, sexual preference and more.

Inequalities are growing. People are scared. The news is fake.

And yet, what I propose is that we, through meditation or philosophy, cultivate our capacity to pay attention to what we don’t want to pass on (for instance, discrimination), but also to what’s worth affirming (such as love and friendship).

Seeing means making contact with what happens and being connected with life. Becoming sensuous is also related to our capacity to be affected, which is crucial to experiencing, but also to experimenting and transforming—creating alternative ways of living, feeling and thinking.

Today, we need to do more than just address inequalities. We need to create lives that are lived beyond any rigid identities, whether we’re speaking of race, gender or some other identifier. It’s here that mindfulness can help people become more sensible and aware.

I don’t wish to claim that we, as artists, meditators or philosophers, are better than others—of course not. We can all learn to “see” and philosophize, with a little help from meditation and maybe some encounters with Kierkegaard along the way.

Once we begin paying attention, we also begin to question things, so it turns out the student questioning me was already ahead of me. That being said, I guess I’m just a student who’s occasionally disguised as a teacher!

First published in The Mindful Word

Tolstoy & marshmallows

In Leo Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich, the main character’s mind tends to wander in both time and space. “In court he found his mind wandering; he would be miles away, wondering whether to have plain or moulded cornices with his curtains.”

Mind-wandering

In the 1960s and ’70s, psychologist Walter Mischel’s “Marshmallow Experiment” proved that mind-wandering is, among other things, related to self-control. In these studies, nursery school children were offered a choice between one small reward provided immediately, or a larger reward provided later—one versus a handful of marshmallows. Before the children could receive the larger reward, they had to wait for a short period of time (approximately 15 minutes), during which they were left alone.

Some children couldn’t take their minds off the marshmallow there in front of them; they ate it as quickly as possible. On the other hand, some were good at distracting themselves. Years later, during follow-up studies, the researcher found that in general, the children who showed self-discipline and waited had a higher level of well-being. Here, mind-wandering was positive. Therefore, being able to think about the future might not be as devastating as some self-help gurus claim.

Conversely, in other circumstances, mind-wandering may be considered a waste of time; that is, lacking benefit. Again, this comes down to whether we’re able to distinguish between long-term and short-term rewards and whether we agree on the value of those rewards. For example, in most Western countries, young people are often encouraged to drop the sabbatical year and finish school as quickly as possible, in order to become “real” citizens with jobs. However, for some, a year of travelling, reflection, or doing nothing may help them find their true vocation. The point is, we seldom know the outcome beforehand. Life is an experiment. We don’t formulate questions before we face something that makes us think.

In the “Marshmallow Experiment,” the children knew the consequences, but for many aspects of life, we don’t know. At times, we distract ourselves because we don’t dare face ourselves. To truly know ourselves, we must have the courage to take care of ourselves—stretch our comfort zones. The process of maturing, therefore, requires patience.

Thus, whether mind-wandering is beneficial or not depends on our capacity to distinguish between profit and benefit, with the former belonging to the capitalistic sphere and the latter to the existential realm. The main difference between profit and benefit is that someone else can always carry out activities that produce profit (the definition of economy is the organization of scarcity; that is, competition), whereas what’s beneficial to me depends on my experience of moments I don’t wish to outsource.

The problem with Ivan Ilyich in Leo Tolstoy’s masterful story is that his wandering mind isn’t beneficial to him. His mind wanders because he doesn’t want to live his life, although no one else can do it for him. Not only does Ivan Ilyich neglect living in the present moment, he also seems to be disconnected within himself. He lives as if he doesn’t have faith in life. He lives as if he’s already out of this world: dead.

The man who never seems to live

The Death of Ivan Ilyich is the story of a man who, throughout most parts of his life, never seems to live.

One day, when climbing a stepladder, Ivan Ilyich slips and falls. He passes off the accident as “only a bruise.” Yet, the bruise is the beginning of him becoming aware of his own death, as the bruise turns into an unbearable pain that slowly drags all the energy out of him. In the late stages of his undiagnosed illness, he wonders whether he has actually lived a happy life and whether his present suffering is a result of his careless lifestyle. It becomes apparent that his general lack of trust in life’s events makes him doubtful and insecure. He hasn’t been paying attention to his life.

Tolstoy doesn’t present us with concrete answers to the existential and spiritual questions the story raises regarding how we should live. On the contrary, he shows us that dying an unhappy and unpeaceful death is the result of not living as fully as possible.

Ivan Ilyich simply has too many doubts. Has he been living a life of ignorance, without seeing, knowing, or even being aware that life one day ends? As Tolstoy writes, “All his life the syllogism he had learned from Kiesewetter’s logic—Julius Caesar is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caesar is mortal—had always seemed to him to be true only when applied to Caesar, certainly not to him.”

Like many others, Ilyich forgets or finds it difficult to accept that he, too, is a mortal being. He seems to neglect the fact that he doesn’t own his life, regardless of the amount of material possessions and titles he gathers.

Life passes through us, changing us, and there are no certainties in life except death. All we can do is protect and care for the joyful interactions that we have with life in the best way possible, depending on our circumstances and our capacity to do so.

We learn from overcoming obstacles; for instance, distracting ourselves from the marshmallow. Yet, we can also learn from investigating or unfolding the moment; that is, seeing our own reactions to the marshmallow as the object of our investigation. What are we capable of? Why should we not eat it now? If we hate marshmallows, then eating one is, after all, better than eating five!

A life worth living

Experiencing a happy death is to avoid an ending like that of Ivan Ilyich, who can’t stop wondering whether, “I’ve been wrong in the way I’ve lived my life.”

Has he? Have I? Have you? How can we enhance the likelihood that our deaths will be peaceful and serene, and not be burdened by regret and remorse? How can each of us become more likely to live a life worth living?

These questions are fundamental to Tolstoy’s story and at the heart of all philosophical thinking and practice. The tentative answer is to experience death as part of living. It requires attention (and perhaps, also, a little less self-deception!) to notice that the wrinkles are already there.

We are dying because we are living. Death is never really our death. It comes from the outside, yet it awaits us all.

First published in The Mindful Word

Quiero saber qué es el amor

“Quiero saber qué es el amor”, cantó la banda de rock británico-estadounidense Foreigner en los años ochenta. Estaban lejos de ser originales. Por el contrario, el amor ha sido elevado, cuestionado, estereotipado, usado y mal utilizado desde el comienzo de la existencia humana. En la cultura popular, el concepto de amor se ha trivializado hasta el punto de que podríamos sorprendernos cuando, a veces, nos enamoramos de todos los clichés y el sentimentalismo. Aunque la banda de rock puede no ser original, todavía plantea una pregunta universal.

Lee el resto de mi texto “Kierkegaard y el concepto del amor como fuerza política” que presenté en al Universidad Andina Simón Bolívar, Quito, Ecuador.

Kierkegaard: Love, literature & life

“Loving people is the only thing worth living for.” – Søren Kierkegaard

I will be participating in the “Ciclo de conferencias ‘Europa en la cultura'” held at the Universidad Andina Simón Bolívar, Ecuador.

The conference takes place next week.

Tuesday the 10th of December, I will be given a talk on “Kierkegaard and the concept of love as a political force.”

“Everything I do I do with love, and so I also love with love,” Kierkegaard writes in Either-Or.

***

The following two days, the 11th and 12th respectively, I will be organizing two seminars or lectures on “Philosophy, literature and a new therapeutical approach to life.”

During these seminars, I will relate my thoughts to philosophers such as Deleuze, Weil, Murdoch and Wittgenstein to both problematize our current achievement society, as well as proposing possible escape routes. To strengthen my argument, I will–briefly–refer to artists such as Olafur Eliasson, Karl Ove Knausgård, Marcel Proust, Virginia Woolf and Roberto Bolaño.

If you happen to be in Quito, Ecuador, you’re welcome!

Catching life

Recently, I bought a boxset with the Television series Twin Peaks and David Lynch’s book Catching the Big Fish. 

“Ideas are like fish”, Lynch writes. “If you want a little fish, you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish, you’ve got to go deeper.” It is well-known that Lynch uses transcendental meditation to go deeper. Everything there is, comes from the deepest level, he says, which modern physics call the Unified Field.  “The more your consciousness—your awareness—is expanded, the deeper you go towards this source, and the bigger the fish you can catch.”

Reading this little book while watching Twin Peaks was illuminating. For example, the series opens with the log women speaking and telling us what it’s all about, she ends up saying: “Laura is the one.” 

She, Laura Palmer, is the Unified Field. Everything that happens in Twin Peaks, is related to her: Laura Palmer. 

The whole series is drawing a map of a complex totality as a way of gradually going deeper and deeper. For example, in later episodes, the log women speaks about dreams and ideas. The FBI special agent Dale Coper often gets his ideas, or clear up a misunderstanding, in his dreams, perhaps as an illustration of the “hidden” potential that lies deep within – something unconscious, something still unknown, waiting to actualized.

I recall seeing the series when I lived in small town (some years younger than the young bunch of main characters, some of which I found both cool and very attractive back then). Twin Peaks caught my attention like no other series had before (and not like anyone else had until I saw the first season of True Detective). 

Lynch, reminds me of the Danish poet and film instructor Jørgen Leth, who I once wrote a book about. (I encountered Leth’s poems and films more or less at the same time, I saw Twin Peaks). Leth is also semi-inspired by a humble philosophy where you’re open for whatever happens; you take it, whatever it is, and use it as good as you can. In continuation of Leth (and later with the Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño), I’ve tried to develop a poetic and attentive philosophy, where the senses are all active. 

Both Lynch and Leth mention how certain coincidences that happened at their filmset later were integrated into their films, making them better. They both believe that time should be allowed to unfold as it unfolds. Time is not a passive medium within which acts are placed; rather, time is immanent “within” action, when opening for or making another possible future actual. They both believe that everything is connected.

I emphasize that everything is connected or interconnectivity, recalling the Norwegian eco-philosopher Arne Næss who once said something like: if I destroy another life, I also destroy myself to some degree. Why? Because relations compose who I am, who we are. Relating this idea to a small community like Twin Peaks, then the life of each one of the characters is not sustainable without the others, and vice versa. The death of Laura Palmer is, therefore, not only a tragedy for her and her closest relations; rather, it’s an attack on the social bonds that holds this community together. 

Perhaps Twin Peaks can be seen as how fragile or vulnerable these social bonds are when we focus on money, power, greed and hate, and how these bonds can be strengthen through friendships, honesty, trust … stressing something like an equal value of all lives. For example, special agent Dale Coper listens to all citizens with equal care and interest, even those we (the viewers) might look at with skepticisms. He is a fairly good person.

Seeing Twin Peaks and reading this little simple book brought me back to my own youth—perhaps not as something deeper (not sure I agree with Lynch’s vertical metaphor)—but as an expanding of my consciousness, reconnecting with these basic social bonds of love, care and friendships. Catching moments of life.

In a way, re-watching Twin Peaks made me recall how ethics is generous. It gives or shares without asking for anything because it passes on what cannot be owned: love, friendship or social bonds.  

Isn’t philosophy’s first virtue to be humble as in curious, open, available?  

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