“Heraclitus says somewhere that ‘all things move and nothing stays,’ and likening beings to the flow of a river, says, ‘you can not step in the same river twice.’” — Plato, Cratylus, 402a
We want to be better — it’s only natural.
Moving closer to our values and learning to live them out has many benefits, and this transformation is at the heart of good philosophy. People start down the path and quickly observe their practice and inner discourse improving them in ways obvious and invisible.
First comes the rapid advance of the “newb gains,” in which we gorge on low-hanging fruit. Yet most of us arrive at a plateau after the easy wins sputter out.
Things slow down. Maybe it feels like we’ve hit a wall.
But this stasis — the long plateau of stagnation — is an illusion.
There are only two states: improving and regressing. Or put another way, there’s only one state: change. The knife is sharpened or it dulls. We grow wealthier or poorer, through the dollars and cents may shift infinitesimally.
Entropy stalks us in the night, and having observed a thousand systems, scientists insist that all states slip toward disorder. Stars burn themselves out. Civilizations crumble.
Only by spending finite energy is a rotting edifice replaced with something sound. A broken bone may heal stronger than it was before, but only if the body has resources to spare.
We’re loath to pay for this anti-entropy, for the raw currency of effort and attention are ever in short supply, and dear to us.
Yet because I grow figs, tomatoes, and malabar spinach, I’m committed to an unwinnable war against weeds and drought. Medieval scribes spent whole lives bent over manuscripts, copying, their backs and hands aching, their eyes straining in the dim light. A rearguard battle for knowledge and civilization itself were judged sufficient justification. Today, I read Plato and Seneca and thank them for their tithe, and my belly will thank me tomorrow for the feast I’ve wrestled from entropy’s grasp.
Fighting this rear-guard battle may seem like stagnation, but can’t be.
One of philosophy’s oldest paradoxes is the “Ship of Theseus.” The Athenian ship — which supposedly carried Theseus to Crete to slay the minotaur — was hundreds of years old by the first century B.C., yet the Athenians valued it so greatly that they maintained it across generations. Plank by plank, rope by rope, nail by nail, they replaced its rotting parts.
And so philosophers wondered — is this still the ship Theseus sailed on the wine-dark sea, with all of its replica parts? Or have the Athenians created something new?
I will not weigh in on the ancient debate, but I feel something else is more important — whatever the Athenians did to that old ship, it did something more important to them.
Individuals and cultures can’t help but be transformed by their commitment to ideals. To fight for a temporary victory over entropy transforms us. Standing our ground in hurricane force winds may be a far harder than the low-hanging fruit feast that brought us to the spot
I long ago decided that I shouldn’t judge progress by physical reality alone. The true test is how reluctantly I take up hard tasks that should be done.
Every time we shirk what we know is right, we’re backsliding and losing ground, though material reality might appear unchanged.
Seneca put it this way:
“…most of progress consists in being willing to make progress…they will indeed slip backward if they do not persevere in their struggle and their progress: if they relax their efforts, their faithful determination, they must necessarily lose ground. No one abandons the cause and then takes it up again at the same point.” — Seneca, Letters, 71.36-37
And how do we ensure that we’re willing to make progress, that we can realistically take up the call when required? Preserving and growing our ability to choose hard things and follow through without anyone holding us accountable may be the greatest training.
I think this is at the heart of ancient Stoic ideas about voluntary hardship. Jumping into the frigid lake when warm fires beckon, lifting heavy things when modern conveniences have removed the need, and summoning the energy to meet a self-imposed deadline when we’d rather slack is what preserves our ability to progress and ensures that we’re growing.
This isn’t just about physical endurance but moral and mental fortitude, about being able to act rightly when no one’s watching.
So we pull the weeds, grind our knives on the whetstone, and choose the harder path no one demands of us. It’s not about beating entropy, but being the sort of person who can.
It doesn’t matter where the ship of Theseus is sailing or the current state of its mast. The better question: are we the kind of people who’ll try to keep it afloat?
Thanks for reading Socratic State of Mind.
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