Thy Will be done,
On earth as it is in Heaven." - Matthew 6:10
Folly (ˈfä-lē):
"Beware the barrenness of a busy life" - Socrates
McKeown starts this chapter with story of Mahatma Gandhi, a man who started his adult life thinking that he would become a barrister and ended his life pursing the liberation of the oppressed, ultimately seeing the independence of India. Gandhi, suggest McKeown, the essence of the Essentialist life: having found his purpose, he removed everything that did not serve it, a process he called "reducing himself to zero". He wove cloth and wore it. He avoided all newspapers as "their contents only added non-essential confusion to his life." He simplified his diet. He went days without speaking. At his death, he owned less than ten things. He never - intentionally - held political office, yet became the Father of his Nation.
It is impossible, suggests McKeown, to argue with the statement that Gandhi lived a life that mattered.
We are all not Gandhi - nor should we be. But, McKeown suggests, we can purge of our lives of the non-essentials and live the way of an Essentialist, each in our own way.
There are two ways of thinking about Essentialism. The first is something that we practice occasionally, something we try to fit into our lives as yet another thing that we have to "pack in". The second is to think of it as something that we are, something that is intrinsic to us.
Essentialism finds its itself embedded in many spiritual and religious traditions. Whether as founders of religion or as reformers, the call to the essentials of a faith and its cousin, simplicity, are in almost every major religious tradition, And this extends to philosophers and men and women of all walks of life: anyone can embrace the way of the Essentialist.
Like many things in life, McKeown suggests that the Non-essentialist runs the risk of minoring in the majors. The Non-essentialist has non-essentials at their core; they can never - without reversing the two - reach the essentials on a long term basis:
09 December 20XX+1
My Dear Lucilius:
Snow again.
By snow I mean a sheet of snowfall so constant and so white that it completely blanks out any attempt to see more than a few feet. It roared in last night, borne on a wind that howled not so much with the souls of the damned as much as the souls of civilizations that have disappeared.
Going outside is useless beyond a few feet. I have tied my ropes to the outhouse and green house as I do every Winter; this time I do not know that I could make it back without them. I also essayed getting out to try and check on others, but gave up within twenty feet of the house; I had no idea if I could find my way back.
There will be not much of anything done until this blows over.
I have endeavored to keep the front door clear and enough around the Cabin that I can use a rake to pull the snow off from time to time, and have tried (not very successfully) to clear paths to the outhouse and greenhouse. To both; I have tried to not enter the greenhouse at all to preserve whatever residual warmth may be left. This has left me frozen, sweaty, and hot at one or more points during this exercise.
On the way to the outhouse one can see the beehives, heavily wrapped for Winter and standing like lone sentinel rocks in a bay. They, too, need their snow occasionally removed.
Heavy snow was not a thing I had ever seen growing up. You remember as well as I do our childhood, with its occasional few inches or even foot of snow that was enough to slide on or perhaps coax a small snowman out of, snow that was good for a day or two and then melted to slush, retreating to the shadowed corners of yard and house.
Not now, Lucilius, not now.
I have driven Pompeia Paulina to distraction with my pacing and worrying to the point that she actually ordered me to sit - quietly – for 20 minutes to give her some peace. I sat of course – never before have I seen such a side eye from my wife – but the worrying did not stop.
Has snow happened here? Of course it does; every year. Sometimes heavy snow. And even with power outages at times. But between that snow and those power outages were things like power that came back on and places one could go to restock and refuel. There is none of that now, of course.
And nothing to be done for it.
I write this, bundled up even with the stove radiating heat. In a bit I will go back out, clear the paths again, pull what snow I can down, bring in more of the wood – and we will hunker down. Again.
Outside, I can hear the howl of the wind. It is ridiculous to think that I can hear the snow borne on the wind as it crashes into the house or piles on the ground, but I swear I do.
Your Obedient Servant, Seneca
One of several ponds with fish in the aiport:
The Singapore Changi Airport is approximately 25 square kilometers (9.7 square miles) and is rated as the 15th busiest airport in the world, handling 67.7 million passengers in 2024. It is also the recipient of numerous "Best Airport" awards.
Looking outside. Outside of Costa Rica, I do not think I have ever been in a tropical country.
The Ravishing Mrs. TB is currently staying with her mother as she has had her second knee surgery (which is going splendidly). Fortunately for me, I have roommates to come home to in her absence: