Each night as I put my three-year-old son to bed we read our books, we sing our songs, and I tell myself that he may not survive to see the morning. When I revealed this to my mother the other night, she said it made her sick to her stomach. "How could you do that?" she asked. "How could you possibly think like that?" She sat on the couch in my living room, the light from the fire roaring in the fireplace danced across her face as she looked at me with earnest concern. I sat on the hearth and took a beat to digest the moment. Then I inhaled deeply, and started to explain. About two and a half years ago, I became fascinated with the philosophy known as Stoicism, an ancient school of thought that urges us to own the immediate present, and in doing so, to achieve true freedom—and, perhaps, even happiness. |
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