Have you ever wondered where your thoughts actually come from? Sounds like a weird question, I know. But bear with me. Take a moment and try to think of nothing at all. Just empty your mind. And hang in there for a second. Go on. Do it right now. I’ll wait. That was a bit awkward, wasn’t it? Because, if you actually tried, you’ll have noticed something interesting and at the same time slightly disturbing: When your mind is not actively doing anything—solving a math problem, say, or remembering a specific place or event—it will, all on its own, come up with something—anything—to think of. But “you”, the alleged owner of that mind, didn’t command it to think of that thing at this time, did you? Turns out, “you” are not quite as much in charge of which thoughts come up or don’t come up as you might have hoped. In my case, for example, I’ve just now been thinking of lunch, politics, running shoes, work, lunch (again), this blog post, the book on Afghanistan I’m currently reading, about whether or not to travel to India later this year, an unpleasant exchange I’ve had with a colleague the other day, and, once again, lunch. All within maybe a minute or so. If you’ve ever tried to meditate, this would be a very familiar experience. But even if not, this simple realization begs an interesting and quite fundamental moral question: If you’re not the sole author of your thoughts, who is? Where do they come from? And are “you” morally (and ultimately legally) responsible for them?

During my recent travels, I’ve spent a fair amount of time looking at statues of the Buddha. Doing so, I found myself marveling at the parallels between the physical characteristics of those depictions and the moral and ethical ideas that underpin his teachings. The kindness in the eyes, the relaxed posture that radiates with grace and dignity, the faint smile signaling deep calmness. But I also couldn’t help consider what it is that sets Buddhist philosophy apart from other religious or spiritual doctrines.

Almost three years ago, Covid-19 began to manifest itself as a global, historical turning point. Since then, its far-reaching consequences have been analyzed and written about in much detail. Despite an abundance of insightful pandemic stories on an institutional as well individual level, I feel compelled to provide one more personal anecdote. Not because I’m looking for praise for the few hours of weekly voluntary work I that I’m doing since then. But because the fact that an egocentric person like myself would suddenly feel an unshakable urge to give something back to society at precisely this moment in history highlights a fascinating, and often overlooked, aspect of human nature: Our innate desire to help others, even if that goes against our own selfish interests.

Meditating comes with an interesting side effect: When you’re sitting still and observing your own thoughts, you slowly start to appreciate how weird and quirky your mind actually is. That can be scary at times—for instance, you realize how little control “you” ultimately have over what’s going on in there. But it can also be highly instructive. One interesting thing I’ve come to notice, during as well as outside of formal meditation sessions, is how much the degree to which I feel “fidgety” varies from day to day and even from one situation to the next. There are times when it’s relatively easy to focus my attention at will, when there’s a slow undercurrent of calmness, rarely disturbed by intruding thoughts. But then, sometimes, the exact opposite is true: I’m feeling restless and unsteady, as if my mind is being yanked around between a thousand different things, all competing for limited cognitive resources. Engaging deeply with any one of those, however, becomes quite impossible. Instead, I’m caught in an endless loop of unproductive task switching. Running in high gear, but not going anywhere. Constantly distracting myself, and then distracting myself from the previous distraction.

I have referred to my meditation practice a few times now, but I realize that I never actually explained what I even mean by that. So, what is it that I do when I say I meditate? Why do I do it in the first place? And is it really worth the hassle? First, let me clarify what meditation, to me, is certainly not: It’s not “sitting around and thinking hard about a problem”—even though the term is frequently used in that sense in everyday language. But it’s also not “emptying one’s mind” or “trying not to think”. It’s also distinct from formal prayer in the Christian, Muslim, or Judaic sense. And it’s quite definitely not mind-wandering or daydreaming. Don’t get me wrong, all of these activities have their merits, and there’s a time and place for them—they’re just not what’y meant with meditation. Meditation instead is actually a very broad term that includes countless different techniques aimed at training, at better understanding, or even at changing the human mind.

One thing that never fails to astounds me is how far the boundaries of possible human experiences extend. The label “beyond good and evil” is certainly overused these days, but lets try to take the idea seriously for a moment: What do experiences look like that are so totally incomprehensible that you can’t even begin to speak about them, let alone chart them on a mental map. Think of the comfort zone model for example:

More than a year ago, I published this blog post about my daily routine. Since then I’ve received a lot of feedback, ranging from curiosity to mild encouragement to raised eyebrows. In essence though, the comments most people brought up boil down to three things: “This kind of lifestyle seems dull / repetitive / strenuous / masochistic. How do you find any joy in that?” “Isn’t it all just a fluke? Can you really keep these things up over the long-term?” “I see the point in what you’re doing, but I could never muster the motivation / willpower / determination to get started.” So, today I want to clear up some confusion around these concerns. What seems to be in question is on the one hand how to create the momentum that’s necessary to establish positive lifestyle changes in the first place, and on the other hand, how that momentum can be sustained over the long-haul by turning things that we know we ought to do into things we want to do. As we shall see, these topics are tightly interconnected. But let’s try to tackle them one at a time.

“We’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?” The Doctor Yes, I plucked that quote from a cheesy Doctor Who episode. Nevertheless, I think there’s a lot of truth to unpack here. So indulge me, if you will. I’ve been fascinated with stories for all my life. Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around being read to, and later reading myself, books about epic battles, about murder and deceit, about the lives and deaths of heroes and villains both real and fictional. And, for a short amount of time, I’ve even had a semi-professional interest in what makes a good story. But fun and innocent as it may seem, the reading, writing, or telling of stories actually is a lot more than a mere diversion for the bored mind.

The act of thinking is probably the most interesting human behavior, but one we usually pay very little attention to. But bear with me, and… think about it for just a second: What’s actually going on in your head when you think about anything? Or, when you try to think about nothing at all? And is that even possible? It’s likely that you’ll find that what we call thinking mostly consists of a strange, one-sided dialog: A semi-structured conversation between you and… Yourself? Not that this on its own isn’t weird enough already, sometimes that dialog is even obviously superfluous but still almost always present. For example, on my run this morning, I encountered a tiny bird fluttering around next to me. The thought “That’s an interesting little creature!” suddenly popped into my mind and thus became part of my inner monologue. But this statement itself didn’t add anything valuable to my experience; I had already seen the bird; I had become aware of its presence and its behavior. The thought that followed thus was just an encore, an addition to my ongoing stream of running commentary, which didn’t guide any action but merely… clarified? or tried to explain? or helped to solidify? my present experience.

Peak Mind by Amishi P. Jha. We’re all distracted, all of the time. More and more studies show that on average, we spend only 50% of our waking hours engaged with the present moment—the other half of the time we’re zoning out, ruminating, mind-wandering or daydreaming. Furthermore, research suggests that our ability to pay attention is on the decline. And why wouldn’t it be, given the increasing pace at which we’re assaulted by social media notifications, breaking news alerts, and instant messages. It’s no surprise that our minds, drowning in a sea of sensations without a chance for rest or respite, have a hard time to focus on anything at all. The dangers of this pervasive state of mindlessness are of course obvious in situations that depend on our ability to concentrate, whether you’re performing surgery on someone’s brain or simply driving a car. But not only does this constant running on auto pilot cause countless preventable errors of oversight or negligence. It’s also detrimental to our psychological wellbeing: Every time our minds are not truly present in the moment, we can’t fully enjoy our current experience, our social interactions become more and more shallow and less meaningful, our brains can only form inferior memories, and ultimately, we might miss out on what’s most valuable in our lives.

Getting people–others or ourselves–to do something that’s not obviously pleasurable is immensely tricky. Never mind if you want to start an exercise routine, eat healthier, or motivate someone to get their Covid-19 shot, the underlying challenge is always the same: In the short-term, it’s easier, less painful, or more convenient to simply avoid doing the “right” thing. So what can we do, in spite of that bias towards immediate gratification, to overcome the mind’s inbred inertia?

Seven Years in Tibet by Heinrich Harrer. My Journey to Lhasa by Alexandra David-Néel. I’m not sure why, but over the last few weeks I rediscovered a passion for adventure literature. Re-reading Heinrich Harrer’s “Seven Years in Tibet” led me down the rabbit-hole towards lesser known, but no less epic, tales such as Alexandra David-Néel’s “Journey to Lhasa”. Right now, I’m halfway through “Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage”, which details the horrors of the 1914 Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, and just when their ship finally gets crushed and the crew is forced to flee into the freezing wilderness of Antarctica, the central heating in my house breaks down.

I attended a great concert in Vienna this Friday night. Afterwards, on the way back to the apartment of the friends I was staying with, we passed a cafe where we had drinks a couple of times on previous occasions. Much to my surprise, the cafe was closed. I asked my friends what had happened - surely a location like this with thousands of concert goers passing by every night must be a gold mine? The tale my friends told was not only sad, but provided insight into an often overlooked tendency in human decision making: Our unwillingness to accept proposals we perceive as unfair, even if refusal comes at a personal cost to us.

Range by David Epstein. Roger Federer and Tiger Woods are two very different kinds of athletes. Each has achieved outstanding success in his field, but they took very different paths to get there: While Tiger Woods started playing golf before he could walk, Roger Federer experimented with a wide variety of sports before honing in on Tennis at a rather late age. David Epstein uses the stories of Roger and Tiger to start his book Range, in which he builds the case for shunning the "early specialization cult", as he puts it. The initial example is a two-edged sword though, as it doesn't really help to underpin his point. It rather illustrates two instances of highly successful athletes with very different backgrounds.