Human beings are a remarkably fickle species. We crave novelty to such an extent that we, more often than not, fail to take stock of where we are or what we have right now and become laser-focused on what we don't have, or want to add to our "toy stack" in the future. We move from "I can't wait for this or that [insert tech toy of choice/looked forward to sporting event or award show/ vacation or any special event]" to having obtained, attended/viewed, checked off the list to rapidly rendering this "can't wait for" event to the rubbish heap as we place the new "Man, oh, man I can't wait" event/item onto the treadmill.

          To some degree this is a good trait in humans, it keeps us striving toward goals, motivates us to create, to do, to experience, but, it does have its down side. If we fail to be happy with what we have right now, what we have accomplished, or have experienced and are always valuing what we don't have or haven't done then we are in the territory of never being satisfied.

          The Stoics urged a harsh "spiritual exercise" to wake ourselves up to the bounty around us so that we may enjoy what we do have with fresh eyes. We are urged to hug a loved one while we mentally recite the phrase "This one will die, too, just as everything dies." Cheery, huh? Now, admittedly that is a glum thing to advise but if we are able to capture the intent of the meaning it is quite useful, we are all starkly aware of just how much closer we feel towards those around us when in the midst or on the heels of a tragic or almost tragic event. Funerals often draw some people closer, a near-miss in an accident, an almost dissolved dear relationship, or a false-positive diagnosis slaps us in the face with reality and for a time we look at what is already in our grasp with both deep appreciation and utter longing to hold tightly to it.

          The only drawback to these precious times following precarious events is often that the "count your blessings effect" is temporary. We fickle forgetful humans lull ourselves back into the daily grind of "Oh, I can't wait for..." or "You know what I wish I had?" and we see our gains in "Isn't this great!" slowly diminish. It is to this human fickleness that the Stoics advised us to make "minusing out" our loved ones or possessions a daily mental exercise. A dose of daily memento mori "Remember you must die" can and does go a long way to keep us grounded.

But there is an additional mental exercise we can use, that is just as powerful, just as useful, but far less grim. Here's a passage from Sextus Empiricus:

"The sun is, of course, much more amazing than a comet; yet because we see the sun constantly but the comet rarely we are so amazed by the comet that we even regard it as a divine portent, while the sun causes no amazement at all. If, however, we were to conceive of the sun as appearing only but rarely and setting rarely, and illuminating everything all at once and throwing everything into shadow suddenly, then we should experience much amazement at the sight."

That is a jaw-dropping insight. If we were to wake up to the realization that this fiery orb we see daily, this literal giver of life is absolutely without question extremely remarkable, then seeing the sun each day might carry more import than it currently does. And yet we carry on as if it were nothing and instead make much ado about distant balls of ice.

We can carry Empiricus' sun/comet analogy outside of astronomical observations and make attempts to see the people and possessions around us for the extraordinary people and things they may very well be. Why not take the good but perhaps stale relationships in your life and try to remember them as you first saw them? As the spouse that you did not want to live apart from. As the friend who made you laugh until you couldn't breathe at 3 AM? Why not see the current phone ever-clutched in your hand as the remarkable bit of miniaturized technological miracle that it is, number its features and revel in them as opposed to ever hankering for the next one.

          Sextus Empiricus tells us that we don't have to kill our loved ones and burn our possessions in our minds, but instead urges us to wake up to the sunshine that is already in our lives and to leave the questing after distant balls of ice to the astronomers.