Stoic Practices: Attention to the Present Moment

Attention does not have to be grand or mystical. It can be a high-school band, thirty students and a tuba, finding themselves perfectly in tune for a few minutes. It can be a quiet morning at The Portico, folding a tablet closed to listen to a man just released from prison. The Stoics called this prosoche—the discipline of attention—and believed it was the core of a good life. When we show up fully in the small moments, we discover what Marcus Aurelius meant when he said the present is the only thing that truly belongs to us.

Modern life makes this harder. Our phones, notifications, and meetings tempt us to drift through our days in fragments. Yet each act of genuine presence pushes back against that fragmentation. In a distracted world, paying attention is an act of resistance and of love. It is how we reclaim the texture of our days and rediscover the quiet pulse of a life well lived.

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Living the Last Best Moment – A Stoic Practice

Greta Gerwig once said, “You don’t know when the last time of something happening is. You don’t know what the last great day you’ll spend with your best friend is. You’ll just know when you’ve never had that day again.” That line has echoed in me ever since I first heard it. It captures both the sweetness and fragility of the present moment.
The Stoics knew this well. Marcus Aurelius warned against drifting into tomorrow, reminding himself that life is lived only in the day at hand. Seneca told us that we waste time as if it were endless. For them, attention to the present was not a poetic thought. It was survival. It was also the way to live a life worth remembering.
I think of an afternoon long ago with my friend Jim, shooting pool at his parents’ house. Or a fall day on a golf course with my friend Mike, pausing to look over Moss Lake together. Neither seemed extraordinary at the time. Yet they have stayed with me as “last great days.” The lesson is clear: if I want to live fully, I must live here, in this moment, as if it could be the last best one.

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Expecting Trouble-Premeditatio Malorum

Trouble will come. That is not a threat. It is the world as it is. Premeditatio malorum is simple training for a steady heart. Picture what could go wrong. Picture your first response. Keep it short. Keep it concrete. You cannot script life. You can be ready to meet it. Then even hard days make room for small good things. A call from a friend. Light on the trees at dusk. Thanks for what remains.

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Memento Mori: A Practice for the Living

We don’t know how much gas is left in the tank. That truth, far from morbid, can be a guide to living with gratitude, courage, and clarity.

Memento Mori is the Stoic reminder that life is finite. For me, it has meant fewer grudges, more calls to friends, and a better sense of when to set work aside. It has reminded me that my “last great days” may already have happened, or they may still be ahead—but I will only recognize them if I am paying attention.

This is not about fearing death. It is about remembering life. When we keep the end in view, even quietly, the days we have become more precious and more alive.

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Stoic Practices: The Dichotomy of Control

The Dichotomy of Control teaches that some things are up to us and some are not. My own health journey and a job loss taught me that lesson in very different ways. Both proved the same point: act fully where you can, and accept what you cannot change.

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The Graduation Gift

A framed silhouette of my niece, standing before the mountains at sunset, carries a message for her high school graduation: “Behind you, all your memories. Before you, all your dreams. Around you, all who love you. Within you, all you need.” It is a blessing, but also a challenge — to live with gratitude for the past, purpose in the present, and trust in the strength we already carry. In its quiet way, it’s pure Stoic wisdom.

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Do We Define Our Stories, or Do They Define Us?

On an early morning walk, I queued up a podcast to pass the miles. By the time I’d finished mowing the lawn a few hours later, I was hearing my own life in a new way. Psychologist Jonathan Adler was explaining how the stories we tell about ourselves can either close our world or open it. Redemption stories, he said, often lead to hope and growth. Contamination stories do the opposite.

It sounded strikingly familiar. The Stoics taught that we cannot control what happens, but we can control the meaning we give it. Their nightly reflections were, in a way, acts of storytelling—choosing which moments to carry forward and how to frame them. Modern psychology and ancient philosophy were meeting in the same place, and I realized I’d been practicing this without knowing it.

We may not get to choose every plot twist, but we can decide how to tell the tale. And that choice might just shape the life we live next.

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Boone, Facebook, and Marcus Aurelius…Oh My

I came across a meme that read, “There are two places you need to go often: The place that heals you. The place that inspires you.” It struck me deeply, because for me, one of those places is Boone, North Carolina, where I went to college. But as I reflected on that idea through the lens of Stoic philosophy, I realized the Stoics might offer a very different kind of guidance: to go inward. This essay explores the contrast, and surprising harmony, between modern healing and ancient inner retreat.

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Amor Fati: Love What Happens

In a time of political unrest, personal uncertainty, and social fracture, the ancient Stoic idea of Amor Fati — to love one’s fate — offers a powerful challenge. Not to surrender to injustice, but to meet it with clarity, courage, and compassion. This essay reflects on the tension between acceptance and action, drawing on Marcus Aurelius, the Serenity Prayer, and a timely conversation with Rev. Justin LaRosa to explore how we can live fully and faithfully in the world we have, not just the one we wish for.

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Joy in the Margins

“Joy doesn’t cancel out the heavy things, but it gives you little pockets of strength to carry on. Let it in, whenever and wherever you can.” Joy isn’t a finish line. It’s a companion. A weird, sometimes inappropriately timed companion. It shows up when you need it, not when you deserve it. In this reflection, I explore how small moments of joy can help carry us through the weight of the world, with a little humor and maybe even a rubber chicken.

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Getting Back Up

There’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel restful. It doesn’t come with peace, but with the absence of direction, of companionship, of the little structures that give shape to a day. I felt that type of quiet this past Wednesday. Not the calm kind I enjoy on my early morning walks, but something uneasy. An emptiness after the full rush of last week. Last week, I had a purpose. But then came Wednesday: quieter, aimless, still. No appointments. No Teams meetings. No urgent tasks. Just me, in a room that felt too quiet.

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