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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Stoic Practices: Journaling

Journaling has been with me, on and off, for nearly forty-five years. On some days, the entries were little more than chores and frustrations. On other days, they carried the weight of loss, joy, or change. Whatever the tone, the act itself has always mattered. To pause, to write, to take stock is how I come to see myself more clearly. Marcus Aurelius did the same. His Meditations were not written for us, but for himself. They were reminders, small reckonings. Nearly two thousand years later, they are still read because the practice of setting words against the day is timeless.
In our age, the tools are different. My notebooks have become apps, and now even conversations with ChatGPT. Yet the heart of it is unchanged. To journal is to notice: gratitude, struggle, hope. To admit when I’ve fallen short. To celebrate when I’ve grown. Others across history, such as Augustine, Montaigne, Thoreau, Anne Frank, and Virginia Woolf, all wrote for themselves first, and their private pages later guided generations. We may never write for the world, but the habit still shapes us. Journaling is not about being profound. It is about being honest. And honesty, practiced day by day, is the soil of wisdom.

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A Flicker Toward Life

It was one of those days that left me both drained and restless. The kind of day that yanks you in every direction and leaves you replaying every moment in your head. By the time I sat down to journal, the day already felt like a blur—frustration, hard choices, and a fragile spark of hope all tangled together. Writing helped me find its shape. The Stoics would call it evening reflection. Wesleyans might call it examen or discernment. Either way, it’s how I pulled a heavy, scattered day into some kind of order.
That night, I saw a flicker of determination in my mom’s words. She had been saying for weeks, “I’m tired, I’m ready to go.” But this time she spoke of rehab, of getting better. It wasn’t conviction, but it mattered. Seneca once said, “Sometimes even when the body is weak, the mind can still rally.” I saw that rally in her, small though it was.
And along the way, there was gratitude—even humor. A friend had kept me talking for nearly ninety minutes on the road, filling the time with what he called his “landscaping philosophy.” Later, when I thanked him for knowing I needed company, he laughed. “You’re giving me too much credit. I just found someone willing to listen to me drone on about mulch and hedges.” That laughter mattered. Gratitude mattered. In days like this, even the smallest things carry weight.

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Stoicism Journey: Evening Reflection

We’ve all had days we wish we could do over — moments of frustration, things said too quickly, or chances missed. At night, the mind often replays them with no resolution. The Stoics gave us another way. The practice of Evening Reflection invites us to examine the day with honesty, take note of our missteps and our better moments, and prepare to live more intentionally tomorrow. It’s simple, quiet, and backed by modern science. You don’t need special tools — just a few minutes and a willingness to learn from your own life.

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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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