Reflection 2
IS PHILOSOPHICAL PRACTICE IN THE BUSINESS OF DISTRESS-RELIEF?
The philosopher’s goal, according to Plato, is not just to get out of the cave and bask in the sun, but to return to the cave and help fellow human beings. And we, as philosophical practitioners, have taken it upon ourselves to help others.
But to help how?
Certainly not every kind of help is philosophy’s task. It is not our role to cure sickness like medical doctors, or to entertain people like comedians, or to teach them how to make smart investments like business consultants. Our manner of helping is in the ways of wisdom.
But what does it mean to help in wisdom? What do we hope to achieve through our counseling? It seems to me that the common answers nowadays are deeply problematic, and that they should be re-examined and fundamentally modified.
If we ask philosophical counselors around the world: When do you feel that your counseling has been successful? I believe that a common answer (though by no means the only answer) would be something like: When I helped the counselee understand her predicament and make significant steps towards resolving it.
This answer seems to imply that the main task of practical philosophy is to help resolve personal problems (predicaments, issues, difficulties). Indeed, most counselees come to see us with a personal problem that distresses them, and it is presumably our task to help them advance towards a satisfactory resolution. The task of the philosophical practitioner, so it appears, is distress-relief.
I find this prevalent approach disturbing. To be sure, it is nice to feel that our counselees emerge out of our practice satisfied, but is problem-resolution or distress-relief all we, as philosophers, can aspire to? Philo-sophia aims at growing in wisdom, and wisdom is about how to live life, not about problem-solving and pain-killers. In Plato’s terminology, philosophy’s goal is not to solve problems inside the person’s current world of shadows, but to lead us out of the world of shadows towards a broader, deeper, more enlightened understanding.
Contemporary culture is extremely eager to relieve distress as soon as possible and replace it with satisfaction. People’s eagerness to remove any discomfort and to feel content is enormous. But this is not necessarily the way of philo-sophia as a search of wisdom. Wisdom often requires sacrifice, fumbling in the dark, confusion and agitation. For the sake of philo-sophia we must often allow ourselves to feel anguish and disquiet, and to turn our backs to our cozy comforts and security.
This implies that philosophical counselors who aim primarily at solving personal problems, or at distress-relief, are not really engaged in philo-sophia. Clearly, the mere fact that such a counseling utilizes methods or ideas from the philosophical literature does not make it philosophical. Compare this with the relationship between art and art-therapy: If a counselor uses painting as a way of making a counselee feel better, then this is a session of art-therapy, not of art. After all, what guides her activity and choices is how to overcome the counselee’s predicament, not artistic considerations and goals. Similarly, a writing activity that is guided by therapeutic goals is bibliotherapy, not literature, and the counselor is acting in it as a therapist, not as a novelist.
Likewise, if philosophy is used as a tool for an ulterior goal, it is no longer a search for wisdom but for distress-relief. If I use Kant’s writings to teach German grammar, then I am certainly not doing philosophy. If, in order to soothe a traumatized counselee, I read with him Bergson’s texts, and together we savor the lyrical imagery and poetic metaphors, we are not thereby philosophizing either. And if I use philosophical ideas or conversations as a substitute for aspirin or Valium, in what way is this a form of philosophizing? Making use of philosophy is very different from doing philosophy, or philosophizing.
I suggest, therefore, that we draw a distinction between two very different endeavors: philosophical therapy, which is a type of therapy that uses philosophy for its distress-relief and problem-solving purposes; and philosophical practice which is truly engaged in philo-sophia, and thus is not in the business of helping people feel better. I see no reason to lump these two together. They are fundamentally different endeavors that require different skills and capacities, and that appeal to different people. Both are valuable in their own way, but I am deeply disturbed by the monopoly that philosophical therapy has received in the philosophical practice world.
Where did we, philosophical practitioners, get the idea that we should focus on problem-resolution, or distress-relief? Part of the answer, I suspect, is the influence of certain popular types of psychotherapy—you go to see a therapist when you have a problem and want relief, don’t you? Unfortunately, we have bought too much into this therapeutic model. Regrettably, we have decided to address ourselves mainly to potential clients who want relief for their personal problems.
I should mention that some of us believed that distress-relief need not be incongruent with philo-sophia. We thought that we could treat the counselee’s personal problem as a stepping stone to wisdom-seeking. I myself have tried this path for several years, but I am now disillusioned. If a counselee is primarily concerned about her relationship with her husband, or her career choice, or her lack of self-confidence—indeed, this is the reason she has come to see me—then the prospects of philosophizing with her for the sake of wisdom, out of a true philosophical yearning, seem slim.
Be that as it may, in effect, we who sought the combined path have found ourselves, too, addressing mainly clients seeking distress-relief. Those who came to see us were mostly (though not only) people seeking to deal with specific problems. As a result, philosophical counselors have largely ignored other groups of people, particularly seekers, those seeking growth and wisdom, and potential seekers who can be awakened to the philosophical yearning. And there is no shortage of such people. Witness those many people who join all kinds of meditation and yoga courses, self-growth workshops, New Age groups, intentional communities, or simply adult education classes. We could have tried to appeal to this population, but for some reason we haven’t.
It seems to me curious that from the very beginning of the practical philosophy movement, we have chosen to wear the mantle of distress-resolution. This was not the only choice we could have made. There were other directions we could have taken, but somehow, despite a few exceptions, on the whole we did not take them.
However, it is not too late to retract our steps and change our path towards true philo-sophia. Let us not buy into our culture’s frantic thirst for feeling good, and into its hysterical fear of discomfort. Let us not join the multi-billion-dollar comfort-industry that is so widespread in our society. Let us not succumb to the vogue of fun and satisfaction and good feelings. As human beings, we should of course empathize with those who suffer and help them, but as philosophers we should remember that difficulties are part of life, that they are sometimes essential steps on the road to self-development, and that they can offer us unique opportunities to grow. Let us make this part of our philosophical, revolutionary, educational mission: to serve as witnesses to the understanding that life is not just about feeling good and getting rid of discomfort and problems, because the horizons of life are much broader.
This does not mean that we should romanticize about suffering. It is certainly important to fight suffering in many ways, whether medical, psychological, political, educational, as well as through philosophical therapy. But philo-sophia is simply not in the business of doing that. Indeed, Socrates’ wisdom did not save him from his death, on the contrary. The response of philosophical practice to suffering should not be to try removing discomfort, but rather realizing that even when I suffer, there still is something significant going on in my life: Even in the midst of pain I can continue to grow in wisdom. The struggle with pain has meaningful sides, because as appalling as it may be, it can also serve as a potential source for a richer understanding of life.
Paraphrasing the famous verse from Psalm 23 (or 24), and replacing ‘God’ by ‘wisdom,’ we can say: “Though I walk in the shadow of darkness I will not fear, for wisdom is with me.” Wisdom comforts me not because it can take me out of the valley of darkness, but because even in the valley of darkness—and perhaps especially there—it is with me, and I can walk and grow in its ways.
