The Garden, the Friend, and the Unfinished Poem: Ancient Philosophies of Enough
Your calendar is full, your inbox overflowing, your ambitions carefully mapped. Yet the persistent question remains: what is all this for? Three ancient philosophical traditions—Epicurean Greece, Aztec Tenochtitlan, and various cultural approaches to purposeful living—offer a counterintuitive answer: perhaps you're asking the wrong question.
Epicurus and the Radical Act of Subtraction
When Epicurus established his Garden in Athens around 307 BCE, he scandalized society not by advocating hedonism, but by suggesting something far more threatening: that pleasure meant wanting less. His school taught that the highest pleasure (ataraxia) came from eliminating unnecessary desires, not satisfying them.
For modern professionals, Epicurean wisdom offers a framework for evaluating which ambitions actually serve us. Epicurus divided desires into three categories: natural and necessary (food, shelter, meaningful connection), natural but unnecessary (gourmet meals, luxury homes), and neither natural nor necessary (fame, power, wealth beyond security). He argued that the first category is easily satisfied, the second offers diminishing returns, and the third creates endless suffering.
Consider your current career goals through this lens. That promotion you're pursuing—which category does it serve? The distinction matters because Epicurus observed that we sacrifice necessary pleasures (time with friends, peace of mind) to chase unnecessary ones (status, excess wealth). His radical suggestion: prune your desires before they prune you. The Garden wasn't about asceticism; it was about creating space for what he called "the pleasant life"—conversation, friendship, simple food shared generously.
The Aztec Poets and the Embrace of Impermanence
While Epicurus subtracted, the Aztec thinkers of Tenochtitlan transformed. Their concept of "in xochitl in cuicatl" (flower and song) represented truth, beauty, and the only authentic path to knowledge. But flowers wilt and songs end—this was precisely the point.
The Aztec philosopher-king Nezahualcoyotl wrote: "Do we truly live on earth? Not forever on earth; only a little while here." This wasn't pessimism but a foundation for purpose. Because life was temporary, the Aztecs argued, the act of creation—of making something beautiful even knowing it would fade—became the highest expression of meaning.
For knowledge workers drowning in deliverables and metrics, this philosophy offers liberation. Your presentation, your code, your strategy document—all flowers that will wilt. But the Aztec wisdom suggests this impermanence doesn't diminish their value; it concentrates it. The question becomes not "what will last?" but "what beauty can I contribute while I'm here?" This shifts work from achievement-collection to expression, from permanence to presence.
The Cultural Wisdom of Purpose as Process
Many wisdom traditions locate purpose not in destinations but in sustained relationships. The Japanese concept of "ikigai" (often misrepresented as a simple Venn diagram) traditionally emphasized the daily pleasure of small activities and community connection. The African philosophy of Ubuntu holds that personhood emerges through relationships—"I am because we are."
These frameworks challenge the modern professional's isolated quest for individual purpose. What if your purpose isn't something you discover alone through introspection, but something that emerges from consistent engagement with others? Epicurus would agree: he placed friendship above all pleasures, noting that "of all the means to happiness the possession of friends is the most important."
Practicing Enough
Here's where these traditions converge: they all question whether accumulation equals achievement. The Epicurean subtracts, the Aztec poet accepts transience, the community-centered traditions prioritize connection over conquest.
This week, try this exercise: Write down three current professional goals. For each, ask: Which Epicurean category of desire does this serve? Will this matter if viewed through the Aztec lens of beautiful impermanence? Does pursuing this strengthen or weaken my meaningful connections?
Then ask the harder question: What would change if you discovered your work was already enough—that the garden is already planted, the song already beautiful, the friendships already the point?
The ancient wisdom suggests this discovery isn't the end of ambition. It's the beginning of the only ambition worth having: to tend what matters while you're here.
Epicurus and the Radical Act of Subtraction
When Epicurus established his Garden in Athens around 307 BCE, he scandalized society not by advocating hedonism, but by suggesting something far more threatening: that pleasure meant wanting less. His school taught that the highest pleasure (ataraxia) came from eliminating unnecessary desires, not satisfying them.
For modern professionals, Epicurean wisdom offers a framework for evaluating which ambitions actually serve us. Epicurus divided desires into three categories: natural and necessary (food, shelter, meaningful connection), natural but unnecessary (gourmet meals, luxury homes), and neither natural nor necessary (fame, power, wealth beyond security). He argued that the first category is easily satisfied, the second offers diminishing returns, and the third creates endless suffering.
Consider your current career goals through this lens. That promotion you're pursuing—which category does it serve? The distinction matters because Epicurus observed that we sacrifice necessary pleasures (time with friends, peace of mind) to chase unnecessary ones (status, excess wealth). His radical suggestion: prune your desires before they prune you. The Garden wasn't about asceticism; it was about creating space for what he called "the pleasant life"—conversation, friendship, simple food shared generously.
The Aztec Poets and the Embrace of Impermanence
While Epicurus subtracted, the Aztec thinkers of Tenochtitlan transformed. Their concept of "in xochitl in cuicatl" (flower and song) represented truth, beauty, and the only authentic path to knowledge. But flowers wilt and songs end—this was precisely the point.
The Aztec philosopher-king Nezahualcoyotl wrote: "Do we truly live on earth? Not forever on earth; only a little while here." This wasn't pessimism but a foundation for purpose. Because life was temporary, the Aztecs argued, the act of creation—of making something beautiful even knowing it would fade—became the highest expression of meaning.
For knowledge workers drowning in deliverables and metrics, this philosophy offers liberation. Your presentation, your code, your strategy document—all flowers that will wilt. But the Aztec wisdom suggests this impermanence doesn't diminish their value; it concentrates it. The question becomes not "what will last?" but "what beauty can I contribute while I'm here?" This shifts work from achievement-collection to expression, from permanence to presence.
The Cultural Wisdom of Purpose as Process
Many wisdom traditions locate purpose not in destinations but in sustained relationships. The Japanese concept of "ikigai" (often misrepresented as a simple Venn diagram) traditionally emphasized the daily pleasure of small activities and community connection. The African philosophy of Ubuntu holds that personhood emerges through relationships—"I am because we are."
These frameworks challenge the modern professional's isolated quest for individual purpose. What if your purpose isn't something you discover alone through introspection, but something that emerges from consistent engagement with others? Epicurus would agree: he placed friendship above all pleasures, noting that "of all the means to happiness the possession of friends is the most important."
Practicing Enough
Here's where these traditions converge: they all question whether accumulation equals achievement. The Epicurean subtracts, the Aztec poet accepts transience, the community-centered traditions prioritize connection over conquest.
This week, try this exercise: Write down three current professional goals. For each, ask: Which Epicurean category of desire does this serve? Will this matter if viewed through the Aztec lens of beautiful impermanence? Does pursuing this strengthen or weaken my meaningful connections?
Then ask the harder question: What would change if you discovered your work was already enough—that the garden is already planted, the song already beautiful, the friendships already the point?
The ancient wisdom suggests this discovery isn't the end of ambition. It's the beginning of the only ambition worth having: to tend what matters while you're here.