Hey there,

Exciting announcement before we dive in: I'm starting a book club!

I call it...

*gazes into the distance*

... The Bibliosopher's Club.

The reason I'm doing this is simply that reading books is a lot more fun and insightful when you read them with others. It's also less lonely, which is nice. Plus, reading in a community helps us break the cycle of finished books and challenges us to read more -- and more deeply. If I hadn't joined reading circles and seminars in my philosophy degree, I would've never read authors like Kant, Descartes, or Plato -- let alone grasped their ideas. Only through discourse could I understand and retain their wisdom.

Here are the nuts and bolts:

• We'll aim to read one book per month (the mileage may vary depending on a book's depth and length). The topics will be similar to this newsletter -- anything related to the good life, really.
• The kick-off date will be July 1st, and we'll start with Dopamine Nation by Dr. Anna Lembke -- a book about (re-)balancing pleasure in a world of abundance and overconsumption.
• There will be no pesky Zoom meetings or assignments. Instead, I'll send out a weekly chapter digest that summarizes the main points, offers my perspective, and links to additional content.
• If you're too busy to read the monthly pick or don't want to spend money on books, no problem -- you can also follow along without owning a copy.

Sounds like something you'd enjoy? Let's bibliosophize together!

And now, on to today's idea. (Note: this is a bit longer read than usual, about 5 minutes. So get comfy, maybe grab a tea, or take it in over lunch.)

A natural way to flourish

My rut got a lot worse before it could improve.

After writing the last issue of this newsletter, I felt better. For a while. I thought I'd passed through the valley and reached the other side. But soon, I felt even more lethargic, apathetic, and just... urgh.

As it turned out, my rock bottom had a basement.

But despite this (or maybe because of this), I'm still convinced that embracing a rut is a powerful idea. It can be truly cleansing to go through the lows entirely, simply allowing yourself to feel like shit. Or, as one subscriber wrote in a heartwarming response: "Riding all the waves of this journey and embracing what each has to offer." I also love how Olivia Laing puts it in her book The Lonely City:

A natural consequence of this permission to feel -- fully endorsing highs and lows -- is to live in seasons. The idea is simple: instead of pretending to be a productivity machine, you accept your human limitations and make space for different modes of existence: rest, work, travel, hobbies, education, etc.

Rather than trying to keep up with the staccato of weekdays and weekends, seasons apply a rhythm that aligns with nature.

I think it's not as much about external nature as internal nature. Sure, people typically find it more intuitive to rest during winter. But others may actually enjoy taking on more projects in cold months because not much is happening anyway. Similarly, your seasons can last three months or two years -- whatever feels most natural to you. Ultimately, the goal is to create a rhythm that's tailored to your needs, not someone else's.

But as nice as living in seasons sounds on paper, I also noticed that putting it into practice is darn tough. I've tried it several times and failed miserably. So I thought I'd share how I'm currently approaching seasonal living and what I learned from failed approaches. Here are four lessons.

I. Seasonal living can feel difficult (at first)

These days, everything we do is supposed to be a rising, visible line. We're supposed to make progress. Be fast. Work efficiently. Stock markets, productivity, personal records -- the pressure to get ahead is everywhere. But, of course, a linear vision of progress is a radical dismissal of nature.

Which is cyclical.

For this reason, I thought it'd be easy to shake off linear living. I thought I'd just need to move closer to a natural rhythm. But I always tend to underestimate the vast cultural influence of linear thinking and the pressure to make progress.

So, the first step is to acknowledge this estrangement. Bending a sharp line into a smooth circle will meet resistance, but once we cross a tipping point, we'll wonder why we were trying so hard to climb a never-ending mountain.

II. The importance of transition

In the aftermath of my previous rut, I had lost all momentum. My mind felt like a ten-thousand-ton heavy train stuck in a station in the middle of nowhere.

What I recklessly neglected was how much time goes into transition and transformation. For a tree to go from a bare branch skeleton to a lush, emerald summer dress, it needs to defrost branches, get water flowing, cast sprouts, and wait for sunlight until, finally, perhaps, the first leaf sees the light of day. Then, it takes several weeks -- if not months -- of religiously repeating this process until the tree, at last, blossoms.

The point is that seasons aren't black and white. We can't simply move like a hyperactive metronome between summer and winter. We need to respect the full swing: spring, fall, and the infinite shades in between. After any season, we need to arrange time and space to regrow or drop our leaves.

III. Loop the loop

But what if a transition fails completely? This is what I experienced after my last rut. After a season of embracing ennui and sloth, I finally wanted to return to reading and writing.

It didn't work.

Not even after I made enough time for the transition.

But the thing that finally made the difference was being proactive. It sounds dumb, I know. But what I mean is simply nudging your mind and body to adopt a new rhythm. I ended up rearranging my room, starting a fresh journal, forcing myself to hit publish again, going to bed earlier -- all these things communicated change to my subconscious. And eventually, my organism caught up.

If we look at seasons as rings, it's not enough to step into a new ring. We must also take a run-up to complete the loop -- and stay in it.

IV. The endless potential of seasons

From here, the only limit is your imagination. The concept of seasons is flexible and versatile. Here's how you might adopt it to meet your own needs:

• Cognitive seasons. If you can't actively take time off, changing your mental approach can work wonders. Instead of always giving 110%, you might introduce seasons of intentional reduction and only give, say, 40%.
• Micro and macro seasons. Who said you need to limit yourself to one season? Try macro seasons (1+ years) for long-term projects and subdivide them into micro seasons (1 week - 3 months) for smaller milestones.
• Small tweaks. Seasons don't need to be full-body commitments. Maybe it's the small things that do the trick -- switching up breakfast every few months, changing between hobbies, or creating new Spotify playlists.

Finally, don't take seasons too seriously. Clinging to a season is the equivalent of a tree trying to keep its leaves in winter. If an obstacle comes your way, I found the best way is not to resist it but to move around it like water.

Whether you choose to live in seasons or not -- the mere concept of seasons provides a powerful reminder: life doesn't need to be a steep, straight line of progress. It can be circular. It can be bumpy. It can be too complicated to put into words or shapes.

And that's what makes it so interesting.

Until next time,

Stephan

Thanks for reading! To respond, just hit reply. I love getting questions, feedback, and comments and they're (by far) my biggest motivators to keep writing this newsletter. If you know someone who'd enjoy this email, simply forward it (or share this link: [ARCHIVE URL GOES HERE]).