Welcome to the first edition of The Side View Journal. 

This introduction to the series has two parts. In the first section, I summarize the vision behind The Side View (TSV) as a project, and I present the contributors to this issue. The longer second half offers a comprehensive look at the philosophy that inspires and informs TSV. If you’re not yet familiar with our work, this introduction will serve as a good starting point, and if you don’t happen to be steeped in philosophy and its history, the shorter summary below will do just fine as a preparatory statement of our mission—the second half simply expands in more detailed terms on those same ideas.

I’ll start with the basics. When people ask about TSV, I often say it’s about the link between perception and practice. It’s an exploration into the knowledge and intuition we use to navigate the world. In that sense, TSV is about how our minds meet the world, but it’s also about how our minds, when they’re trained in the right way, can change how we perceive what’s around us and within us. In other words, it’s about how we become skilled perceivers and doers, people who know the right details to attend to and the right actions to take. But TSV isn’t just about expertise or getting more efficient at things. In the end, it’s about learning how to deepen our actual engagement with a complex world.

On the one hand, then, TSV is a place for exploring the relation between perception and practice, and on the other it amplifies the idea that perception itself is a kind of practice. The fundamental concept is that we can develop new ways of making sense of things, ways that then change what we’re able to do in the world. From within this perspective, sense-making is its own kind of craft, and the medium of this craft isn’t paint or stone or wood, but our own perceptions. Perception on this view is a skill we’re able to shape through practice. Our ability to pay attention to things is an art of its own. It’s an art of looking at things in a certain way.

I like to tell people that these are good tag lines for TSV—attention is an art form; perception is a skill—but when we dig deeper into what this approach really means, into what it makes possible in our lives, we find something interesting. When we start to look at our own perception, we find we can actually take hold of some of the dynamics and change them. In a real way, the learning process itself is about creating such transformations in perception. TSV is about making sense of that process. In examining our experience and perception, we’re making sense of how we make sense.

As is evident in this issue, we draw from philosophers, scientists, and athletes, as well as designers, artists, and contemplatives. What connects these approaches is the idea of practice, with an understanding that practice, in whatever discipline, is first and foremost about transforming our perception and our ability to act in the world. There’s a tendency in our day to focus on the facts that experts produce, but here we look at matters from a different angle. We study how experts learn to see the world in new ways to begin with.

---

This article first appeared in issue 1 of The Side View Journal. Purchase your own copy here. 

---

I’ve always been fascinated by architects and designers. The architect sees with an eye for design that few others have, and has a capacity for understanding how we might shape the environment and how the environment might shape us. There’s thus a level of understanding at play which is unique to architects, but much the same can be said of carpenters, meditators, and athletes—they all have heightened levels of perceptual ability and unique capacities for sense-making, and those are cultivated through practice, experience, and learning. Crucially, this approach applies to practices of prayer and mindfulness, just as much as it does to practices of athletics and engineering.

The emphasis on practice lets us view a variety of disciplines from a different angle. This includes the sciences, the humanities, the arts, as well as the contemplative, spiritual, and religious traditions, and their various philosophical commitments. When we link these disciplines through the idea of practice—rather than in an effort to forcibly compare, contrast, conjoin, or reduce one tradition to another—a number of unhelpful divisions can be resolved, such as those between the religious and the secular, the scientific and the philosophical, and the theoretical and the practical, especially in terms of their existential value for transforming perception and action.

The ancient Greeks used the word askēsis, meaning exercise or training, to describe these processes of transformation. If TSV has one root concept, it is askēsis. We’re using this concept to explore the training needed to create skillful means in any endeavor. My hope is that when we understand the nature of this process, new possibilities will open up for each of us in our own lives, possibilities that would otherwise remain hidden or inaccessible. In this sense, the practices, habits, and rituals explored through TSV are treated as ways of conjuring up novel syntheses of perception in experience that yield new meanings, details, and possibilities for action in the practitioner.

In this issue of The Side View Journal, you’ll find articles placed in two categories. In the first section, Ecology, Complexity, & Science, you’ll find Joe Norman’s essay on the philosophy of complexity, Roope Kaaronen’s essays on the ecology of design and predictive processing, Liam Satchell’s research into the psychology of first encounters, and Mark James’s work on ecobehavioral design.

The second section, Contemplation, Philosophy, & Practice, includes Sam Mickey’s essay on philosophical training; Claire Fanger’s exegesis of medieval religious exercises; Jacob Given’s approach to contemplative prayer; David Collins’s articles on the history of mindfulness and Christian mysticism; Jason Snyder’s work in vipassana and self-inquiry; Oshan Jarrow’s reading of Michael Pollan, Thomas Metzinger, and psychedelics; and Matt Segall’s meditations on German idealism.

As you make your way through the essays, you’ll notice not only do they vary in subject matter and discipline, but also in length, tone, and background. Some of the essays are written in a traditional scholarly voice, while others are written as field reports and live accounts from practitioners in the field. It can be easy to think that academics are always the best resources for these kinds of questions, but this of course isn’t true. In that light, TSV is a conscious experiment in mixing genres. I hope you’ll enjoy these essays as much as I do. The remainder of this essay expands on these foundational ideas in a philosophical mode.

The Side View: Long Form

As part of presenting this first issue of The Side View Journal, I want to explore the ideas given in the shorter introduction in more detail. Along the way, I’ll say a bit about how the contributors to this issue fit into this broader picture, and I’ll look to give a further sense for the philosophy behind TSV. I’ve mentioned the Greek term askēsis in this regard already, but phenomenology (the study of consciousness and its formative structures) and media ecology (the study of practice environments) also have important roles to play, as does the work of the French philosopher and historian of philosophy Pierre Hadot, which is where I’ll start.

Pierre Hadot: Philosophy as a Way of Life

Hadot was a professor at the Collège de France in Paris. He wrote on a number of philosophers and philosophical schools, including Plato, Aristotle, Stoicism, Cynicism, Epicureanism, and Neoplatonism. Hadot understood philosophy to be a means of integrating questions of ethics, knowledge, and being into the actions and choices of the person. As the title of his work Philosophy as a Way of Life suggests, philosophy for Hadot was essentially an existential choice and a commitment to a way of being in the world.

The practices of philosophy, Hadot often emphasized, were developed for the sake of creating a greater ability to care for ourselves and one another, developing a more comprehensive understanding of human beings and the world, and maintaining a political and ethical relation to our communities. Although skilled at analyzing the tenets of the West’s philosophical currents, rather than only to list by rote the arguments of this or that school of thought, Hadot’s aim was to describe the transformative effect of philosophy on the person. As Jeannie Carlier notes in her introduction to the set of interviews she conducted with Hadot, “Hadot aimed not to inform but rather to persuade, transform, or produce a ‘formative effect’—in short, to persuade the listener that the ancient treatises are, almost without exception, protreptics . . . [they are] ‘experiences of thought’ or exercises in ‘how to think.’”[i] These “formative effects” have everything to do with what TSV is about.

There is much one could say about Hadot in this regard, but for our purposes I only wish to outline his understanding of askēsis as it relates to the idea that philosophy is a series of transformative exercises or training regimes that the self deploys upon the self. Askēsis can refer to any intentional practice that produces a transformation in the person. This can include practices of diet, sleep, meditation, physical training, study, art, therapy, and so on. When it comes to philosophy in particular, however, Hadot identifies a particular kind of practice as central to achieving philosophical insight. We can call this an askēsis of the “I”—the self developing a relation to itself.

In simple terms, this askēsis of the “I” means becoming aware that you are a self, or at least that you very much seem to be a self, moving through the world, with a present, a past, and a future, full of worries and doubts and expectations and desires. Askēsis is in this sense a turning of attention onto itself. It is an attention to oneself as a self, a sensing that one senses, a looking at or attending to sensing. For Hadot, philosophy is then a kind of spiritual exercise, and askēsis is a kind of practice analogous to athletic training. Hadot writes:

Underlying this conviction [that people can modify, transform, and realize themselves] is the parallelism between physical and spiritual exercises: just as, by dint of repeated physical exercises, athletes give new form and strength to their bodies, so the philosopher develops his strength of soul, modifies his inner climate, transforms his vision of the world, and, finally, his entire being. The analogy seems all the more self-evident in that the gymnasium, the place where physical exercises were practiced, was the same place where philosophy lessons were given; in other words, it was also the place for training in spiritual gymnastics.[ii]

As a kind of physical training, philosophy for Hadot is an existential choice in our mode of living. It’s a choice of life but also a way of making a life. In this sense, philosophy is a form of self-making that issues from our choice of practice and exercise. I said earlier that TSV is about sense-making, but as Hadot makes clear, there is no sense-making without self-making, another key idea for TSV. This is why Hadot argues that philosophical discourse must be understood from the perspective of the way of life of which it is both the expression and the means. For someone like Hadot, theory and practice are never far apart; all practices are theory-laden and all theoretical pursuits are themselves a kind of practice, if approached with a contemplative attitude. Claire Fanger echoes this point nicely when she writes, “All practices are embodied practices, necessarily so, however merely intellectual or inactive they appear.”[iii]

Whatever else we might say about theory and practice, Hadot argues, philosophy is first and foremost a question of self-transformation, and much of this transformation is rooted in changes in our perception, that is to say, in how we learn to see the world. There’s a particular image of knowledge that’s embedded in this vision of philosophy, and it’s one that sees knowledge as deeply implicated in our action and perception as we move through and encounter reality. Knowledge, on this view, is only knowledge insofar as it changes how we act and perceive. This emphasis on philosophy as transformative practice no doubt grounds Hadot’s appreciation for the French philosopher Henri Bergson, for whom philosophy is defined as “a transformation of perception.”[iv]

The empirical details of this account, Hadot says, will no doubt change as the various special sciences advance their descriptions and explanations of human cognitive and sensory systems, but the central idea—that philosophy is a transformation of perception—will not, and thus this definition serves as a perennial vision of philosophy, where philosophy is a practice of transformation, conversion, or metamorphosis. Generally speaking, Hadot’s tracking of these conversions is precisely the kind of thing that TSV explores, and it is central to another school of philosophy, phenomenology, which also has a strong influence on TSV’s general program.

Kant and Phenomenology

In many ways, TSV is a phenomenological project. Immanuel Kant is important in this context, as he initiated a new kind of philosophy—known as transcendental idealism, a key progenitor of German idealism—that paved the way for the kinds of phenomenological practices TSV studies. This is how two of Kant’s translators, Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood, describe Kant’s method of philosophy: “This new science, which Kant calls ‘transcendental’ (A11/B25), does not deal directly with objects of empirical cognition, but investigates the conditions of possibility of our experience of them by examining the mental capacities that are required for us to have any cognition of objects at all.”[v] In essence, Guyer and Wood are saying that Kant’s insight was to move away from studying experience as it appears to us and towards experience as it is constructed by the faculties we bring to bear on it.

I’ve noted that TSV is about trying to make sense of how we make sense, and this is also a good shorthand for what Kant was up to with his transcendental philosophy. He was making sense of how we make sense and have experiences in the first place. In other words, Kant was highlighting that the type of experience one is capable of having is related to the structures or capacities of the person having the experience. Kant’s philosophy is a contemplative approach to the workings of the mind and its structures. As Matthew T. Segall notes, “The works of the German idealists are better read as a series of meditative exercises to be practiced than they are a series of arguments to be memorized and codified.”[vi] In a similar way, TSV can be considered a resource and report forum for different kinds of transcendental athletics and exercise.

Kant’s method is also important for understanding what phenomenology is. While there isn’t room here to give a full account of the history of phenomenology, suffice to say that as a field of practice today it has its roots in the works of Edmund Husserl; however, if you define phenomenology as “the study of the structures of consciousness as experienced from the first-person point view,” as the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy does,[vii] then one could say that the likes of Descartes, Hume, and Kant, to name only a few figures, were also phenomenologists of a type.

This effort of investigating the structures that deliver experience to us is shared by phenomenologists like Dan Zahavi. Zahavi describes phenomenology in the following way:

Phenomenology pays attention to the givenness of the object, but it does not simply focus on the object exactly as it is given; it also focuses on the subjective side of consciousness, thereby illuminating our subjective accomplishments and the intentionality that is at play in order for the object to appear as it does . . . when we investigate appearing objects, we also disclose ourselves as datives of manifestation, as those to whom objects appear.[viii]

Zahavi’s quote is filled with technical terms that are worth unpacking. When, for instance, phenomenologists use the word “intentionality” they don’t mean it in the common way of “doing something on purpose,” but rather as a term to center on the aboutness or directedness of ordinary conscious experience.

In other words, intentionality is a word for noting that ordinary episodes of lived experience are always directed towards some object, thought, event, belief, or feeling. You can check this out in your own experience right now. Note that it’s always about flowers or books or records or love or justice or tomorrow or San Francisco. These episodes of aboutness pass by without any effort on your part; they are an automatic feature of the flow of conscious experience. Now, how these phenomena appear in the experience of the individual is described in terms of their “givenness” to consciousness. This is where TSV comes back in.

For phenomenologists like Zahavi, episodes of conscious experience are always related to the ways acts of intentionality render phenomena in perception, and thus the skills of intentionality one possesses are best read as subjective accomplishments; they are efforts of perception that give phenomena to experience in different ways. Perception on this view is a kind of active participation with events rather than a merely passive reception of them. Experiences of understanding a phenomenon to be a certain way—to mean what it does to the individual having the experience—then vary in accordance with the skills of perception the individual brings to the encounter.

The phenomenologist responds to this dynamic by investigating the gap between the intentional representations of a phenomenon as it is given to consciousness and the intrinsic properties of the phenomenon itself, reasoning that oftentimes what we take to be differences attributed to the properties of objects are better understood as differences in intentional attitudes issuing from the subject. As Zahavi says, “The same object, with the exact same worldly properties, can present itself in a variety of manners.”[ix] What, then, accounts for these differences in presentation?

Skilled Intentionality and Epoché

If the world as it is given to us is related to our acts of intentionality—in other words, to our sense-making capacities—and if the same phenomena can show up in multiple ways to multiple people, then it follows that how we get something to “show up” for us in experience is related to the skills of perception that we bring to bear on it. This was my point about the architect, the meditator, and the carpenter mentioned at the beginning of this essay: Each of these people has learned to perceive the world in a certain manner; they get it to “show up” in a meaningful way that’s related not only to the basic mode of intentionality that’s connected to the bringing to presence of objects as such, but also to modes of skilled or advanced intentionality that let the expert practitioner see the world in a unique way.

The philosopher Alva Noë offers some important insights for understanding the nature of skilled perception. Noë to my mind argues convincingly that we shouldn’t think of perception as a step-wise sequence of events that moves from basic sensation (perception), to representation (conception), to reference (words). Instead, Noë argues, when we look at our sensing we find that sensation, representation, and reference tend to emerge in perception already entangled in each moment of experience. Another way of saying this is that for Noë perception and understanding arrive together in awareness. He puts it this way, “Perceptual experience can enable us to be aware of things only given the coinvolvement of understanding.”[x]

When I say TSV is about how we use our knowledge and intuition to navigate the world, I have something like Noë’s perceptual framework in mind. What I like about Noë’s work is that he lets us read perception in the kind of automatic and integrated way that we often associate with flow states, whilst not letting go of the role conceptual determination and intelligibility play in this process. He says things like, “Understanding a concept is having a skill.”[xi] A skill of what, though? Well, a skill of perception.

I spoke earlier about givenness, or the way an object of perception is given to consciousness. Noë prefers the term presence, in the sense of the question, how are things made present to consciousness? Presence is achieved for Noë through the skills of our understanding—not skills executed in a detached, deliberative mode of judgement, but skills performed in integrated, fluid, and embodied ways. Noë writes, “The expert’s skill allows for fluency and automaticity, but the zone of fluency is not one where the rules lose their force and relevance. The master acts in accord with the rules without thinking of them deliberately precisely because he or she has mastered them.”[xii]

The action that executes this move in perception is referred to by phenomenologists as the epoché, which is a suspension or bracketing of judgment; it’s initially a kind of doubt about the givenness of our own perception. For example, Zahavi describes epoché as an “abrupt suspension of a naive metaphysical attitude,”[xiii] while Evan Thompson says it is “the flexible and trainable mental skill of being able to suspend one’s inattentive immersion in experience and to turn one’s attention to the manner in which something appears or is given to experience.”[xiv] John Cogan calls it simply “the name for whatever method we use to free ourselves from the captivity of the unquestioned acceptance of the everyday world.”[xv]

While they may not all use the term epoché by name, several contributors to this issue gesture toward similar contemplative maneuvers. For instance, David Collins draws on traditions of Western mysticism to untangle the conceptually saturated nature of everyday experience. He writes, “When we practice contemplative unknowing, we let go of all of our conceited conceptualizations, and we come to rest in a more fundamental experience of being alive.”[xvi] The sense I take from Collins’s quote is that, while everyday perception demands for its effectiveness the involvement of conceptual understanding, practices of unknowing can loosen and re-define the role the conceptual has on sensation, perhaps evaporating it all together in moments of breakthrough. Unknowing is a practice of perception.

In a similar vein, Jason Snyder draws on traditions of vipassana (or insight meditation) to achieve a similar untangling in regards to the sense of self. Snyder writes, “Over time, this [practice] may lead to the self becoming more like a decentralized and fluid network of cognitive moments, more responsive and intelligent than if everything was being passed through a centralized and rigid self-node.”[xvii] Snyder’s quote has a similar tone to that of Collins, and it raises an important theme you’ll find throughout these essays: TSV isn’t primarily about efficiency or getting better at your job—those these may be side effects of your practice—rather, its motivation is much closer to the sentiments expressed by Sam Mickey in his essay when he writes,

Practicing a philosophical life may sound like a life hack, but it most certainly isn’t. Hacks are for people who want shortcuts to becoming more efficient and productive, in other words, shortcuts for getting around practice. A philosophical life doesn’t give you a shortcut. Instead, it demands that you take up the burden of affirming your fate, of loving your place among the multifarious things in the world.[xviii]

In the context of the present essay, the differences between these terms and strategies isn’t hugely important. What’s at stake for me is that without executing something like an epoché—or practices of unknowing, vipassana- style meditation, or philosophy in Mickey’s sense of the word—the world unfolds in the mode of a naïve realism; it exists as an unexamined and taken-for-granted state that elides any critical investigation into why the world shows up the way it does for you. Crucially, freedom and autonomy are limited by the inability to explore this moment-to-moment construction of one’s own experience. In a certain sense, TSV offers a media library of resources for enhancing these kinds of freedom and autonomy.

In short, I think of epoché as a kind of askēsis, a training in the suspension of how we represent the phenomena we encounter in the world. But the epoché isn’t just about doubt or criticism, it’s also about opening out into new ways of seeing and understanding. When I say that attention is an art form and perception is a skill, I mean that intentionality is in some sense what’s being trained. Practicing epoché opens up the space needed to develop different kinds of skilled intentionality, for achieving presence or givenness in new and more subtle ways. If attention is an art form, it’s because all of perception has an aesthetic ordering structured by the capacities of the perceiving agent. You are the artist of your own experience.

Media Ecology and Practice Spaces

I’ve spoken so far about askēsis; about Hadot’s perspective that philosophy is a way of life; about phenomenology, intentionality, and epoché; and about how each of these concepts relates to TSV. My account may make it seem like these kinds of contemplative practices are things isolated individuals do, locked up in their own minds perhaps, but as any practitioner will tell you, that’s not actually the case. Practice happens in specific environments, with specific people, and at specific times. Set and setting matter. Other people matter. And that is why the last piece of the picture needs to focus on practice spaces. I like to use the phrase media ecology to suggest that place is active and formative; it affects what we can do and can’t do; and it modulates attention, perception, and action.

The psychologist James Gibson’s theory of affordances is instructive here, in that it suggests what we perceive in the environment is not so much the properties of individual objects but rather the possibilities for action which they enable. On Gibson’s view, an environment is best understood as a set of affordances and constraints made available by an animal’s physical and perceptual capacities. For example, an environment may afford climbing, or sheltering, or standing. In built environments, we can see a gymnasium as affording fitness, a town square as affording meeting, a library as affording reading or studying, and so on.

These media ecologies are design spaces for the focusing of certain capacities, including philosophical capacities. Design, when done well, is about creating affordance environments that amplify or train up certain abilities; it’s about creating media ecologies that shape us in the direction of better practices. Roope Kaaronen captures this idea well when he writes, “Design breeds affordances, affordances bread behaviors, behaviors breed ideas, and ideas bread, you guessed it, design.”[xix] I would include monasteries, libraries, concert halls, groves, gymnasia, cemeteries, and cathedrals as places offering auspicious affordances for practice. These environments are immersive technologies for the installation of higher—often cosmic—visions in the eyes of the practicing.

Let me give you one famous example from the history of philosophy. The German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk sees Plato’s Academy as a specific kind of affordance space, a space that affords a kind of epoche,́ bracketing or suspending its members’ immersion in experience so that they can re-direct their attention in another way.

This is to say that the architecture of the Academy affords something like an external or environmental epoche,́ a design space intended to produce philosophical effects in the person. Sloterdijk writes:

Plato was concerned to provide appropriate accommodation for persons in the precarious state of complete devotion to their thoughts. The original Academy was dedicated to nothing other than innovation in spatial creation. The academy is the architectural equivalent of what Husserl apostrophized as epoché—a building for shutting out the world and bracketing in concern, an asylum for the mysterious guests that we call ideas and theorems. In today’s parlance, we would call it a retreat or a hideaway.[xx]

The Academy is an affordance space, an active precondition for certain kinds of thinking. The activity of mind in this way takes as its condition of possibility a whole ecology of affordance spaces, sets of architectural epoché that complement and enable the individual’s capacity to perform certain maneuvers in thought, maneuvers that make apparent the material conditions of possibility required for contemplative practice.

Sloterdijk also has another important role to play in this story, because it’s from a passage in his The Art of Philosophy which TSV takes its name. Sloterdijk suggests that when we focus on the practices that create scientists, artists, and philosophers, rather than on their finished works alone, we gain a new way of reading history, and of understanding how such works are produced. In other words, Sloterdijk offers a history of the practices that create artists, scientists, and philosophers to begin with. It’s a history of self- making techniques. Here is Sloterdijk on his approach:

Just as the history of science usually presumes that the scientists who do their disciplines already exist, the history of art has assumed since time immemorial that artists are the natural protagonists of the business that produces works of art, and that these players have always existed as well. What would happen if we rotated the conceptual stage ninety degrees in both cases? What would happen if we observed artists in their efforts to become artists in the first place? We could then see every phenomenon on this field more or less from a side view and, alongside the familiar history of art as a history of completed works, we could obtain a history of the training that made it possible to do art and the ascetism that shaped artists.[xxi]

Practice and practice spaces, techniques of self-making and unmaking, exercises of perception, these are the things TSV studies. The Side View Journal is a testament and a record of their unfolding.

[i] Jeannie Carlier, “Introduction,” in The Present Alone Is Our Happiness, ed. Jeannie Carlier and Arnold I. Davidson (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2018),  xi.

[ii] Pierre Hadot, What Is Ancient Philosophy? (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2004), 102.

[iii] See Claire Fanger, “Inscription on the Heart,” 42, in this issue.

[iv] Arnold Davidson, “From Socrates to Foucault,” interview with Pierre Hadot in The Present Alone Is Our Happiness, ed. Jeannie Carlier and Arnold I. Davidson (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2018), 126.

[v] Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood, “Introduction,” in Critique of Pierre Reason by Immanuel Kant (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 6.

[vi] Matt Segall, “Why German Idealism Matters,” 73, this issue.

[vii] David Woodruff Smith, “Phenomenology,” in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, para. 1. Retrieved from https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/phenomenology/

[viii] Dan Zahavi, Subjectivity and Selfhood: Investigating the First-Person Perspective (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2008), 123.

[ix] Zahavi, Subjectivity and Selfhood, 122.

[x] Alva Noë, Varieties of Presence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 115.

[xi] Noë, Varieties of Presence, 117.

[xii] Noë, Varieties of Presence, 118.

[xiii] Dan Zahavi, Husserl’s Phenomenology (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002), 46.

[xiv] Evan Thompson, Mind in Life: Biology, Phenomenology, and the Sciences of Mind (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010), 19.

[xv] John Cogan, “The Phenomenological Reduction,” in Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, section 5a, paragraph 6. Retrieved from https://www.iep.utm.edu/phen-red/

[xvi] David L. Collins, “The Contemplative’s Conscience,” 48, in this issue.

[xvii] Jason Snyder, “Decentralizing Cognition,” 61, in this issue.

[xviii] Sam Mickey, “Practice Is Not a Life Hack,” 36, in this issue.

[xix] Roope Kaaronen, “The Ecology of Design,” 16, in this issue.

[xx] Peter Sloterdijk, The Art of Philosophy: Wisdom as Practice (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 32–33.

[xxi] Sloterdijk, The Art of Philosophy, 9.