A New Philosophy

Introduction

In weaving together Daoism, Nietzsche’s philosophy, Lovecraft’s cosmicism, and Crowley’s Thelema, I find a personally meaningful worldview taking shape. At first glance, these schools of thought seem wildly different – an ancient Chinese way of harmony, a modern exhortation to will and power, a nihilistic cosmic horror, and an occult call to true will. Yet in reflection, they each illuminate different facets of a single path. My journey is an introspective synthesis of these ideas, enriched further by Stoic wisdom, Platonic idealism, and Meister Eckhart’s mysticism. The result is a speculative philosophy that feels both expansive and intimate: expansive in its embrace of the vast Dao and cosmos, intimate in its focus on inner transformation and spiritual insight. In the pages that follow, I’ll outline this synthesis – its metaphysical vision of the Dao, its ethic of self-overcoming and acceptance, its sense of cosmic awe and personal destiny, and the lifestyle that emerges from harmonizing these threads.

The Dao: A Guiding Metaphysical Current

In Daoist symbolism, yin and yang swirl together, representing the balance of all things. The foundation of this synthesis is the Dao (Tao) – the Way of nature and the cosmos. In Daoism, the Dao is not a deity but the subtle principle underlying reality’s constant flow and change. It is described as “the process of reality itself, the way things come together, while still transforming”. In other words, Dao is the living path that all phenomena collectively tread, the rhythm of the universe. One cannot fully define or conceptualize the Dao – “any name we give to it cannot capture it”. It is beyond language, beyond human categories, much like Meister Eckhart’s unspeakable Godhead. Yet one can sense it as a kind of metaphysical current that runs through all events and pervades all beings.

To live in accordance with the Dao, Daoist sages advocate wu-wei, often translated as non-forcing or effortless action. This doesn’t mean literal inaction, but rather acting in natural harmony with the Way. When one practices wu-wei, one’s actions are spontaneous and unselfconscious, flowing from alignment with the Tao’s flow. This idea resonates with other traditions in our synthesis: it echoes Stoic acceptance (yielding to nature’s course) and even Crowley’s concept of True Will (acting in accordance with one’s true nature, without strain or contradiction). Daoism counsels humility and simplicity; it values softness, flexibility, and receptivity – like water, which yields yet wears away stone. These values provide a gentle counterbalance to Nietzschean intensity and give our integrated philosophy a core of inner peace. The Dao is the ever-present backdrop of this worldview – a sacred unity and natural order that one can trust as fundamentally good (“the dao always benefits, it does not harm”). It is the mystic thread connecting the finite self to the infinite whole.

Will to Power and Self-Overcoming (Nietzsche)

In stark contrast to Daoist yielding stands Friedrich Nietzsche’s call for will to power and self-overcoming. Nietzsche inspires the active, creative side of my synthesis – the drive to grow beyond one’s limits and to take charge of crafting meaning in life. He famously wrote, “Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Overman – a rope over an abyss”. What is great in us, he suggests, is not that we are a finished product, but that we are a bridge, a transition, forever in the process of surpassing ourselves. This image of the human being as a tightrope walker, bravely crossing the abyss of the unknown, captures the spirit of self-overcoming: a continual process of transcending one’s past self, overcoming one’s weaknesses, and affirming one’s potential to become “higher, stronger, more beautiful.”

Central to Nietzsche’s thought is the idea of Wille zur Macht, the Will to Power – not a crude lust for domination, but the inner force that seeks growth, strength, and creative expression in all life. “Life simply is will to power,” he writes; it is the natural impulse of every living thing to expand its abilities and overcome resistance. In my worldview, I interpret this will to power as the engine of self-cultivation. It encourages me to challenge myself, to embrace struggle as a chance to hone my character (much as a Stoic would turn obstacles into fuel), and to take joy in personal development. This Nietzschean vigor ensures that a Daoist acceptance of what is does not slide into complacency – there is always another mountain to climb within oneself.

At the same time, I temper Nietzsche’s heroic individualism with the Dao’s wisdom and compassion. The goal is not a cold Übermensch who stands above humanity, but rather an integrated individual who is both strong and humble. Nietzsche’s call to “become who you are” aligns in a deep way with Crowley’s call to discover one’s True Will. Both demand an honest, courageous engagement with one’s own existence – a refusal to hide behind comfortable falsehoods or social conformity. In this synthesis, Nietzsche’s will to power becomes the courage to authentically express the Dao within me. It means never settling in my spiritual growth: always refining my understanding, overcoming fear, and affirming life, even its suffering, as something meaningful. This stance adds an element of adventure to the worldview – life is seen as an open horizon for transformation, a chance to participate creatively in the cosmos rather than passively drift.

Cosmic Insignificance and Awe (Lovecraft’s Cosmicism)

Beneath a vast starry sky, one cannot help but feel a sense of the cosmic – the immense scale of existence in which our human dramas unfold. Here enters H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmicism, a philosophy that underscores the humbling truth of our cosmic insignificance. Lovecraft bluntly asserted that “there is no recognizable divine presence, such as a god, in the universe, and that humans are particularly insignificant in the larger scheme of intergalactic existence”. We are, in his view, tiny specks in a vast, indifferent universe that existed long before us and will continue long after we are gone. This realization can be terrifying – Lovecraft framed it as a source of existential horror, the “fear of the cosmic void” that haunts his stories. Yet in my synthesis, I embrace this cosmic perspective not as horror but as awe. It is a shock that shakes the ego out of its narcissism and perhaps, paradoxically, opens the door to spiritual reverence for the mystery of being.

Knowing that “the vast, indifferent universe” will not bend to human will actually harmonizes with Daoist teaching: the Dao is beyond our control or full understanding, and we must yield to the greater Reality. Cosmicism thus enforces humility. It counsels that we drop any pretensions of human centrality or entitlement – an attitude very much in line with the Daoist sage’s modesty and Eckhart’s detachment from self. When I contemplate cosmic insignificance, I am reminded of the Daoist image of the “ten thousand things” moving within the one Dao. I may be just one small part of those ten thousand things, but through the Dao I am connected to the totality. The feeling is both humbling and oddly reassuring: I am not the author of the cosmos, yet I am at home in it, a thread in the grand tapestry.

Lovecraft’s stark view also challenges me to find meaning without relying on a cosmic Big Brother to grant it. If, as he wrote in one letter, “all human feelings are pure ‘Victorian fictions’ in the eyes of the cosmos”, then meaning must be generated locally – by me, by us – through our actions and values (Nietzsche would nod vigorously here). My synthesis answers this challenge by positing the Dao/True Will as an impersonal sacred that one can align with, even if there is no personal god scripting our fate. The cosmos may be silent, but the Dao is eloquent in its silence – it speaks through the seasons, through gravity, through the very fact that there is something rather than nothing. I find that meditating on cosmic vastness can induce a state of spiritual awe akin to a religious experience: a wordless appreciation of existence where the boundary between self and universe thins out. In such moments, Lovecraft’s cold universe and Lao Tzu’s mystical Dao seem to converge. The feeling of insignificance becomes a feeling of belonging. The night sky thus becomes a temple, and the appropriate response is not fear, but wonder and a resolve to live in harmony with the great web of being.

Thelema: True Will and Personal Sovereignty

If Daoism and Cosmicism emphasize yielding to a greater reality, Aleister Crowley’s Thelema emphasizes knowing and asserting one’s true self within that reality. Thelema contributes the theme of personal sovereignty grounded in a transcendent purpose. Its famous dictum states: “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law”. This line, often misunderstood, does not mean “do whatever you feel like” – it refers to the True Will, one’s authentic path or calling. Crowley taught that every individual has a unique purpose as integral to the universe as a star in the heavens. “We are each of us a star in space, with our own orbit or true path. This orbit is our trajectory, our True Will, the drive or dynamism that underlies us as individuals”. In other words, to “Do what thou wilt” is to discover who you are born to be and to fully embody that destiny. When one is aligned with one’s True Will, one’s life falls into a kind of cosmic order – much like planets circling the sun without collision. “True Will may thus be understood as destiny, as natural function,” and “as Crowley put it, it is to bid stars to shine, vines to bear grapes, and water to seek its level”. This poetic metaphor shows that True Will is about fulfilling one’s innate nature effortlessly, as a star shines or a vine bears fruit.

In my synthesized philosophy, Thelema’s notion of True Will dovetails beautifully with Daoism’s notion of the Dao and ziran (naturalness), and with Nietzsche’s call to self-realization. It provides a sense of direction: each of us has an inner telos, a guiding spark of the Dao that is ours to manifest. Ethically, this means I must listen closely to my soul – to intuitions, passions, and talents that point toward my purpose – and courageously follow that, rather than external expectations or ego-driven illusions. There is a profound trust in one’s individuality here: just as the Dao moves in myriad ways through the ten thousand things, so the Divine (or the cosmos) moves uniquely through each person. Fulfilling one’s True Will is not selfish in the trivial sense; it is, in fact, aligning with the very logic of the universe as it flows through you. Crowley insisted that one’s True Will would ultimately harmonize with others’ True Wills, since all are facets of the greater pattern. In practical terms, Thelema encourages me to take responsibility for my life. I am the sovereign of my microcosm – “Every man and every woman is a star.” This sovereignty is paired with a sacred duty to discover my true course and not to waste this incarnation in aimlessness.

The concept of True Will also introduces an element of magical optimism into the worldview. It’s the idea that when you commit to your authentic path, unseen forces (or the unconscious genius within you) rally to support you. It resonates with the Platonic notion that the soul has a proper excellence and yearning, and with Eckhart’s idea of letting God work through you. To follow one’s True Will often requires, paradoxically, surrendering the superficial will – the rash whims and fears of the ego – in favor of the deeper will of one’s nature. This is where Thelema and Daoism meet: both urge us to get out of our own way. As the Yi Jing might advise, we stop “tampering with the flow of reality”, and instead ride it. In living my True Will, I feel I am both exercising my freedom and obeying a divine necessity. This gives life a profound sense of meaning and direction, as if I am a character in a larger cosmic story – not written by a human-like god, but scripted in the language of Natural Law.

Stoic Acceptance and Inner Discipline

Balancing the passionate individualism of Nietzsche and Thelema is the calm, grounding influence of Stoicism. From the ancient Stoic philosophers (like Epictetus, Seneca, and Marcus Aurelius) I draw lessons of acceptance, resilience, and inner discipline that are crucial for a life of equanimity. A core Stoic teaching is to recognize the boundary between what is in our control and what is not, and to embrace reality on its own terms. As Epictetus famously counseled, “Don’t demand or expect that events happen as you would wish them to. Accept events as they actually happen. That way, peace is possible.” This attitude of letting go of vain expectations and aligning one’s will with the actual truth of the moment closely mirrors Daoist wu-wei. It means if the Dao (or fate) brings rain today, I do not curse the sky – I adjust my plans or adjust my mind. In every situation, Stoicism encourages finding the appropriate response that is within one’s power – namely, one’s own thoughts, choices, and actions – and releasing worry about all else. This stoic acceptance reinforces the humility learned from cosmicism: there is so much we cannot control, from the movements of planets to the happenstance of history. And so the Stoic within this synthesis whispers, “Focus on your own virtue and let the rest be as it may.”

Stoicism also contributes a strong ethic of character. In a world that can often seem chaotic or unjust, Stoics hold that we can always choose to act with virtue – with wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “The first and best victory is to conquer self.” This aligns with Nietzsche’s idea of self-overcoming, but with more emphasis on self-mastery in the moral sense. It’s not enough to become stronger; one should become better. For me, Stoic discipline means cultivating good habits, training the mind to remain steady in adversity, and living simply. It provides a kind of practical framework for day-to-day life: early morning reflections, keeping a journal like Marcus, practicing mindfulness of thoughts. Such practices ground the more lofty and abstract elements of this philosophy in concrete personal development. Stoicism, in essence, gives this worldview a backbone of ethical integrity and mental toughness.

Importantly, Stoicism softens the potential excesses of Nietzschean pride or Thelemic individualism by reminding us of our common human condition. Marcus Aurelius often reflected on how all humans share the same fate of death and dissolution, how we are all citizens of the same Nature. This Stoic sense of kinship with others dovetails with Daoist compassion (the Daoist sage’s virtues include kindness and frugality) and with the humility of cosmicism. It prompts an attitude of cosmopolitanism – seeing all people as brothers and sisters in the logos (the rational Dao). Thus, in my lifestyle, Stoicism encourages empathy, patience, and fairness in dealing with others, even as I pursue my own path. It teaches that true strength is gentle and that a clear conscience is more valuable than any external achievement. The Stoic phrase “live according to nature” gains rich meaning in this synthesis: it means to live in accord with the Dao of the universe and the truth of one’s own nature, hand in hand. Through Stoic practice, I seek the inner citadel of unshakable tranquility, from which I can engage the world as a compassionate warrior of the spirit.

Yearning Toward the Ideal (Plato’s Influence)

While much of this philosophy is grounded in nature and the here-and-now, it also gazes upward toward timeless ideals, guided by the inspiration of Plato’s metaphysics. Plato introduces the notion of a transcendent ideal reality – the Forms – which casts a normative light on our world of change. “The world is a shadow of the true reality that is the world of the Forms,” as one summary of Plato puts it. In Platonic thought, for everything we experience (beauty, goodness, justice), there is a perfect Form or essence of it in the intelligible realm. Our soul, innately, yearns for the ideal – it longs to know Truth itself, to behold Beauty itself, to achieve the Good itself. This Platonic yearning is like a spiritual eros pulling us upward, out of the cave of illusion into the sunlight of reality.

In my synthesis, Plato’s influence encourages an orientation toward the Absolute. It meshes with the Daoist and Eckhartian sense that beyond the multiplicity of life, there is a higher Unity or Good – call it the Dao, the One, or the Godhead – which we can intuitively seek even if it remains partially hidden. Plato gives permission to believe that absolute values are real: that there is such a thing as Truth (not just opinion), real Goodness (not just cultural preference), real Beauty (not just subjective taste). This counters the potential nihilism of cosmicism and the relativism that could be read into Nietzsche. It means that my striving (will to power, True Will) is not done blindly – it is guided by an inner vision of something higher. Just as the stars helped ancient navigators orient their ships, Platonic ideals act as guiding stars for the soul. For example, I hold compassion as an ideal – I know I will never be perfectly compassionate, but the Form of Compassion guides me to expand my heart continually. Likewise, the Form of Justice urges me to act justly even when it’s hard, and the Form of Beauty reminds me that creating art or seeking wonder has inherent value.

Platonic metaphysics also resonates with Crowley’s notion that each person has a proper orbit. In Plato’s Republic, justice in the soul is each part doing its proper work in harmony – reason ruling, spirit aiding, appetite obeying. This harmony reflects the Form of Justice. Similarly, True Will can be seen as the soul’s inclination toward the Form of its own perfection. Each of us has an ideal self (a Form of ourselves, so to speak) that we gradually approximate through growth. Nietzsche’s Übermensch is perhaps an image of a human being who has fully actualized the Form of Humanity – made the ideal real. The idea of self-overcoming then becomes a Platonic ascensus: a climbing of the ladder of being toward the Form of the Good (which for Plato was the ultimate principle, analogous to the sun that illuminates all). The Dao too can be analogized to the Platonic Good – “the source of correlative change”, beyond full comprehension yet subtly guiding reality.

Thus, Plato gives this worldview aspiration. It instills a faith that our efforts to improve ourselves and society are not in vain, but draw from a well of eternal meaning. It also adds a contemplative dimension: the love of wisdom (philosophia) for its own sake. In daily life, this means I value study, reflection, and dialogue (a nod to Socratic dialectic) as means of aligning my mind with truth. The Allegory of the Cave is ever in my mind: I strive not to be deceived by the flickering shadows of opinion, but to steadily turn my soul toward the light of reality – whether one calls that the One of Plotinus, the Godhead of Eckhart, or the Dao of Laozi. In sum, Platonic idealism in my synthesis ensures that while I accept the world as it is (Stoicism) I also remain oriented toward what the world could be at its best. It keeps a certain flame of idealism alive, so that power serves truth and love, and freedom is ordered toward the Good.

The Godhead and Detachment (Meister Eckhart’s Mysticism)

Finally, the mystical theology of Meister Eckhart pours a dose of sacred stillness into this philosophical brew. Eckhart, a 14th-century Christian mystic, spoke of the Godhead (Gottheit) – an absolute, formless divine reality beyond the trinity of God – in terms strikingly akin to Daoist and Platonic thought. “The Godhead, according to Eckhart, is the universal and eternal Unity comprehending and transcending all diversity.” In Eckhart’s view, at the core of the soul there is an uncreated spark identical with this divine One. Realizing this unity requires transcending the clutter of the world and the ego through what he calls detachment. Detachment (Ger. Abgeschiedenheit) is a radical interior letting-go – of selfish desires, of fear, of even one’s own attachments to virtue or God’s gifts – such that one becomes completely open to God’s presence. “If the heart is ready to receive the highest, it must rest on absolutely nothing,” Eckhart writes, “and in that lies the greatest potentiality which can exist…”. This stark advice echoes the Daoist notion of emptiness (consider Laozi’s image of the usefulness of an empty cup) and the Buddhist-influenced idea that only a still, unbound mind can reflect the truth.

In my practice, Eckhart’s mysticism encourages deep contemplative prayer/meditation and a mindset of non-attachment. While Nietzsche urges me to fight and assert, Eckhart urges me to sometimes yield completely – not just to external events (like Stoic acceptance), but to the ground of being itself. There is a time in spiritual practice to cease all striving and simply surrender one’s sense of separateness, dissolving into the boundless present. Those moments – whether in meditation, or while quietly watching a sunset – are when I feel the ineffable Unity that Eckhart and Laozi both describe. Eckhart’s influence keeps the synthesis from becoming too much about doing and achieving. He reminds me that beneath all our willful action, there must be a basis of being: a still point where we are in touch with the divine source (Dao/Godhead). From that communion springs genuine insight and love.

Eckhart also provides a paradoxical perspective that aligns with Cosmicism in a positive way: he often said one must realize one’s nothingness in order to realize God. This is the spiritual analog of Lovecraft’s insignificance. By emptying oneself – recognizing that “I am nothing, God is all” – the mystic actually finds freedom and joy. In Eckhart’s words, “a detached heart desires nothing at all… it is free of all prayers or its prayer consists of nothing but being uniform with God”. In practice, cultivating detachment means when pursuing my True Will or engaging in self-overcoming, I strive to do so without clinging to outcomes or puffing up my ego. It means embracing a kind of inner poverty – trusting that the God/Dao within is guiding me, even when I (the ego) don’t know the way. It also means that when suffering comes, I can, like Eckhart, “sink into the ground of my soul” where the spark of the divine remains untouched, and find solace there. This mystical detachment beautifully complements Stoic resilience: one meets adversity with both fortitude and a spiritual surrender, saying “Thy will be done” to the higher power, which is ultimately one’s own higher Self (Atman = Brahman, as the Vedantins say).

Through Eckhart’s lens, the ethical life also gains a certain purity. One does good not for reward or even because “it’s logical,” but out of a state of oneness with the Good. He spoke of how the truly detached person is “uniform with God’s will.” In our terms, that could be read as being one with the Dao or aligned perfectly with True Will (which in essence is one’s fragment of the divine will). Imagine acting with the effortless virtue of a sage or saint – that is the ideal Eckhart puts forward. While I am far from that exalted state, it remains an inspiration that tempers the entire synthesis with holiness. In moments of silence, I feel Eckhart’s truth: the ultimate “Will to power” is actually God’s will to manifest through me; the ultimate “True Will” is God’s purpose with my life; the true Dao is indistinguishable from the divine Logos that gives order and meaning to everything. These are merely different names for the same profound mystery. Thus, Eckhart helps to unify all the strands at the deepest level – revealing that, in essence, they are all pointing to the same transcendent One.

Harmonizing the Threads: A Unified Worldview and Way of Life

When I step back and look at this tapestry of ideas, I see an overarching worldview emerge – one that is holistic, dynamic, and life-affirming. Metaphysically, it envisions a universe where an ineffable One (Dao/Godhead) manifests as the many, where change and duality (yin-yang, life-death, light-dark) are currents in a deeper ocean of being. There is a sense that reality has a hidden harmony, even if, to our limited minds, it often appears chaotic or cruel. This worldview acknowledges, with Lovecraft, that there may be no personal Providence looking out for us – yet, with Laozi and Eckhart, it trusts in an impersonal Providence, a Tao or divine ground that “leaves nothing undone” in the end. Consequently, one can live with a feeling of being supported by the universe even while accepting one’s smallness. We are children of the Dao, arisen from the stars, and to the stars (or the Godhead) we return. This cosmic perspective engenders profound awe and gratitude for existence itself.

Within this vast context, individual life gains a purpose: to realize and express one’s True Nature. Each person is seen as a unique expression of the Dao (or a unique thought of God, if you will) – endowed with particular talents, challenges, and inclinations. The ethical imperative is to actualize that uniqueness fully (Nietzsche’s “Become who you are”) while simultaneously recognizing the unity of all life (the Stoic and Daoist understanding that we are all part of Nature). This leads to an ethic of self-actualization in service of the Whole. One seeks to be the most one’s self, not out of narcissism, but because that is one’s contribution to the cosmos. As a famous rabbi once said, when he meets God he won’t be asked why he wasn’t Moses; he’ll be asked if he was fully himself. In living out my True Will, I contribute to the cosmic order – I play my note in the symphony. When each being does this, there is beauty and no conflict. In this way, personal sovereignty and collective harmony converge.

Practically, this philosophy suggests a way of life that is balanced between action and contemplation, self and others, asceticism and celebration. I imagine an ideal day under this philosophy and it might look like this: At dawn, rising in stillness, perhaps meditating or reading something soulful to remind me of the Dao and center myself (Eckhart’s detachment, Stoic reflection). Then engaging with work and worldly duties with vigor and creativity, seeing them as opportunities to exercise virtue and will (Nietzsche’s self-overcoming, Thelema’s will in action). Treating each person I meet with respect and empathy, recognizing the divine Dao within them too (Stoic brotherhood, Daoist compassion). When obstacles or setbacks arise, taking a deep breath and accepting them with grace (amor fati – “love of fate”), even finding in them the stimulus for growth or insight. Enjoying simple pleasures without clinging – a cup of tea, a walk in nature – savoring them as the Dao’s gifts in the moment. And in the evening, gazing at the night sky or contemplating the day, practicing gratitude and release of any regrets, returning my mind to the big picture. This blend of mindfulness, purposefulness, and serenity is the aim.

Emotionally, the worldview fosters what I’d call tragic optimism. It fully acknowledges tragedy – the cosmic insignificance, the pain, the uncertainty (one cannot guarantee a happy ending in a Lovecraftian cosmos) – yet it responds with optimism in the form of courageous meaning-making. As Nietzsche says, we give meaning to our lives by how we live them; we can dance even on the abyss. The Daoist influence adds that we dance with the abyss, not against it. So there is a sense of lightness too: a faith that by aligning with the Dao (the flow of life) and our True Will, we need not force things. We can trust the process. This trust yields an underlying contentment or joy in existence, similar to what Crowley describes as the joy of the Divine Play (Lila) – “Existence is pure joy”, as Thelema holds. Even Lovecraft’s dark statement that “good, evil, morality, feelings” are human fictions is reinterpreted: true, these values aren’t written in the stars, but we embed them in the universe through our lives. They become real in action.

In terms of personal character, the ideal aimed at is a person who is resilient as a Stoic sage, compassionate as a Bodhisattva, creative as an artist, and enlightened as a mystic. A tall order, certainly, and lifelong work. But the combination of influences provides tools for different challenges: When I face temptation or distraction, Stoic discipline and Thelema’s focus on True Will keep me on track. When I face despair or doubt, Nietzsche’s call to affirm life and cosmicism’s perspective together spark a kind of defiant awe – “yes, I am tiny, but I am here and I choose to love my fate.” When ego and pride swell up, Daoist humility and Eckhart’s self-naughting bring me back to humility. When apathy or laziness creep in, the fiery summons of will to power reminds me that being alive is precious – do something with it! In this way, each philosophy in the mix corrects and enhances the others. Daoist softness tempers Nietzschean hardness; Nietzschean fire ignites Daoist passivity. Stoic rationality grounds mystical insights so they don’t float off into irrelevance, while mystical insight injects soul into Stoic duty. Crowley’s individualism is checked by Plato’s universal ideals, and vice versa. The result is a dynamic yin-yang balance within the self – a wholeness that welcomes both contemplation and bold action.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the synthesis I’ve described is both a worldview and a path – one I might call Walking the Way of Self-Overcoming. It sees life as a meaningful journey guided by the Dao (the Way) that runs through all things. On this journey, Nietzsche serves as a kind of personal trainer, urging me to climb higher; Lovecraft opens my eyes to the vast, dark canvas on which this all plays out; Crowley hands me the compass of True Will; Stoicism gives me steady footing and moral clarity; Plato shines a distant North Star of Truth and Goodness; and Meister Eckhart shows me how to find the still point at the center of my being. Each contributes something essential: purpose, perspective, strength, peace.

Living this philosophy is an ever-evolving practice. I often falter – impatience, ego, or fear can easily derail the balance. But the ideals remain, like old friends whose words I recall when I need guidance. In a difficult moment, I might remember Lao Tzu’s teaching to “be like water” and flow around the obstacle, or Epictetus’s reminder that it’s not events that disturb us, but our judgments about them. When I feel small or lost, I think of the night sky and simultaneously Nietzsche’s exhortation to say “Yes” to life – and I find the strength to continue, to create meaning right where I am. When I have a triumph, I celebrate it but also let it go, practicing Eckhart’s detachment, knowing that my life’s work is far from finished.

Ultimately, this synthesized worldview gives me a profound sense of belonging and direction. I belong – to Nature, to the Whole, to the Dao – which means I am never really alone. And I have direction – given by my inner star – which means my life is not random drift. The ethic is to trust the Dao, and follow one’s star. It is a convergence of letting go and holding on: letting go of all that is not truly me (illusions, societal programming, excessive attachments) and holding onto the inner thread that connects me to the Source. It yields a lifestyle that is at once philosophical and spiritual, rigorous and gentle, ambitious and content.

In walking this path, I find a kind of inner harmony that I suspect is the goal of many wisdom traditions. It is the harmony of being at peace with what is (Dao/Stoicism), while striving toward what could be (Nietzsche/Plato). It is feeling insignificant in the face of the cosmos (Cosmicism), yet significant in the fulfillment of my destiny (Thelema). It is a dance of yin and yang – action and stillness, self and selflessness – guided by the silent music of the Dao. And perhaps that silent music is what some of us call God.

Such is the personal philosophical synthesis I continue to refine. It is not a doctrine I preach but a home for my soul, built from many inspirations. As Zhuangzi might say, it’s a path that “has heart” for me. I step forward, one day at a time, curious to see how this interplay of ideas will further shape my experience of the world and myself. In the end, if I were to sum it up in a simple teaching to live by, I might say: “Become one with the Way, become one with your true self, and remember the stars.” That is the ethos of my life, an ethos born from Daoism, Nietzsche, Lovecraft, Crowley, Stoicism, Plato, and Eckhart in concert. And for that rich concord of voices, I am grateful.