A Code for a Good Life
Gathering Around the Inner Fire
In the quiet final chapter of his life, the legendary swordsman and philosopher Miyamoto Musashi composed the Dokkōdō — a list of 21 distilled principles titled The Path of Aloneness.
This was not the product of academic philosophy, but something more elemental: a worldview forged in the rhythm of battle, the silence of solitude, and the precision of practiced discipline. It was the culmination of a life spent confronting illusion, ego, and mortality. Not a sermon. Not scripture. A mirror.
These principles are not moral commands, but meditative anchors. They don’t ask for agreement — they ask for attention. They are not a ladder to achievement, but a lantern for clarity. A quiet rebellion against excess, self-deception, and the noise of performance. Musashi’s code feels less like a doctrine to obey and more like a fire to sit beside.
In this season of life — between creation and responsibility, future fatherhood and authorship — I find myself drawn not to new answers but to older, quieter questions. I am no warrior. But like many of us, I am trying to live with coherence. With steadiness. With fidelity to what’s true, even as the world spins wildly around it. In Musashi’s words, I don’t find conclusions. I find orientation.
There is a quality to the Dokkōdō that transcends time and culture. It speaks not to identity, but to posture. To how we meet the moment when no one is watching. To what remains when ambition fades and applause quiets. Its voice is spare but enduring — not instruction, but invocation.
This is not a guide for optimization. It is not a lifestyle upgrade or a philosophical thesis. It is a pause. A meditation. A quiet space where we might remember the kind of life we want to live — and what it may require to truly live it.
The Dokkōdō does not feel like something you read. It feels like something that reads you. Its clarity is not loud, but it lingers. It doesn’t tell you what to do. It asks you who you’re willing to be.
What follows is not interpretation, but reflection. A conversation between Musashi’s code and the rhythms of modern life. These are not axioms to memorize. They are coordinates to come back to — tools for shaping the inner architecture of a meaningful life.
Twenty-One Contemplative Coordinates
(These reflections follow each of Musashi’s 21 principles — not as expository notes, but as layered contemplations. Each one is meant to open a door, not close an argument. They are not written for speed, but for stillness.)
“Accept everything just the way it is.”
This is not an invitation to complacency but to lucidity. To accept something fully is to see it in its totality, without distortion from desire or aversion. Most of our suffering stems not from the content of experience but from our refusal to allow it. Acceptance is the beginning of agency.
To accept does not mean to condone. It means to acknowledge the facts of reality so you can work skillfully with them. Like a martial artist responding to an opponent’s weight, not resisting but redirecting it. Or a jazz pianist —like Red Garland — improvising within the limitations of a single motif, choosing presence over prediction.
Acceptance is not passivity. It is a deeply active form of attention. It is the foundation of wisdom.
Lately, I’ve found this principle most useful when I’m overwhelmed. The moment I stop fighting my circumstances, I begin to see them clearly. Not as punishment, but as part of the path. Accepting doesn’t mean liking — it just means being willing to respond from center rather than reaction.
“Do not seek pleasure for its own sake.”
Pleasure, in and of itself, is not the problem. It’s the unexamined pursuit of pleasure as a substitute for meaning that distorts the arc of our becoming. In both Stoic and Buddhist teachings, we are reminded that when pleasure becomes the aim — rather than the byproduct — it feeds a cycle of craving, dissatisfaction, and dependency. One of the Stoics, Epictetus, taught that chasing what is beyond our control — particularly sensory indulgence — causes us to surrender our sovereignty.
Modern culture often sells pleasure as a promise of happiness. But Musashi understood that unearned comfort weakens character. There’s a profound difference between savoring a glass of wine in gratitude and needing three glasses just to quiet your own nonsense. The former is rooted in presence; the latter is an escape from it.
Musashi’s admonition is not puritanical. It’s precise. He reminds us that true joy is not found in consumption, but in coherence. To live with depth requires that we occasionally deny ourselves what is immediately gratifying in service of what is ultimately good. This is not repression — it is refinement. The sculptor does not chisel marble out of disdain, but because they see the form waiting beneath. So too must we refine our impulses — not because they are wrong, but because something greater is possible when they are directed with care.
“Do not, under any circumstances, depend on a partial feeling.”
There’s a kind of self-betrayal that occurs when we move forward on a hunch we don’t trust. Decisions made from partial feeling — when our instincts are conflicted, our bodies hesitant, our minds uncertain — often leave residue. They pull us into situations where our presence is fragmented.
To move only when whole is not indecision. It is integrity. This is echoed in Taoist philosophy, which suggests that when the Way is clear, it flows without resistance. Let the full current be known before stepping in.
I’ve rushed too many decisions in the past, especially when I felt pressure to act or prove myself. These days, I’m learning to wait until the “click” happens. Until my gut and mind are in agreement. Life’s too short to override the signals.
“Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world.”
This is a call to decenter the ego without diminishing the self. The modern psyche often swings between inflated self-importance and crippling insecurity. Musashi’s instruction invites humility — not humiliation. When we think lightly of ourselves, we allow room for curiosity, play, and flexibility. We become permeable to insight.
And when we think deeply of the world, we encounter wonder. The Dao De Jing reflects this, emphasizing the mystery and depth of the world beyond naming or conquering. The goal is not to shrink the self, but to contextualize it within the vastness of life.
When I think lightly of myself, I’m less rigid. I can laugh at my missteps. And when I think deeply of the world, I remember how little I control — and how much wonder there still is.
Angelina reminds me of this often — how my energy shifts when I get lost in curiosity instead of control. Her presence helps me widen my gaze. It’s one of the reasons I trust her with my life.
“Be detached from desire your whole life long.”
Desire is not the villain. But when it becomes fixation, it narrows perception. We begin to mistake the object of our desire for the totality of fulfillment.
To detach is not to cease feeling, but to resist orbiting around unmet longing. It echoes Buddhist non-attachment, reminding us that clinging leads to suffering. When desire no longer drives, we can navigate from presence, not projection.
This hits home when I think about financial pressure. When I get obsessed with outcomes, I stop seeing opportunities. But when I release the need, I begin to notice openings. Detachment isn’t disinterest. It’s freedom.
“Do not regret what you have done.”
Regret often involves retroactive clarity applied to past decisions. But decisions are made with the data and information we had at the time. Regret, then, is frequently a misuse of memory and a misunderstanding of growth.
Kierkegaard suggested that life can only be understood backward but must be lived forward. Musashi reminds us to respect the path as it unfolded. To learn without lingering. To recognize that even missteps reveal the terrain.
Some of my hardest seasons have also yielded my deepest clarity. I wouldn’t repeat them — but I wouldn’t erase them, either. They gave me the spine I stand on now.
“Never be jealous.”
Jealousy clouds appreciation. It distorts our vision by casting someone else’s abundance as our lack. In psychological terms, it reflects an externalized sense of value — we assign others the power to validate our worth.
In systems thinking, scarcity is often a symptom of perspective, not reality. To release jealousy is to reclaim authorship of our inner world. To see that someone else’s light doesn’t dim our own, but illuminates possibility.
I’ve felt this at different points — especially when I’ve been stuck or waiting. It’s subtle, like a low hum under the surface. But every time I ground myself again, I remember: my path isn’t late. It’s layered. And it’s mine.
“Never let yourself be saddened by a separation.”
Loss is real. But sadness over separation often extends beyond the event itself — it reflects our difficulty trusting impermanence. What if we honored endings without collapsing into despair? What if parting could also be sacred?
From the existential lens, every relationship is marked by the certainty of parting. To remain whole through separations is to understand that connection is not diminished by distance — it is clarified by it.
When I think about cutting ties with people from my past, this principle is both painful and liberating. I miss the fantasy more than the reality. But the separation gave me something I couldn’t find any other way: myself.
“Resentment and complaint are appropriate neither for oneself nor others.”
These emotional patterns mask agency. Resentment often emerges from a refusal to assert boundaries, and complaint is frequently the residue of unclaimed responsibility. Both are understandable but ultimately disempowering.
In Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, we’re reminded that between stimulus and response, there is a space — and in that space lies our power. Musashi's stance urges us to inhabit that space with clarity and discipline.
I’ve learned that complaining numbs action. It feels active but stalls momentum. These days, I try to catch it early. Not to suppress it — but to translate it into a step.
“Do not let yourself be guided by the feeling of lust or love.”
Musashi is not anti-love. He is anti-illusion. Lust and love are powerful forces — but as guides, they are unreliable unless grounded in discernment.
As Alan Watts once said, “You are under no obligation to be the same person you were five minutes ago.” Love must be cultivated, not idolized.
What I have with Angelina is sacred, but it’s not fragile. It’s not built on fantasy. It’s built on presence. On choice. And that’s what keeps it steady.
“In all things have no preferences.”
This echoes the Zen idea of mu — emptiness not as void, but as openness. To have no preference doesn’t mean you’re indifferent. It means you’re available to what the moment asks of you.
Preferences can create rigidity. A life lived by principle, rather than preference, is more responsive to reality.
I’m learning to love whatever the moment asks for. Not because I’m passive — but because I trust that life often knows what I need before I do.
“Be indifferent to where you live.”
Place matters less than presence. The mind that is at war with itself will not find peace in any geography. From Stoic detachment to Buddhist mindfulness, many traditions teach that true contentment arises not from changing your environment but your relationship to it.
To be indifferent to place is to find sanctuary within.
From Colorado to Washington, I’ve realized: home isn’t a location. It’s a rhythm. A presence. A shared gaze across the table with the one I love.
“Do not pursue the taste of good food.”
This is not asceticism — it is about not letting the sensory override the sacred. Eating, like all sensual acts, can become an addiction when it becomes disconnected from reverence.
The deeper nourishment comes from eating with awareness. Let food be fuel, celebration, or communion — but not escape.
Eating can become escape. But when I slow down, when Angelina and I cook with care, it becomes something else entirely — a prayer with flavor.
“Do not hold on to possessions you no longer need.”
Objects carry energy. What we keep reflects our values, our fears, and our projections. Clutter — physical or emotional — is often a form of self-protection.
Guy Finley once said, “Nothing you hold onto can save you, and nothing you let go of can hurt you.” Every time I clean a drawer or delete a file, I feel it. Space is power.
“Do not act following customary beliefs.”
To follow inherited norms without inquiry is to live someone else’s life. Musashi, like Nietzsche, urges a revaluation of values. What do you actually believe? Why?
Tradition is not the enemy. But unexamined tradition becomes stagnation. Let belief be forged in reflection, not convenience.
I’ve questioned everything at different times in my life — what I was taught, what I assumed, what I feared. Not to rebel, but to remember. To come back to what actually feels true.
“Do not collect weapons or practice with weapons beyond what is useful.”
This is about relevance and restraint. In a metaphorical sense, many of us collect skills, accolades, or credentials beyond necessity. Preparation becomes procrastination.
The Tao teaches: “He who knows when to stop does not find himself in trouble.”
Know when your tools are enough. Then go build.
“Do not fear death.”
Death is the final exhale. To fear it is to fear the natural rhythm of completion. To live well, I’ve found, is to live with the end in view — not in fear of it, but in reverence for what it reveals. When you remember that everything ends, what matters most becomes much clearer.
To live with death in view is to live fully awake.
I’ve died a thousand little deaths. To illusions. To roles. To versions of myself I outgrew. Each time, something essential remained. That’s what I trust now. That’s who I am.
“Do not seek to possess either goods or fiefs for your old age.”
This is a rejection of hoarding as a hedge against vulnerability. Future-proofing your life through accumulation often leads to a life of tension and guardedness.
Live in alignment now. Trust that a well-lived present is the best preparation for the future.
I want a modest life, well-lived. Land. Laughter. Peace. Not because I earned it. But because I aligned with it.
“Respect Buddha and the gods without counting on their help.”
Spiritual maturity lies in reverence without dependency. Trust the presence of the divine, but don’t outsource your responsibility.
Prayer without participation is performance. Musashi invites us to embody our faith, not project it.
Angelina and I pray. We meditate. But we also participate. The universe is listening — but it responds to movement.
“You may abandon your own body but you must preserve your honor.”
Honor, in this context, is fidelity to the self. The body may decay, be injured, or even sacrificed — but the soul must remain intact.
Like a captain staying with their ship in a storm, or a parent standing between danger and their child — this is the call to live by something immovable inside you, even when everything else says to run.
I’ve let myself down before. But I’m done abandoning myself. Done shrinking. Honor is how I walk when no one’s watching.
“Never stray from the Way.”
I’ve strayed. And I’ve returned. Again and again. The Way doesn’t punish. It welcomes.
The Way is not a rulebook. It is a resonance. A felt alignment between what is true within you and how you move through the world.
When you’ve strayed, you feel it. When you’ve returned, the world feels whole again. This is not perfection — it is coherence. And it is always available.
(What begins as a code concludes as an invitation — to live not louder, but deeper. To remember the self behind the striving. To walk the Way, one clear breath at a time.)
The Philosophy of Return
Musashi did not leave us a doctrine; he left us a direction. He wrote not as a mystic or prophet, but as someone who had paid in full the cost of clarity. His code does not promise a path free from difficulty. It promises a way through — a structure for the soul.
The Way, as Musashi names it, is not bound to culture or profession. It is not reserved for ascetics or warriors. It is available to the artist, the teacher, the parent, the strategist, the friend — to anyone who seeks to live with a kind of inner order that cannot be outsourced.
The Way does not speak loudly. It whispers. It lives in how you choose to spend your mornings. In the moments you pause before reacting. In the promises you keep when no one’s watching.
In a world obsessed with optimization, the Way invites orientation. In a world that asks for more — faster, louder, better — the Way asks for depth.
You do not need to master the Dokkōdō. You only need to meet it. Return to it. Let it accompany you as you walk.
Because a good life is not an achievement. It is a rhythm.
A fidelity to something deep within.
A quiet remembering.
A return.
To the place within you that was never lost.
To the fire that still burns.
Even now.
So when someone asks who you are, and what you stand for, and why you seem to be moving at a different pace — you can look them in the eye and say:
“I have chosen a good life. Not a performative one. Not a perfect one. But one I can stand inside with peace.”
That is enough.
That is everything.
Take care,
Cam
If this piece spoke to something in you, these reflections may deepen the dialogue:
1. Sculpting the Self
This piece picks up where A Code for a Good Life leaves off — exploring how identity is not fixed, but sculpted through small, daily choices. If Musashi teaches us how to live in alignment, Sculpting the Self shows us how that alignment is built: through honest reflection, quiet practice, and the willingness to let go of versions of ourselves we’ve outgrown. It’s about becoming, not performing.
2. Your Soul Is In Your Keeping Alone
Where Musashi’s code demands inner discipline, this piece centers on personal sovereignty. Inspired by a scene from Kingdom of Heaven, it’s a reflection on responsibility, integrity, and the quiet reckoning we all face in the solitude of our choices. It complements Musashi’s tone by reinforcing that no one else can carry our inner life for us — not leaders, parents, or partners. The soul is yours to tend.
3. The Lazy Man’s Way
This piece is a modern reflection on effort, avoidance, and the long-term cost of taking shortcuts. Where Musashi warns against clinging to comfort or seeking pleasure for its own sake, this article zooms in on how avoidance masquerades as strategy in business, leadership, and personal life. It’s a grounded, practical complement to the Dokkōdō’s more philosophical tone — showing how the Way is built not through optimization, but devotion.