In ancient times there was a great city. It was a modern city by many standards, with a fusion of cultures living peacefully alongside one another. One of the reasons for its success was its thriving port on the Mediterranean Sea. As its popularity swelled so did the need for building materials. Trees were felled from the surrounding hills to support the growing city and its population, but this activity left those hills increasingly bare. When the rains came there were no tree roots to bind the earth on the slopes and the top soil ran down into the nearby river and harbor. The subsequent silting meant that previously free-running water sources became marshland, the marshland brought mosquitoes, and the mosquitoes brought malaria. The people left the city. This is how the story of Ephesus was conveyed to me.
Efes, in modern day Turkey was close to the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was a bustling city, a thriving port in Greek and Roman times, visited by Alexander the Great and then later by Marc Anthony (that is Marcus Antonius of Cleopatra fame, and not Marco Antonio Muñiz of tropical salsa fame, although the latter may well have visited).
As with many stories there is a kernel of truth, and probably some poetic license in the telling. In this case the kernel is substantial. There are records of the malaria, and although I have been unable to confirm whether hillside logging was the cause of silting, the silting itself is patently clear to us even now because if you visit Efes today, close to the Turkish city of Izmir, you will find yourself about six kilometers (over three miles) from the sea.
The story of Ephesus and how it became a victim of its own success – if that is indeed what happened – is a tale that often springs to mind when I see examples of mankind’s inability to self-moderate. I have a fervent desire for our species to rise above its wiring. Our seeming need to plunder a resource until we are given no choice but to move on strikes me as one of our most pressing limitations, especially if we are to live within our planet’s capacity to sustain us.
By one estimation we exceeded the annual capacity of the earth to replenish the biological resources we consume by July during 2020. Stock markets swing wildly: “woo hoo we’re all going to win!”; “oh no, we’re all going to die.” Landscapes are left scarred from mining. We consume more than our stomachs can hold when we encounter all-you-can-eat buffets. The dominance of emotion over intelligence, the threat of scarcity, the bargain of a deal too good to be true all cause us to act without regard for what is sustainable.
Sometimes we tell ourselves that these are one-offs, or things will quickly stabilize themselves after our self-indulgent excess. Sometimes hedonic adaptation helps us forget what normal used to look like. Mankind will do what we’re inclined to do until we’re kicked in the rear.
There are many tactics to cultivate self-restraint, and many nuances depending on which exuberance we’re trying to curb. The list includes:
- set (and stick to) clear goals
- build self-discipline
- practice delayed gratification
- remove temptation entirely
- build simple habits
- develop feedback mechanisms
- good prioritization
But maybe we ought to return to the time of ancient Greece for one of the most important tactics, and one not listed above.
People would visit the Temple of Apollo at Delphi in the hope of divine inspiration from the Oracle. Inscribed at the entrance to the Temple the visitors would see three maxims, the first of which is an aphorism we still use widely today – know thyself. If we knew ourselves better, if we knew our temptations, if we knew our very human limitations, and our tendency to indulge, we’d be better placed to live within the world’s capacity to sustain us. The case for the importance of this aphorism is perhaps even more compelling when we hear the second maxim at the Time of Apollo at Delphi – nothing to excess.
