Traditionally, the philosopher has been described as a blind man, in a pitch-dark house, on a moonless night, searching for a black cat that isn’t there. But it doesn’t end there—he finds the cat and writes long, elaborate treatises to prove it exists.
This is the danger of the mind: it is blind, yet it pretends to see. It doesn’t know, but it pretends to understand everything. It spins theories, builds systems, and clings to logic—but all without ever touching truth.
Socrates offered a profound distinction. He divided humanity into two types:
- The knowledgeably ignorant—those who believe they know, but are fundamentally ignorant.
- The ignorantly wise—those who acknowledge, “I don’t know.” In their honesty and humility, real knowing begins to dawn.
The first category belongs to the mind—proud, filled with secondhand knowledge, endlessly analyzing. The second belongs to the heart—open, humble, and ready to receive.
Philosophy, when rooted in the mind alone, becomes a maze of empty concepts. But when touched by meditation, it can become wisdom. Meditation doesn’t begin with answers; it begins with silence, with stillness, with the courage to admit “I don’t know.”
So can a philosophical person be a meditator? Yes—if they are willing to drop their certainties. If they can move from speculation to silence, from intellect to innocence, from thought to awareness. Then philosophy is no longer a search for black cats in dark rooms—it becomes a living inquiry, guided by presence and clarity.