The Most Important Relationship in Your Life
© 2021 Jeremy Lent
You meet an old friend in the grocery store. She’s telling you about her difficult time at a company that she’s finally left.
“I was pushing myself way too hard,” she tells you. “It was wild. I’d accept unrealistic projects from my boss and then hate myself for it. It took a while, but now that I’ve left, I’m beginning to pull myself together again.”
You chat a bit longer, and then continue shopping. You’re glad you had a chance to catch up. But wait a minute! There was only one person you were talking with, and yet your friend was describing herself as though she were split into two. Who was doing the pushing and who was getting pushed? Who hated whom? Who got broken into fragments and needs to be pulled back together—and who’s doing the pulling? Stranger still, you intuitively knew what your friend meant as she was talking with you. Does that mean that you are as split as she is?
Yes, you are . . . along with the rest of us. It seems that part of the human condition is to experience a kind of split personality, with an “I” engaging in an ongoing relationship with a “self.” We talk about “gaining control of myself” as if there is a battle going on between these two entities. We can view ourselves harshly, as your friend did, pushing ourselves hard or even hating ourselves; and we can equally be kind to ourselves and care for ourselves. In addition to experiencing ourselves as so scattered that we need to “pull ourselves together,” we can also be “beside ourselves” with rage, or at the other extreme, “be at one” with ourselves. We can “let ourselves go” in a dance, and sometimes “find ourselves” in our chosen vocation.
Linguistic philosophers George Lakoff and Mark Johnson made this remarkable discovery about the inner relationship we all take for granted, and published their findings in 1980 in Metaphors We Live By. It’s a split that seems to pervade all aspects of life from the everyday to the spiritual. In a meditation class, the instructor might tell you to “just sit and observe your thoughts and feelings without judging them.” But who is doing the observing, and who or what is being observed—and might be judged?1
Each of one of us has important relationships with others in our lives. But there is no relationship more important than the one you have with yourself. It’s a relationship you’re engaged in every day from when you first wake up to when you fall asleep at night, and one that you’ll remain in until your dying breath. How you conduct that relationship will affect the quality of your lived experience more than almost anything else. In this essay, we’re going to explore this intimate and complex relationship.
How “I” and the “self” split apart
Perspectives on
Self-CareThe Wise Brain Bulletin offers skillful means from brain science and contemplative practice – to nurture your brain for the benefit of yourself and everyone you touch.
The Bulletin is offered freely, and you are welcome to share it with others. Past issues are posted at http://www.wisebrain.org/tools/wise-brain-bulletin.
Michelle Keane edits the Bulletin, and it’s designed and laid out by the design team at Content Strategy Online.
To subscribe, go to http://www.wisebrain.org/tools/wise-brain-bulletin.
The split between “I” and “self” most likely occurred early in human evolution, and is viewed by many experts as one of the defining characteristics of humanity. The experience of life as a pure self is an intrinsic part of what’s known as “animate consciousness”—that complex array of feelings, impulses, urges, sensations, and primary emotions that we share to a large extent with other animals. At its most fundamental level, the sense of being a self most likely exists, in one form or another, in every living organism. It involves basic biological regulation, the experience of the here-and-now, the very sensation of being alive that is often referred to as sentience.2
Animate consciousness exists solely in the present, yet it can also include implicit memories of the past and anticipation of the future. Imagine an antelope in the savannah lifting up its head to sniff something in the breeze. Once before, when it perceived a similar rustle in the distance along with that scent, a lion had pounced out of the bushes, and the antelope had fled for its life. Now, it fears the same might happen again, so it stops feeding and cautiously moves away.3
How, then, did humans first develop a sense of “I” as separate from the animate consciousness we share with other creatures? Many experts attribute its origins to the complex social interactions that characterized pre-human communities several million years ago. When hominids first diverged from forest-dwelling primates in the Great Rift Valley of East Africa, they needed to work closely together in tight-knit communities to survive in a new, dangerous environment. Those with the cognitive abilities to cooperate effectively with their companions were the most successful in passing their genes on to future generations.4
An important part of the distinctively human “social intelligence” that emerged is known as theory of mind: the recognition that other people have minds just like we do, allowing us to guess how they might respond to something by mentally “putting ourselves” in their situation. Once you see others as separate selves, whom you can evaluate and tell stories about, it’s a simple jump to realize that they see you in a similar way—and to begin imagining how you might appear to them.5
As an infant grows up, the emerging awareness of having a self, along with a concern for what others might be thinking about it, brings into the child’s consciousness a whole new array of complex emotions, such as social anxiety, embarrassment, shame, and pride. As a child becomes more aware of herself, she realizes that she has the ability to exert some control over how her “self” acts: whether to pay attention, to try harder, or to just let go and bawl in frustration. This emerging skill is known as metacognition: the ability to think about one’s mental states and exert some influence over them. The child’s “I” is entering into its lifelong relationship with the “self.”6
Telling the story of your life
So, who exactly is this “I”? Not surprisingly, “I” encapsulate those parts of my consciousness that—insofar as they’re so highly developed—are distinctively human, known as conceptual consciousness. The “I” is an emergent property of conceptual consciousness, continually observing the self, categorizing it, judging it, and explaining it to others.7
Imagine that I’m interviewing you. I ask you to sit down and say, “So, tell me who you are.” You enter the “I” mode. You might say, “I’m a mother, and in my spare time I’m an artist.” You are abstracting your day-to-day responsibilities and activities into conceptual categories that you assume I will understand. You go on to say, “I was born in Wisconsin, but I moved here when I was in my twenties. I grew up in a rural area, and now I enjoy the city, but I’d like to retire somewhere closer to nature.” You’ve just exhibited a crucial attribute of the “I”: the ability to perform what is known as “mental time travel.” While the self only exists in the present moment, the “I” is capable of remembering all kinds of detail about previous selves, and imagining what future selves might feel like.8
I seem interested, so you continue. “I’m a graphic designer working for a big architect firm. It felt like a good step when I first got here, but now I’m looking for a new position where I can use my design skills for the benefit of the community, so I can feel I’m making a difference.” Now the “I” is showing its true colors. It’s continually engaging in autobiography: weaving the story of the different parts of yourself into a coherent narrative, explaining how things got to be the way they are, planning for the future, and making meaning out of the whole affair. The “I” is constantly telling and re-telling the story of your life, both to itself and to those who want to hear it.9
Imagine now that you’re no longer talking to me but confiding in a close friend. “I really feel bad about myself that I’m selling out, working for this firm that creates luxury homes for millionaires, while there’s a homelessness crisis in the city. I’m trying to convince myself to take another job that pays less so I can feel better about my work.” Another aspect of the “I” has now revealed itself. The “I” is constantly evaluating the self, making judgments about it and—crucially—can influence the direction the self will take in the future. So, the “I” is not just telling a story about the past, it’s also actively constructing the story of the future through the way it interprets the past and the choices it makes in the present.10
“It’s complicated”
The effort to convince yourself to take a job with less pay and thus feel better about yourself hints at some difficulties in how “I” and the self get along. Sometimes they can have different motivations: they see the world differently and prioritize different things, and they frequently pull in opposite directions. There’s no getting away from it—the most important relationship in your life is a complicated one.
The self may be constantly changing, but its needs are usually fairly simple, even primal. Just like an infant, it generally wants to feel secure, comfortable, loved. When it’s hungry, it wants food. When it’s tired, it wants to rest.11
The “I,” on the other hand, develops an orientation toward more complex needs, many of which it absorbs from the surrounding culture. If I’m born into a devout Christian family, I may hope to end up in heaven, and I’ll learn to prevent myself doing sinful acts that might compromise my dream of a rapturous afterlife. If I’m a teenage girl in Western consumer society, I may keep myself hungry in order to lose weight and appear attractive based on idealized images flaunted by mainstream media. Whatever culture I’m born into, I probably want to be respected and valued, so I may push myself hard to get along in my career.
While the self is forever changing, “I” tend to be more fixed, and yet I will also change as I grow, albeit more gradually. I may form new values based on my experiences, and try to teach myself more skillful ways to respond to things that go wrong. Perhaps at some point I can say “I’m no longer as hard on myself as I used to be.”12
An important aspect of this ever-changing interplay is that the relationship I have to my present self may be different from the one I have with my future self. A desire for eternal bliss in heaven is only the most extreme version of the mismatch that continually arises between my present self and one that may exist in the future. Most of us have long-term plans for ourselves, and we’re willing to make short-term sacrifices to get there. If you put money away into a retirement plan or go to evening classes to learn a new skill, you’re investing in your future self at the expense of the present one. The timespan for this mismatch can sometimes be very short. If someone enrages you, your immediate impulse may be to hit them, but you know that would lead to a bad outcome for your future self, so you might take a deep breath and curb your current self’s desire.13
Does that mean, then, that “I” should simply get control of my “self” and make it do whatever I think is right? In fact, a vast amount of research has been carried out in how “I” and the “self” comes to a decision about something. It’s a fascinating area of psychology and what it tells us is that . . . well, it’s complicated.
The democracy of consciousness
Neuroscientists who investigate the neural systems that lead to decisions in humans, have identified two parallel pathways, interacting with each other, that induce us to decide what to do. One pathway, corresponding to the “self,” recalls the emotional experience of similar situations, just like the antelope in the savannah, and activates appropriate instinctual responses. If the situation evokes danger, this could initiate a “fight or flight” stress response. If it evokes security, it might lead to a sense of relaxation with positive emotions. The other pathway responds more slowly, remembering pertinent facts about the situation and evaluating them: What actually happened the last time it occurred? How was that different from this time? This, of course, corresponds to the thinking, reflective “I.” However, the emotional response activated by the first pathway creates feeling tones that act as “covert biases” influencing the second pathway. If they’re strong enough, they might sway the final decision. If not, they might be ignored.14
What’s crucially important about these two pathways is that neither one alone represents our true identity. Who we are, and the decisions we make, are a result of how these different pathways interact.
Once we realize this, we can begin to see ourselves as integrated organisms arising from the patterns of connectivity between those networks that we identify as “I” and “self.” Our thoughts, even our most abstract ideas, don’t exist without a concomitant wash of images and sensations. And the feelings arising within our bodies activate and influence the neural pathways that create our ideas and judgments. As neurobiologist Dan Siegel suggests, these felt sensations, as they blend with our conscious awareness, may be understood as the “wisdom of the body.”15
Given this, it would seem crucially important to understand how to integrate these continually flowing patterns within us, in order to make the most skillful decisions and enjoy the most harmonious relationship between “I” and my “self.”
Prominent neuroscientists Francis Crick and Christof Koch suggest we view the systems within us as a never-ending series of “transient coalitions of neurons,” sometimes supporting and sometimes opposing each other, like a sort of democracy of consciousness. Instead of elections occurring at fixed intervals, there is a continual succession of “local” elections and occasional “general” elections when major decisions are made. As in a well-functioning democracy, it’s essential that all parties, including the minority ones, are respected and heard in the decision-making process.16
As in a real democracy, the tone used by different parties is just as important as the rules governing elections. In the democracy of consciousness, how “I” view my “self” plays a critical role in this. For example, psychologist Kristin Neff emphasizes that you can always choose to act with compassion to yourself. This doesn’t mean indulging in self-pity or self-centeredness. Rather, it means offering yourself the kindness and care you’d give to a close friend. When you find your “self” making a mistake, you can choose to treat it with support, understanding, and curiosity, rather than perpetuating self-destructive emotions such as shame or guilt.17
These leading researchers base their insights on modern neuroscience and biology, but also frequently turn to the wisdom of non-Western cultures in Asia which spent millennia developing practices designed to bridge the separation between the dual domains of human consciousness. Let’s take a look at what these wisdom traditions might offer.
Embodied mind and mindful body
The Chinese saw no essential distinction between reason and emotion. Early Taoists had a powerful vision of acting in harmony, not only with oneself, but also with one’s surroundings—known as wu-wei, or effortless action. We all experience an element of wu-wei when we’ve mastered a particular skill, whether it’s riding a bike or playing a musical instrument. Neuroscience sheds some light on this process. When we first learn a skill, we use our prefrontal cortex extensively, as we’re consciously figuring out what to do. At a certain point, once we’ve transitioned to a state where it becomes automatic, we use parts of the brain that are evolutionarily more ancient, such as the basal ganglia and cerebellum. Edward Slingerland, a Chinese scholar who has written two books on wu-wei, calls this “body thinking.”18
That’s the easy part, though. The full experience of wu-wei occurs, not so much when we’re on autopilot, but when we integrate automatic activity with conscious attention. As Slingerland describes it, “for a person in wu-wei, the mind is embodied and the body is mindful. . . The result is an intelligent spontaneity that is perfectly calibrated to the environment.”19
What about the rest of the time, though, when we’re experiencing the more mundane realities of our daily lives? Is this harmonious integration of “I” and “self” something that can only be achieved in sporadic, peak experiences—or is there a way to get there more sustainably? Let’s turn to another East Asian tradition, Buddhism, which has a few things to say about that.
Bridging the gap between “I” and “self”
Many Buddhist traditions use meditation as a means to investigate the nature of consciousness. Mindfulness meditation involves observing your inner experience from moment to moment, without reacting or making judgments on what you observe. In this sense, “I” am observing the momentary instantiations of my “self” as they arise and disappear from consciousness. As I do this, I try to avoid reacting to, or making up stories about what I’m observing, while remaining curious, open, and accepting of whatever I discern.20
Once “I” become aware of the self’s experience, however, I tend to hold on to it, make up a story about it and plan around it, even when the self has moved on to something completely different. Buddhist teachings identify this disconnect as the source of a certain kind of pervasive human experience known as dukkha. The word dukkha is frequently translated as suffering, but it actually refers to a much broader spectrum of experiences arising from the stories that “I” inevitably construct, including feelings of unease, worry, grasping, longing, regret, embarrassment, and a host of other states derived from the workings of conceptual consciousness. In a sense, dukkha can be understood as the inverse of wu-wei—as the customary state when “I” am not in complete harmony with my “self.”21
A fundamental aim of Buddhist practice is to eliminate dukkha from one’s experience, and mindfulness meditation is a powerful technique to help achieve this. One way it works is by helping us recognize the subtle moment when an experience moves from an embodied phenomenon to conscious awareness—when a momentary instantiation of “self” becomes fastened to the “I.” As the “I” and “self” get along more easily, the level of dukkha may begin to diminish. You might find that the sensation of wu-wei is no longer confined to the rare, peak moments of life, but has infused the normal rhythms of your daily existence.22
The dance of the “I” and “self”
Your relationship with yourself is not only the most important of your life—it’s also in many ways the most complex. Consider how different “I” am from myself. The self is impulsive, lives in the present moment, is continually changing. It springs from embodied experiences, is in many ways entirely unpredictable, and can occasionally become overwhelmingly powerful. “I,” on the other hand, am more stable, I have a clear sense of past and future, I make plans and set intentions, and I try to steer myself to remain on track with them.
Given these differences, is it any wonder that the relationship between “I” and myself can become fraught with all kinds of dukkha? If you find yourself in an incompatible relationship with a partner, you can always decide to separate. But your relationship with yourself is one that you’re in for your entire life, whether you like it or not. Therefore, it’s best to find the most harmonious way to conduct it.
The key to a successful democracy of consciousness is a full and ongoing integration of the different aspects of “I” and the self. By welcoming and honoring the various needs and feelings of the self, “I” am more able to incorporate them into the direction I set for my life. If I learn to listen carefully to the “wisdom the body,” I can become a wiser person in the decisions I make and actions I take. At the same time, if the self recognizes that its needs are being acknowledged, it can also relax, and is less likely to sabotage the life that “I” have constructed.
The relationship between “I” and self is a bit like a partner dance set to the music of life. Each partner differs from the other, but can learn to attune to the other, and respond harmoniously to the other’s moves, sometimes closing in, sometimes moving further away, sometimes setting a new tone, and sometimes following the other’s lead, but always remaining in relationship—and rather than trying to dominate or surrender, coordinating with the other to co-create an experience that neither could ever attain by themselves.
Excerpt from The Web of Meaning: Integrating Science and Traditional Wisdom to Find Our Place in the Universe by Jeremy Lent (New Society Press, 2021). The Web of Meaning lays out a solid foundation for an integrative worldview based on deep interconnectedness, which could lead humanity to a sustainable, flourishing future.
References
- George Lakoff, and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2003); Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999).
- Gerald M. Edelman, Joseph A. Gally, and Bernard J. Baars, “Biology of Consciousness,” Frontiers in Psychology 2 (2011): 1–7; Joseph LeDoux, Synaptic Self: How Our Brains Become Who We Are (New York: Penguin, 2003), p. 21; Michael Lewis, “The Origins and Uses of Self-Awareness or the Mental Representation of Me,” Consciousness and Cognition 20 (2011): 120–29; Antonio Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness (New York: Harcourt Inc., 1999), p. 16; Evan Thompson, and Francisco J. Varela, “Radical Embodiment: Neural Dynamics and Consciousness,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 5, no. 10 (2001): 418–25.
- Gerald M. Edelman, and Giulio Tononi, A Universe of Consciousness: How Matter Becomes Imagination (New York: Basic Books, 2000), p. 109; Edelman, “Naturalizing Consciousness: A Theoretical Framework,” PNAS 100, no. 9 (2003): 5520-24.
- Jeremy Lent, The Patterning Instinct: A Cultural History of Humanity’s Search for Meaning (Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 2017), pp. 40–47; Robin I.M. Dunbar, “The Social Brain Hypothesis,” Evolutionary Anthropology 6, no. 5 (1998): 178–90.
- The part of the brain that is activated is known as the medial prefrontal cortex. See Diana I. Tamir, and Jason P. Mitchell, “Neural Correlates of Anchoring-and-Adjustment During Mentalizing,” PNAS 107, no. 24 (2010): 10827–32; Debra A. Gusnard, et al., “Medial Prefrontal Cortex and Self-Referential Mental Activity: Relation to a Default Mode of Brain Function,” PNAS 98, no. 7 (2001): 4259–64; Joseph M. Moran, William M. Kelley, and Todd F. Heatherton, “What Can the Organization of the Brain’s Default Mode Network Tell Us About Self-Knowledge?,” Frontiers in Human Neuroscience 7 (2013): 1–6.
- Mark R. Leary, The Curse of the Self: Self-Awareness, Egotism, and the Quality of Human Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), Kindle locations 1293–1296; Chris D. Frith, “The Role of Metacognition in Human Social Interactions,” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 367 (2012): 2213–23.
- LeDoux, Synaptic Self, pp. 27–8; Damasio, The Feeling of What Happens, p. 16.
- Thomas Suddendorf, The Gap: The Science of What Separates Us from Other Animals (New York: Basic Books, 2013), pp. 110–12.
- Shaun Gallagher, “Philosophical Conceptions of the Self: Implications for Cognitive Science,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 4, no. 1: (2000): 14–21; Michael S. Gazzaniga, “Humans: The Party Animal,” Dædalus, Summer (2009): 21–34; Chapter 1, “The interpreter and the mystic.”
- Owen Flanagan, The Problem of the Soul: Two Visions of Mind and How to Reconcile Them (New York: Basic Books, 2002), 240–41; Gallagher, “Philosophical Conceptions of the Self.”
- LeDoux, Synaptic Self, p. 323; Jonathan St. B. T. Evans, “Spot the Difference: Distinguishing between Two Kinds of Processing,” Mind and Society 11 (2012): 121–31.
- Terrence W. Deacon, The Symbolic Species: The Co-Evolution of Language and the Brain (New York: Norton, 1997), p. 452.
- Walter Mischel, The Marshmallow Test: Why Self-Control Is the Engine of Success (New York: Little, Brown & Co., 2014), 125–6; Todd F. Heatherton, and Dylan D. Wagner, “Cognitive Neuroscience of Self-Regulation Failure,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 15, no. 3 (2011): 132–39.
- Antoine Bechara, et al., “Deciding Advantageously before Knowing the Advantageous Strategy,” Science 275 (1997): 1293–95; Stanislas Dehaene, and Lionel Naccache, “Towards a Cognitive Neuroscience of Consciousness: Basic Evidence and a Workspace Framework,” Cognition 79 (2001): 1–37.
- Josef Parvizi, “Corticocentric Myopia: Old Bias in New Cognitive Sciences,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 13, no. 8 (2009): 354–59; LeDoux, Synaptic Self, p. 2; Antonio Damasio, Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain (New York: Penguin Books, 1994), pp. xx-xxi, 88, 252; Daniel Siegel, Pocket Guide to Interpersonal Neurobiology: An Integrative Handbook of the Mind (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012), pp. 71, 80.
- Francis Crick, and Christof Koch, “A Framework for Consciousness,” Nature Neuroscience 6, no. 2 (2003): 119–26.
- Cited in Leary, The Curse of the Self, Kindle locs. 2671–2678.
- Edward Slingerland, Trying Not to Try: Ancient China, Modern Science, and the Power of Spontaneity (New York: Broadway Books, 2014), pp. 14, 59.
- Ibid., p. 32.
- Ibid., p. 108–9; Britta K. Hölzel, et al., “How Does Mindfulness Meditation Work? Proposing Mechanisms of Action from a Conceptual and Neural Perspective,” Perspectives on Psychological Science 6, no. 6 (2011): 537–59.
- Glen Wallis, Basic Teachings of the Buddha: A New Translation and Compilation, with a Guide to Reading the Texts (New York: Random House, 2007), p. 120; B. Alan Wallace, and Shauna L. Shapiro, “Mental Balance and Well-Being: Building Bridges between Buddhism and Western Psychology,” American Psychologist 61, no. 7 (2006): 690-701.
It should be noted that the comparison of dukkha to wu-wei, along with its portrayal as arising from the separation between the “I” and the “self,” are interpretations arrived at through interweaving the different cultural paradigms of Taoism, Buddhism, and modern psychology, and will not be found in traditional teachings of Buddhist practice. - Nyanaponika Thera, The Heart of Buddhist Meditation (San Francisco, CA: Red Wheel/Weiser, 1965), p. 55; J.A. Brefczynski-Lewis, et al., “Neural Correlates of Attentional Expertise in Long-Term Meditation Practitioners,” PNAS 104, no. 27 (2007): 11483–88; Yi-Yuan Tang, and Michael I. Posner, “Attention Training and Attention State Training,” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 13, no. 5 (2009): 1–6.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeremy Lent, described by Guardian journalist George Monbiot as “one of the greatest thinkers of our age,” is an author and speaker whose work investigates the underlying causes of our civilization’s existential crisis, and explores pathways toward a life-affirming future. His award-winning book, The Patterning Instinct: A Cultural History of Humanity’s Search for Meaning, examines the way humans have made meaning from the cosmos from hunter-gatherer times to the present day. His new book, The Web of Meaning: Integrating Science and Traditional Wisdom to Find Our Place in the Universe, offers a solid foundation for an integrative worldview that could lead humanity to a sustainable, flourishing future. He is founder of the nonprofit Liology Institute and writes topical articles exploring the deeper patterns of political and cultural developments at Patterns of Meaning. Author website: jeremylent.com.
Posted by mkeane on Thursday, February 17th, 2022 @ 6:58AM
Categories: