When I was in the U.S. Army, I once volunteered to go to the Grafenwöhr firing range to carry out some tasks the nature of which I have forgotten. I knew where I was going, too. Our unit—the 8th Division Artillery—had spent a month at Grafenwöhr some time before as part of a major, theater-wide military exercise. Even getting there had taken several long, rainy days; the trip back had been similarly dreary. Grafenwöhr was (and probably remains) one of the most isolated and lonely places in Europe. It is huge and desolate. By contrast with another major firing range in Germany, Baumholder, which was also home to 10,000 troops, Grafenwöhr had a mere handful of people permanently stationed there. The nearest settlement was a tiny, dirt poor village; it didn’t even have a restaurant. Yet I leaped at the chance to go to Grafenwöhr. I’d loved being out there in the great emptiness the first time I’d gone way east to visit the place. It was the emptiness that drew me; I like such places; it’s a temperamental trait of mine.
But what is temperament? Humanity’s traditional classifications are “all right,” as I might put it, meaning “so far as they go.” But whether we base it on medieval humors or somatotypes, as in the Yale classification (mentioned briefly elsewhere), such types don’t satisfy me at the gut level; the reason for that feeling, perhaps, is that I’ve never properly fitted any of these classifications. To fit ourselves into a “type” we must exercise a certain degree of force—thus to make forced choices; it’s not as simple as looking up our astrological sign. Let me illustrate this. If I had to choose between being alone or being in company—and I’d have to choose one of the two—I would choose being alone. Does that mean that I want perpetual solitude? Not in the least. But in a forced choice… Similarly. If I had to choose between working by myself or with a team, I’d choose working by myself. Hard choice: Night out dancing or out at a classical concert? Classical concert. Night out or night at home? I’d stay at home. Company picnic or group hike in the hills? The hike. Forced career choice: Politics or military? Military. Read a book or write a book? Write, of course. Lead a group or be the member of it. Lead. Give a speech or listen to one. I’d rather be giving it. Would I have answered these questions the same way at nineteen? Absolutely. Age five? Yes, if I had understood them. Does all this make sense? It does for me. I feel no contradiction here between an introverted tendency and one inclined to take the lead. The hidden tendency here is that, in virtually every situation, I prefer to reduce external stimuli in favor of stimulus that comes from within. In line with this, I’m not very interested in what people do but interested in what they are. If I have to experience external stimulus—as in being in a group—I’d prefer to lead it: the role provides a greater level of control.
Cultures have preference—now this way and now that. In my own time “extrovert” had and has a positive connotation, “introvert” a negative. William James’ interesting spin on this comes to mind. In his The Varieties of Religious Experience, he labeled extroverted types (before Carl Jung gave them that label) “the healthy minded.” And he labeled the inner-directed people “sick-minded.” I well remember reading that in my freshman year in college—in effect I was reading the book while waiting for the welcoming talk in an auditorium full of future freshmen—remember thinking, aggressively, as I first read that phrase: “Who’re you calling sick-minded, buster.” Nothing sick about it, I thought. The healthy-minded and their doings bored me to tears, put me to sleep. In my experience all the things that strongly drew most people, particularly diversions, entertainments, struck me as things people would have to pay me to enjoy.
Ages ago already—come to think of it, it’s been a while since I was a freshman—I came to see the temperaments in the context, broadly speaking, of stimulus. Temperament manifests as our general response to it. Those who feel deprived of stimulus go out to seek it; those who experience too much of it shield themselves in various ways; one way of avoiding it is to go within. This view is silent on the nature or quality of the stimulus. To take a more detailed approach, I would propose that many kinds of energies impact upon us; they range from coarse to very subtle. If our genetic shielding is of a certain kind, coarse energies will irritate us while the subtle will please. Where the shielding is quite strong, only coarse energies will act as stimulus. These differences will produce the whole range of temperamental manifestations: embrace, avoidance, irritation (the choleric temperament), melancholy (too much stimulus, not strength or skill to fight it off), etc. The most interesting situations are those in which the genetically fortunate perceive the subtle forms of energy—and are drawn to them by preference. To hear those melodies, they try to filter our the coarser kind. Such activity does not arise from any kind of virtue; it’s just an inclination to hear something perceived to have more value. This reminds me of a quote from Abdul Qasim Gurgani Idries Shah cites in one of his books. Gugrani said: “My humility which you mention is not there for you to be impressed by it. It is there for its own reason.”
I speak of shielding because temperament is clearly something that comes to us by way of our bodies. This is indicated both by traditional (medieval) categories—the humors—thus body fluids and by the body-type categorizations studied at Yale. The latter were based on somatic systems (musculature, the viscera, the nervous system). The interaction between this sort of “shielding” and the energies that reach us may very well be what actually constitutes our leanings (outward or in), our day-to-day nervous states, our irritability, the kinds of exercise we seek, whether we seek many friends or few, and whether the desolations of places like Grafenwöhr attract or repel us.
Showing posts with label Somatotypes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Somatotypes. Show all posts
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Pondering Action
In a comment on “Pondering Desolation,” Monique wonders why the life of action is so distracting and compelling—and why it produces imbalances with undesirable results. Good points. Her comment reminded me that life on the frontier, and here of course I mean life on the borderzone, has its own solution to the demand for “action in the world.” We are, after all, supposed to be in the world if not of it. The Sufi tradition is but one of others that calls for realizing spiritual values in the world—but it is a tradition that gives this matter emphasis. In that tradition withdrawal into solitudes—and celibacy, for that matter—are seen as temporary practices to strengthen the individual for the life of action.
I would also note here that in Asia the martial arts, and related practices derived from it, like Tai chi chuan, directly link physical with spiritual action. And there is also the body of useful western observations about types of personalities—inner- and outer-directed (introverts and extroverts), sometimes linked to body types (somatotypes). This last concept was developed by the psychologist William Herbert Sheldon and studied at Yale. Sheldon proposed three body types called endomorphs, mesomorphs, and ectomorphs, roughly associated with personality types that are gregarious-social, active-muscular-athletic, and inward-sensitive-cerebral. People are, or tend toward, one or the other of these. Thus we may be drawn into the social whirl or the world of action by our own temperament. But beneath our temperaments we are all souls, and ways of life that let us express our given natures at the highest form have been developed over time.
I’ve always felt that the Chinese concept of chi, rudely rendered as life force, is perhaps the key to the spiritual life—no matter what our constitution. Four strangers, all from different parts of the world—in a time before English became a world language—met at a tavern and decided to journey together. Some days later they came across an orchard, and all four cried out in delight. One saw cherries, another one les cerise, a third one die kirschen, a fourth called them cseresnye. They saw the same fruit—a sweet red berry with a stone in the middle. The Asian chi or qi, ki, or gi is another’s baraka, the third person’s grace, a fourth traveler’s prana, and so on.
Why does chi flow more readily in the desolation of the desert, on the peak of rocky mountains? Because the distractions of the world have been minimized. Our genuine happiness derives from increasing and concentrating the flow of grace; unhappiness rises when this flow is rapidly dispersed or blocked by endless distractions. The modern error is to confuse baraka with ordinary life energy of the sort we get from carbohydrates. If it were only that, mere over-eating would make us saints. The wisdom of the traditions lies in recognizing that this energy is of another dimensionality, above that of the coarser kind. It is subtle but, when present, of tremendous potency. In very concentrated form it will cure ills spontaneous and more, much more…
The key to spiritualizing action seems to be concentration. The key to concentration is detachment—not in the sense of withdrawal but in the sense of presence. This demands the cultivation of a peculiar sort of duality within ourselves. We must be present to ourselves while simultaneously attending to the action before us. This may sound weird and contradictory, but it isn’t. What we must detach from is identification with the constant upwelling of emotional reaction to anything and everything. It is that automatic commentary of our habit selves—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shouting, sometimes rage, sometimes hysteria—which actually distracts us. Action only requires seeing the facts, understanding them, selecting the right action—and then doing it. Without commentary. When the phone rings just as we start typing a sentence, the mind shouts, God dammit! I hope that’s not…whatever. A centered self, a concentrated self, a self that has prepared itself in the morning with appropriate meditation—renewed at intervals—will simply…pick up the telephone. The three dots I placed there stand for an inward pause, a conscious breath to suppress the shouting; it’s a reminder.
Yes, yes, already. But it’s hard. — And it is. But in a real sense the distractions are all internal. What’s out there is just the bombardment of facts. The distraction arises when we let them—distract us. From our intention. Our intention to act. We want to focus on something—and therefore, interrupted, we lose our focus. The trick is not to lose our focus even in the midst of interruptions. The result of this, if assiduously cultivated, is that the atmosphere will cool. The mind will become more disciplined. Slowly. Gradually. The flow of chi will increase, less of it will be blown away into the winds of emotion. We will become more efficient. The lower self is in many ways quite like an animal and requires long and tedious training—and retraining. And again.
My own experience is that practices of this type wear out after a while. As I succeed in organizing my own action better, as things calm down, I tend to ease up on the discipline and then over days I gradually slip back into bad habits. But the upside is that each succeeding effort is more successful, and even in these matters habits do build, not least the habit of just clearing the desk when I feel myself getting hysterical—putting the To Do list aside, overcoming the terror and panic of doing so—and beginning all over again with a session of reminders and a forcible recall of what it’s all about. It works—if we do. We learned that last motto, years ago, from Laura Huxley.
I’ll have more to say on this subject. The whole reality of chi and grace has many more interesting aspects. The teachings of Montessori were centered on natural concentration as a “normalizing” phenomenon. I’ll get to it. It’s on the To Do list.
I would also note here that in Asia the martial arts, and related practices derived from it, like Tai chi chuan, directly link physical with spiritual action. And there is also the body of useful western observations about types of personalities—inner- and outer-directed (introverts and extroverts), sometimes linked to body types (somatotypes). This last concept was developed by the psychologist William Herbert Sheldon and studied at Yale. Sheldon proposed three body types called endomorphs, mesomorphs, and ectomorphs, roughly associated with personality types that are gregarious-social, active-muscular-athletic, and inward-sensitive-cerebral. People are, or tend toward, one or the other of these. Thus we may be drawn into the social whirl or the world of action by our own temperament. But beneath our temperaments we are all souls, and ways of life that let us express our given natures at the highest form have been developed over time.
I’ve always felt that the Chinese concept of chi, rudely rendered as life force, is perhaps the key to the spiritual life—no matter what our constitution. Four strangers, all from different parts of the world—in a time before English became a world language—met at a tavern and decided to journey together. Some days later they came across an orchard, and all four cried out in delight. One saw cherries, another one les cerise, a third one die kirschen, a fourth called them cseresnye. They saw the same fruit—a sweet red berry with a stone in the middle. The Asian chi or qi, ki, or gi is another’s baraka, the third person’s grace, a fourth traveler’s prana, and so on.
Why does chi flow more readily in the desolation of the desert, on the peak of rocky mountains? Because the distractions of the world have been minimized. Our genuine happiness derives from increasing and concentrating the flow of grace; unhappiness rises when this flow is rapidly dispersed or blocked by endless distractions. The modern error is to confuse baraka with ordinary life energy of the sort we get from carbohydrates. If it were only that, mere over-eating would make us saints. The wisdom of the traditions lies in recognizing that this energy is of another dimensionality, above that of the coarser kind. It is subtle but, when present, of tremendous potency. In very concentrated form it will cure ills spontaneous and more, much more…
The key to spiritualizing action seems to be concentration. The key to concentration is detachment—not in the sense of withdrawal but in the sense of presence. This demands the cultivation of a peculiar sort of duality within ourselves. We must be present to ourselves while simultaneously attending to the action before us. This may sound weird and contradictory, but it isn’t. What we must detach from is identification with the constant upwelling of emotional reaction to anything and everything. It is that automatic commentary of our habit selves—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shouting, sometimes rage, sometimes hysteria—which actually distracts us. Action only requires seeing the facts, understanding them, selecting the right action—and then doing it. Without commentary. When the phone rings just as we start typing a sentence, the mind shouts, God dammit! I hope that’s not…whatever. A centered self, a concentrated self, a self that has prepared itself in the morning with appropriate meditation—renewed at intervals—will simply…pick up the telephone. The three dots I placed there stand for an inward pause, a conscious breath to suppress the shouting; it’s a reminder.
Yes, yes, already. But it’s hard. — And it is. But in a real sense the distractions are all internal. What’s out there is just the bombardment of facts. The distraction arises when we let them—distract us. From our intention. Our intention to act. We want to focus on something—and therefore, interrupted, we lose our focus. The trick is not to lose our focus even in the midst of interruptions. The result of this, if assiduously cultivated, is that the atmosphere will cool. The mind will become more disciplined. Slowly. Gradually. The flow of chi will increase, less of it will be blown away into the winds of emotion. We will become more efficient. The lower self is in many ways quite like an animal and requires long and tedious training—and retraining. And again.
My own experience is that practices of this type wear out after a while. As I succeed in organizing my own action better, as things calm down, I tend to ease up on the discipline and then over days I gradually slip back into bad habits. But the upside is that each succeeding effort is more successful, and even in these matters habits do build, not least the habit of just clearing the desk when I feel myself getting hysterical—putting the To Do list aside, overcoming the terror and panic of doing so—and beginning all over again with a session of reminders and a forcible recall of what it’s all about. It works—if we do. We learned that last motto, years ago, from Laura Huxley.
I’ll have more to say on this subject. The whole reality of chi and grace has many more interesting aspects. The teachings of Montessori were centered on natural concentration as a “normalizing” phenomenon. I’ll get to it. It’s on the To Do list.
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