consciousness

Being Present Meditations

How present do you feel right now? Presence, as in “presence of mind,” is the most essential prerequisite for harnessing attention. “Being present” means, at the very least (and for some mystics, at the very most), being and here and now. Of these three, being is the foundation. Even here and now must be to be uttered.

There are seven stages in this meditation. Each stage consists of a short phrase (mantram), and a space for contemplation. The mantram can be spoken in the mind or aloud (it’s worth experimenting with both). For the contemplation I suggest, at the beginning, that you observe your experience on three specific levels, allowing ample time for each in its turn:

  • physical and kinesthetic sensations
  • feelings
  • meanings

Center. For this meditation it is best to be in a comfortable, upright (awake) position. Allow your body to settle. Imagine an immaterial thread coming down from the sky and up from the earth through the center of your body. Allow the sky and earth to draw the thread a tiny bit up and down, gently lifting the top of your crown and bringing more gravity to your sacrum. Clear a space in your mind. Ask your thoughts to step back for this moment. They need not vanish; only stand back to give you space to be. Invite your feelings to help you experience.

Meditation

Now here I am.

[Two complete breaths]

Now here I am.

[Two complete breaths]

Now here I am.

Notice your experience. Sensations in your body. Feelings. Meanings.

[In-breath] Now, here,
[Out-breath] I am.

[Two complete breaths]

[In-breath] Now, here,
[Out-breath] I am.

[Two complete breaths]

[In-breath] Now, here,
[Out-breath] I am.

Notice your experience. Body sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

Here I am.

[Two complete breaths]

Here I am.

[Two complete breaths]

Here I am.

Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

I am.

[Two complete breaths]

I am.

[Two complete breaths]

I am.

Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

I am here.

[Two complete breaths]

I am here.

[Two complete breaths]

I am here.

Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

[In-breath] I am,
[Out-breath] here, now.

[Two complete breaths]

[In-breath] I am,
[Out-breath] here, now.

[Two complete breaths]

[In-breath] I am,
[Out-breath] here, now.

Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

I am here now.

[Two complete breaths]

I am here now.

[Two complete breaths]

I am here now.

Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

How are you experiencing your presence compared with when you started? How are you experiencing your being compared with when you started?

 

“I Am” Meditation

The “I am” mantram can be done on its own. Here are two variations:

Contemplate Being

Do this meditation for a preset amount of time. Start with 1–2 minutes.

I am.

Who am I?

I am.

I am not one and the same as my appearance. What am I?

I am.

Who is speaking?

I am.

Ask your own questions, make your own observations. Concentrate your thinking on the I am sounding within. Continue your contemplative meditation for the duration of your allotted time. Notice your experience. Sensations. Feelings. Meanings.

Just Be

[In-breath] I
[Out-breath] Am

[Repeat with each breath.]

Emotions in the Body

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands, your chest, your face, your knees and your toes. According to a recent study, emotions are felt physically:

We propose that consciously felt emotions are associated with culturally universal, topographically distinct bodily sensations that may support the categorical experience of different emotions.1

In the study, happiness was found to be a full-body, warm, active experience, whereas depression was characterized by a notable inactivity in the heart and gut areas, with decreased inner sensation in the limbs.


The body maps show regions whose activation increased (warm colors) or decreased (cool colors) when feeling each emotion.

How are you feeling today—right now? Can you feel your emotion in your body? Try using your hands to sense where in your body your emotion feels alive. How does your posture feel? What expression are the muscles in your face forming?

If you are feeling emotion that is overwhelming or agitating, it can help to notice the sensations arising in your body. Noticing brings an observer’s perspective, which can be calming.

And if you are feeling emotion that is so delightful you can hardly contain yourself,2 embodying it fully is a fulfilling way of appreciating the moment.


  1. Bodily maps of emotions. Lauri Nummenmaa, Enrico Glerean, Riitta Hari, Jari K. Hietanen. Proc Natl Acad Sci U S A. 2014 January 14; 111(2): 646–651. Published online 2013 December 30. doi: 10.1073/pnas.1321664111 

  2. Take a moment to contemplate what it physically feels like to hardly be able to contain yourself. 

What Is Will? (2)

II. How Will Works

In part one of this post, we found that will and intention are two different things. In the “Millie-Willy” plays we saw how easy it is, on the one hand, to intend something (in Millie’s case, to knit) but not engage the will actually to do it, as well as, on the other hand, to persist in doing something with a strong force of will without intending to. In the case of less complex creatures, such as spiders, will without intention is the rule; a spider will weave her web despite having no capacity whatever for mental intention. Hence, the following distinction between will and intention:

  • Will is the force that initiates and sustains action
  • Intention is the idea of an action

This distinction implies something important that goes against common sense, namely that will is not to be sought or found primarily in the mind, but rather primarily in the body. Clearly there is a relationship between an intention and a resulting will-full action—but only when an action does indeed result. Bottom line: a bodily action without mental intention (e.g. a spider weaving a web) evinces will, but a mental intention without any follow-through action (e.g. Millie saying she will knit, but not actually doing it) evinces only thinking, but no will. The proof of will is, as it were, in the pudding, not in the thought of cooking it nor in the recipe for it.

Also in part one we further saw that:

  • Free will = intention + will
  • Humans have free will
  • Spiders1 have unfree—that is, instinctive—will

When mental intention and bodily action are coordinated harmoniously, the result is a freely willed act. Humans can do this. Spiders cannot. A web-weaving spider cannot choose whether to weave her web; the spider’s body performs the act purely on instinct, which, by definition, is unintentional. Humans can do something else that spiders cannot do: procrastinate. Procrastination occurs when mental intention can’t get it together with bodily willed action.

It is my intention in this multi-part post to see where both of these paths lead—the path of human free will, and the path of creaturely unfree will. In this part I’m going to embark on the road less traveled: will as it manifests without free intent; creaturely, bodily, instinctive will. Let’s first examine the characteristics of will on its own, without the complicating factor of intentionality. Intention, after all, appears to be a kind of premeditation—a rehearsal in imagination—of what can only become reality in a bodily act of will. Perhaps unfolding the nature of the bodily act can yield clues about the nature of its mental doppelgänger, the intention. If you’ve ever suffered from procrastination you know from experience that no matter how much you know about your intention, your bodily will remains elusive and mysterious. Let’s head straight into that mystery, and delve into the phenomenon of will in itself. Our purposes shall be to observe the phenomenon of will as it presents itself, to distinguish will from its lookalikes, and to characterize, as faithfully as possible, what we find left standing. In this way we’ll build upon our working definition of will, which currently is: the force that initiates and sustains action.

Spider Will

With apologies to arachnophobes, back to spiders.

The picture of a spider spinning a web is a quintessential example of will. If it’s still difficult to think of spiders as demonstrating will, that’s probably because we humans find it difficult to imagine spiders deciding to do what they do. In other words, we still think of will as one and the same as intention—it’s a stubborn habit of our thought. Will, we intuit, is chosen action. Whatever the reason (and we’ll get into it presently), our habit of conflating will and intention gets in the way of imagining spiders as willful. Taking a closer look at this shall uncover an underlying aversion we have to thinking of spiders as possessing will. If spiders are willful, at least one of these two disquieting propositions must be true:

  1. Spiders behave willfully, so they must also have intention
  2. Spiders don’t have intention, but behave willfully; thus it is possible to have will without intention

One of these notions is impossible, but the other is only counterintuitive.

A spider with intention would be either ludicrous2 or scary. Picture Ari-the-spider crooking one leg at the joint in an “aw, shucks” gesture, and exclaiming:

Golly! I s’pose I’ll trap me a plump ol’ fly, liquify his innards, and sip out his guts while I watch the sunset. Mmmm mm! That’ll be a lovely way to end a long, hard day at the silk mill.

Or, clicking her fangs and salivating neurotoxin:

Today, that fly. Tomorrow, your BRAIN.

Either of these would be a statement of intention before the act. The second spider statement is the stuff of horror films, and our horror is precisely that “aversion” I referred to above: we don’t want spiders to have their own intentional will. Luckily, spiders act on instinct, and part of the very definition of instinct is that it is un intentional. A spider with intention occurring in nature is impossible.

Mere Action (Billiard Balls)

Whew!—spider-acts are unintentional. But in what sense are they willed? Isn’t the action of a spider merely action? If the spider can’t control her own actions, doesn’t that mean precisely that she has no will?—In other words, why attribute will at all to a non-intending being; why accept proposition #2—that there can be will without intention—at all? Why not instead say that spiders simply perform actions without will?

Well, what would activity without will look like?

Billiard balls. Billiard balls move, with no will of their own, in accordance with Newton’s first law of motion, the law of inertia:

Every body [i.e. object] continues in its state of rest, or of uniform motion in a right line, unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed upon it.3

But this is only what activity without will would look like, because billiard balls cannot act. Once struck, billiard balls give the appearance of activity; we see them moving, not quite like a spider, but moving nonetheless. But no 8-ball can jump into a corner pocket on its own initiative, because billiard balls have no will. A spider could jump (or crawl) into the corner pocket, uncompelled by any external catalyst, purely on its own power. In order for the 8-ball to move, however, some external force must be “impressed upon it”: a cue ball could hit it, or a hustler-spider (like the infamous Fast Arachne) could whip it with a silk thread. A billiard ball must be moved, because it is passive, not active.

Actor and Form

While a billiard ball can only move when acted upon by “forces impressed upon it” from the outside, a spider, like all living organisms, acts by virtue of “forces impressed” from within itself, namely its will. Let’s refine our working definition, accordingly:

Will is the force that initiates and sustains action from within the actor.

Spiders do seem to be demonstrating will. They are, unlike both billiard balls and supercomputers,4 creating their own activity. And they are doing so without any intention. So we are back to proposition #2, will without intention, and our minds boggle. We watch Ari-the-spider weave silk, and we observe, clearly and distinctly, that this is no chaotic activity, but rather a structured and purposeful one. It looks intentional. In fact, this is true of any willed action; it is non-chaotic.5 We must add another refinement to our definition of will:

Will is the force that initiates and sustains formed action from within the actor.

—Formed, structured, organized… planned, even. Here a paradox arises. The spider’s weaving of her web appears to be thoughtfully formed action—it predictably produces an intelligible structure—and yet simultaneously appears to be thoughtless action: unintentional, instinctive, habitual, like Millie knitting sweaters for no reason. How can spider web-weaving appear intentional and yet be unintentional? This will require some unraveling.

Characteristic Behavior

Any rigorous observation confirms that spiders function in purposeful, evolved ways. Spiders can be said to behave like spiders. Behavior is characterological; naturalists will speak of “characteristic behaviors.” As we noted in the “Willy-Millie” plays, especially the second one, will is necessary to overcome inertia and activate a specific behavior (e.g. knitting a sweater or weaving a web). The will that initiates and sustains the behavior of spiders is directional, if not consciously directed: they will create webs. The will of spiders takes specific form, even without conscious designs: they build spiderwebs, not inchoate masses, and not picnic baskets. (The same could be said of a magnolia tree’s producing magnolia flowers rather than unformed plant mass, and never roses nor daisies nor any other flower than magnolias.) The will of a spider is intelligent in these ways—purposeful, formational, understandable—yet not intellective in the sense of deliberately thoughtful.

Is it any wonder that we tend to think of will and intention as one and the same, even though they are distinct? Whether a willed act is intentional or not, it looks intentional! When we observe the operation of will in ourselves, we notice most prominently our intention prior to the willed action. Millie’s will is most apparent to herself when she first thinks “I’m going to knit” before actually knitting. If we were to ask Millie, “How do you know you willed your knitting to happen,” she would reply, “Well, I thought to myself that I was going to.” And even when intention is absent, as when a spider builds a web, or a magnolia tree flowers, or flamingoes dance… the instinctive behavior bears all the earmarks of intentionality, including organization and purpose. Moreover, when intention is absent it doesn’t occur to us that will is even involved; it seems like the action is just happening on its own, unwilled. A perfect example is when Millie knits unconsciously, out of habit, and Willy tries to stop her. To Millie, she is just doing what she does without thinking about it, completely unaware that her body is acting on will impulses (she might say, “I’m just knitting,” but not “I’m willing myself to knit”). Willy, on the other hand, projects intention onto Millie’s knitting, even when no intention is there. (That he asks her why she is knitting a sweater in summertime betrays his assumption of an intention—i.e. a rationale—on her part that she can explain.) We, watching this play, discover that Millie is acting without intention, apparently mindlessly, and we experience the feeling that she is behaving like a machine; that is, without will, her movements proceeding robotically. The unwilled mere activity that we imagine as well as the intentionality that Willie imagines are projections on our part and on his. But in fact Millie’s will to knit is acting on its own. You know what this implies?

Unintentional willed action is unconscious.

Package-Acts

Probably most of our human willed activity is unconscious. I mean this in a basic way. As I compose this paragraph, I am eating a bowl of Cheerios. The fact that I am having a breakfast snack at five in the afternoon is intentional on my part. My stomach growled. I replied, “Right away, sir!”, stood up, walked to the kitchen, put the cereal box, the milk container, a bowl and a spoon on a tray, brought it all back to my desk, and commenced eating. All intended. But right at this moment I’m sitting up straight and holding the bowl above the computer keyboard, and the spoon is right at my mouth, and I’m wondering: How did my arms move into these physical positions? And, for that matter, how are they maintaining this attitude instead of succumbing to gravity or lethargy or both? Is the gliding of my hand toward my maw a consciously chosen motion, or a habit? It’s more like habit; I know I learned to feed myself with a utensil, but I don’t think about it anymore. Once the food is in my mouth I chew, and this I never had to be taught. The only time I ever chew with intention is when I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek and want to avoid biting it again. My movements while I eat—and, for that matter, while walking to the kitchen—are almost always unconscious.

Deciding to go somewhere, e.g. the kitchen, and actually going there is intentional, but each individual act of putting one foot in front of the other repeatedly until arriving is somehow wrapped up in the package-act of going. How many of your actions each day are consciously intended? Package-acts, such as going out to meet a friend for coffee, include within them many—many—unconscious acts. Every step, every muscular flexion, is a purposefully formed action initiated from within; i.e. a willed action.

Will, Not Code, at the Cellular Level

Indeed, I can’t think of a single example in the world of an action performed by an acting organism without the benefit of an inertia-interrupting and chaos-defying force. Can you? That force characteristically matches the description of will. The only objection we might have to calling the daily head-turning of sunflowers willful is that it’s obviously not consciously willed (i.e. intentional). And yet, examples of willed action without conscious intention are so abundant, even in our own daily living—walking, chewing, blinking, swallowing, digesting, and so on—as to be literally countless. Unconscious, unintentional activity that is nevertheless purposeful, organized, and even regulatory is occurring right this moment in your body at the cellular level. We are prone to think of our genes as the code that determines our physiology, but on behalf of code monkeys6 everywhere I must insist that there is no such thing as code that was not coded by a coder. Anyone who has written computer code can tell you that there is no way it can write itself.7 And yet, as Stephen L. Talbott explains in “Natural Genome Remodeling,” writing and rewriting themselves with purpose is precisely what genomes do all the time:

It is now indisputable that genomic change of all sorts is rooted in the remarkable expertise of the organism as a whole. By means of endlessly complex and interweaving processes, the organism sees to the replication of chromosomes in dividing cells, maintains surveillance for all sorts of damage, and repairs or alters damage when it occurs—all with an intricacy and subtlety of well-gauged action that far exceeds, at the molecular level, what the most skillful surgeon accomplishes at the tissue level. But it’s not just a matter of preserving a fixed DNA sequence. In certain human immune system cells, portions of DNA are repeatedly cut and then stitched together in new patterns, yielding the huge variety of proteins required for recognizing an equally huge variety of foreign substances that need to be rendered harmless. [Emphasis added.]

Intelligent Will—with a Caveat

Spooky, huh? Genomes behave not so much mechanically (“not just a matter of preserving a fixed DNA sequence”) as appropriately (“well-gauged action”), responding to chromosomal needs (“repairs”) as well as to environmental dangers (“foreign substances”). It would appear that unconscious willful activity is intelligent.

But wait! Am I implying a doctrine of Intelligent Design? Nuh uh! Don’t even go there. I’m no expert on the varieties of creationism being propounded nowadays, but let’s consider the most simplistic version of Intelligent Design, which is common enough to address. The conception that there is a single, immeasurably vast mind intending the actions of all spiders and all badgers and all coral is severely problematic, if for no other reason than that it projects onto the cosmic ether the intentionality that is M.I.A. in unconsciously willed activity. This is tantamount to casting God in the role of Great Code Monkey in the Sky.8 This in turn raises two further philosophical objections. First, divine intention would be too boring! If you think waking up every morning because it’s “time to make the doughnuts” is Sisyphean, imagine mentally sustaining the activity of all the bacteria on earth. Not even the combination of omnipotence, omniscience and omnipresence in the divine Mind is sufficient to explain endlessly intending such apparently mindless activity. Second, the divine-intention proposition is too brutal. A spider that paralyzes a fly with venom, injects digestive enzymes into its body, and then sucks out everything except the exoskeleton is both gross and scientifically fascinating, and as long as it’s instinctive and unintentional it is amoral. If it is intended, however, it’s brutal; not evil, exactly, because neither malevolent nor against any known civil or sacred laws. It’s just—how shall we put it?—unevolved.

Parting ways from notions of intelligent design, it is nevertheless worth repeating: unconscious, unintended, willed activity demonstrates intelligence. That intelligence is not coded in by an outside coder; neither shall we say that this is merely “the way it is according to nature,” because saying that says nothing useful, and serves only to waive off the matter as a philosophical annoyance. Rather than turn our backs, let us, for now, live with our questions while contemplating that unconscious intelligent action—even without the influence of any brains or nervous system at all (e.g. magnolia trees, sunflowers, coral, bacteria…)—is not only possible but constantly evident all around (and in) us.

With a final refinement we may now say:

Will is the force that, of its own intelligence, initiates and sustains formed action from within the actor.

Where does will’s intelligence come from? We might as well as ask where intelligence’s intelligence comes from, because intelligence, in itself, is not traceable in nature.9 For instance, it’s not our physical brains that guide our genomes; it’s the other way around: DNA is the most basic building block of biology,10 and it demonstrates intelligent activity.

My intended purpose here is not to dive into metaphysics (well, maybe just a little), but to take a wakeful, realistic, and useful view of will. “Wakeful… realistic… useful…” these are three of the paramount qualities of executive functioning, which runs on free will, and doesn’t run at all without it. But will’s freedom doesn’t come free; it must be won. Won from what, we might ask. What is free will free of, exactly?—Mindless repetition; circularity. Surely you’ve noticed how unconscious will tends inflexibly to repeat itself. This is will’s sustaining power in action. The beauty part of intention is that, as the thought-form of an action completely separate from the act of will which it contemplates, intention creates the possibility of a free relationship between thinking and acting. Executive functioning is what we can do that spiders can’t. This is what we’ll look into in the next chapter of this post.


  1. And, implicitly, other life forms that do not demonstrate deliberative cognition, such as butterflies, and coral, and Chicago Cubs’ Cleveland Indians’ fans.… 

  2. Excepting Charlotte (from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White), of course. 

  3. Newton, Isaac. “Axioms, or Laws of Motion.” Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica. 1687. 

  4. Computers, with no code originating from one or more programmers outside of them, perform precisely zero functions. 

  5. I’m using “chaotic” here in its scientific sense of formless, disordered, confused, rather than in the qualitative sense of carefree and unpredictable as popularized in the Dungeons and Dragons alignment system. 

  6. Computer programmers, especially those working in basements with all windows obscured by stacks of old hard disk drives and defunct keyboards, are sometimes lovingly referred to as code monkeys. 

  7. Some skillful code monkeys might protest that they have written programs that generate code on the fly, but my point is that code-generating programs have to be coded in the first place. Another way of putting it is that computer code cannot mutate and evolve in a Darwinian sense. 

  8. I am by no means making fun of divinity. I am, however, satirizing a poorly thought through idea. In many respects, the doctrine of Intelligent Design is just as materialistic as the framework of biological determinism, which many people of faith revile as spiritually bankrupt. 

  9. In making this claim I realize that I am opening a hotly contested can of worms known as “the mind-body problem” or “the hard consciousness problem.” Briefly the question is this: What is the relationship between the physical organ of our brain and the immaterial thinking of our mind?
        To illustrate the distinction between brain and mind, do this exercise. Think the concept of a perfectly straight line. If you’ve mastered the most basic Euclidean geometry, you are able to think this concept. But there is no such thing as a perfectly straight line occurring in the natural universe (because, for one thing, space is curved by gravity). The concept of a straight line is non-physical; it is purely conceptual. When you think the concept of a straight line, what is your brain doing? It is lighting up in various ways that neurologists could measure by gluing little circles to your head. But one thing your brain is not doing is producing a tiny physical straight line in your skull. The question that the hard consciousness problem asks is: How is consciousness able to conceive that which the brain is not able to manifest?
        My saying that “intelligence, in itself, is not traceable in nature” assumes that there is such a thing as intelligence-capable-of-conceptualizing that is not one and the same as physical brain activity.
        It is a matter of scientific fact that the existence of such non-physical intelligence has never been either proven or disproven.
        I would argue that the provability of numinous intelligence is a self-defeating proposition: satisfactory proof implies physical pudding, after all. Thus, the very definition of provable rules out any possibility of non-physical phenomena. This line of reasoning has always struck me as solipsistic. But this debate is way beyond the scope of this post, and I fear I have indulged it too far already. 

  10. Not being a biologist, I would be grateful for a correction if I’m wrong about this. 

No Freedom Without Representation. No Representation Without Reading.

A learner is one who walks the paths to knowledge. Knowledge leads to freedom. Take, for example, Frederick Douglass.1

While still a slave Douglass learned to read and write, which he accomplished by cajoling some white boys to tutor him without knowing that’s what they were doing. Now, Douglass had suffered the horrors and indignities of slavery before becoming literate, but it was only after he began reading that he became fully conscious of just how intolerable his condition was, and why it was intolerable. In other words, he knew, before learning to read, that he was a slave, but he only knew it as a matter of fact. When as a child, cowering in a closet, he inadvertently witnessed the whipping of his aunt, he experienced shock and terror, anticipating that the leather would be turned against him in due course. This and multiple other devastating events, left unreflected upon in illiteracy, might very well have made of Douglass’s whole life one long, unending trauma. His autobiographical Narrative, however, transformed these horrors into history, into a perspective on human behavior and relations, that continues to serve as a moral touchstone in our civilization.

It was only after learning to read that Douglass was able, while in the midst of experiencing, to represent his experiences to himself, because the very acts of both writing and reading are acts of representation. Writing and reading externalize words from human speech. Words on a page are objective containers of sentences that were originally thought by a subjective author. Printed words stand outside and apart from the subject-writer and the subject-reader. When Douglass learned his letters, then his alphabet, then the sentences of his appropriated composition book, he developed his brain in such a way as to be able to symbolize inner experiences outside of himself. Always before, when illiterate, he’d felt the freezing cold through a whole winter with only a single coarse, knee-length shirt and no pants, shoes, or jacket; his bones felt that. But those winters were not part of any narrative, in the most fundamental sense, until he was able to step outside of his experiences and see himself in them by representing the events of his life to himself in language.

Douglass describes, upon learning to read, how he came to understand the implications of what being a slave meant. Before reading, slavery was the epitome of misery. But it wasn’t until after reading that slavery became, in Douglass’s mind and heart, repugnant to moral conscience and loathsome in all human feeling. The realization of this exacted a heavy toll. Douglass was now burdened not only by his condition but also by an acute consciousness of his condition. He fell into a depression. After a climactic, revolutionary fistfight with an especially vicious master, Douglass might have continued as a slave, sullen and belligerent as he had become at that point in his life, but he had gained something from reading that would change the course of his reality: concepts.

Slavery was no longer the de facto necessary condition of Frederick Douglass’s existence, as it had been when the main thing he knew about himself was that he was owned by someone else. But now he had developed the understanding, reading the Columbian Orator, that slavery was unnecessary, that it was imposed, and that it must be stopped, beginning with his own emancipation. For Douglass, freedom began as a fresh concept. His knowledge of the ideas of slavery and freedom enabled him, first of all, to imagine a different life for himself and for others suffering the same fate. He was then able to judge what was right. And he was empowered thus to act in accordance with his convictions.

Frederick Douglass escaped and became a free citizen. He went on to become an advisor to President Abraham Lincoln, a U.S. marshall, a diplomat, an influential public speaker, a newspaper publisher, and author of three autobiographical accounts of his life. These are all very impressive lines on a resume, but what impresses me most about Douglass’s work—apart from his writings, which are of incalculable value to successive generations—were his active support of abolition and of women’s rights. The concepts he learned did not—do not—only apply within a single cause. His knowledge transcended the boundaries of his original political affiliations. What was right and worth doing were realms larger than himself, larger than his personal experiences. Learning and knowledge connected Douglass with, and called him to act in, the world beyond the self.


  1. Douglass’s birthday anniversary is February 17th, the occasion of this post. 

What Makes a Pen Real and a Falling Tree Make a Sound?

Pick up any ordinary pen and consider what you see.  Supposedly your eyes will do their job, which is to represent the physical structure of the pen as a particular configuration of rods and cones. But your mind will not acknowledge the object in your hand as a bunch of rods and cones, nor as a structured mass of molecules (which is what a pen and everything else is made of). Your mind instead understands the object simply as a pen.

There are two stages involved in knowing that what you picked up is a pen. First, your eyes and your fingers communicate sense impressions, or percepts; to your brain. These percepts are in the form of electrochemical stimuli traveling through your nervous system, and they no more resemble a pen than a weather map resembles an actual rain storm. Second, your mind then organizes this raw data into concepts. It is the concept of a pen that the mind grasps, and to prove this, simply put yourself in a room that contains no pens and then reread this paragraph. You still understand what a pen is, even though you’re not perceiving one at the moment.

The first of these two stages is really nothing more than passive observation. What is a pen, materially? It’s a mass of molecules, which are composed of atoms, which are composed of subatomic particles. Has any human being ever actually seen—as in laid eyes on—those subatomic particles? No. Even the most powerful microscopes can only bump over some thing that physicists have mathematically postulated to be an electron, but no one has ever perceived an electron with his own senses. A pen in its raw state, like every other object in the world, is just a mass of particles.

The second stage, the concepts stage, is where we get our sense of reality; for if we did not organize the constituent particles of matter with our minds, we would forever be confronted with a universe of undifferentiated particle soup. A pen is made of particles; air is made of particles; and the particles in both are fundamentally the same (i.e. protons, neutrons, electrons).1 It is consciousness that differentiates between the two by forming two distinct ideas. The idea of a pen is a coherent representation of the sensory data we receive in the form of percepts. The raw data—the particles themselves, as well as the sensory impulses traveling through our nervous systems—remain unrepresented until our minds make comprehensible forms out of them.


This extra-sensory, reality-forming activity of the mind is what philosopher Owen Barfield calls figuration: After passively perceiving undifferentiated particle structures with the senses, the mind figurates those structures and forms an image of the real world. Barfield calls the process of perception and figuration, taken as a whole, participation.2

Thus, the world, without consciousness to participate3 it, is an abundance of unrepresented phenomena. Such unrepresented phenomena would certainly exist in their own right, but they would not be real in any sense that is useful, because they would have no conscious meaning. In terms of an existential state, unrepresented phenomena do not depend on consciousness for existence (in other words, the particles, the quanta of energy, are there whether consciousness figurates them or not); but in terms of conscious reality, what is unrepresented lingers in the realm of the potentially manifest. Thus the answer to the long-debated question, “If a tree falls in a forest but no one hears it, does it make a sound?” is, No, it doesn’t. But it does make something, something as yet unrepresented. Particles of what a participating person would recognize as air would move precipitously. And if a participating person were in the forest, that unrepresented movement of particles would indeed be recognized as sound.

Perhaps the hardest part of participation to swallow is that without consciousness there is no reality. Raw percepts, what I called “particle soup,” aren’t anything without concepts. But neither have concepts any reality without percepts. As philosopher Georg Kuhlewind noted in The Logos-Structure of the World, the percepts bring the weight of evidence to our perceptions; in other words, the percepts of our sense impressions tell us that something exists, that something is actually there. Concepts structure the something-there into an intelligible, experiential reality. It might be useful to distinguish between what exists and what is real in this way: something which exists potentially may occupy consciousness and join with concepts, whereas something real has already so appeared in the mind and been conceptualized by it. Even for the tree to fall in the forest, a participating consciousness is prerequisite. Otherwise the best anyone can say is that, because he’s been in a forest, or experienced artistic renderings of forests (in paintings, for example), he can imagine that in some forest a tree might fall, and if it did fall, he can imagine that it would make a sound. In the absence of a participating consciousness, there is no tree even, and no forest. Something exists, and something is happening in the world of unrepresented energy-particles.

Though it is difficult, using conventional wisdom, to think of a phenomenon as part of existence and yet simultaneously unreal, it is a viable distinction; otherwise, the word real in the philosophical sense could just as well be stricken from the dictionary as redundant, and the distinction between represented and unrepresented phenomena would be impossible to make.

There are many practical implications of the above philosophical excursion, not the least of which is that our collective reality is correlative to our collective concepts. It follows that what we make of the world in fact makes the world. What we do with our minds matters. This is one of the major foundational principles of The Conscious Learner.


  1. You might argue that the configurations of the subatomic particles make all the difference, but if that’s so it must be by a magical process: the mathematical differences between one atom and another do not in any way resemble the qualitative differences between a pen and air. Nor do molecular structures determine that a pen is a pen and not a hippopotamus. A molecular structure is a set of relationships, bonds, between atoms. These bonds are said to determine the substance’s physical properties, its conductivity, hardness, soluability, and melting point. But all of the terms being used to describe molecular structure are conceptual. A bond is a particular kind of relationship involving attraction. Conductivity, hardness, soluability, and melting point are all concepts. Thus a molecule’s physical properties are the product of consciousness’s figuration of percepts. 

  2. See the first four chapters of Barfield’s Saving the Appearances, which, especially as far as the argument here is concerned, may be read as his magnum opus. 

  3. This usage of the verb participate can be found, says Barfield, on nearly every page of Aquinas’s writings. E.g. “Suppose we say that air participates the light of the sun, because it does not receive it in that clarity in which it is in the sun.” (De Hebdomadibus, chap. 2—quoted in Saving the Appearances, p. 90.) 

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