Читать книгу Radical Humility - Группа авторов - Страница 10

Jennifer Cole Wright

Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness…it is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth.

—David Foster Wallace

As David Foster Wallace rightly noted in a celebrated 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College, each of us experiences ourselves as standing, psychologically speaking, at the center of a universe. That is to say, we each experience ourselves as the “organizing center” of a consciousness that feels woven together into the form of a life. Our life.

We experience that life as real and substantial, as something to be lived, equipped with the drive to fulfill basic needs and to pursue goals and values that we experience as worthwhile and meaningful. It seems only natural, then, that in a world filled with needs and desires, it is our own needs and desires that press most strongly in upon us, demanding our attention. And in a world filled with beliefs, values, goals, and ideals, it is our own that strike us as the most attractive and compelling, the most true and worthy of commitment and pursuit.

It is not simply a matter of our needs, desires, beliefs, values, goals, and ideals (hereafter, “needs, etc.”) being the ones with which we happen to be most intimately and continuously familiar, but rather the fact that they emanate from our center—we experience them as ours—and, in so doing, they generate a powerful gravitational pull.

This pull typically manifests as a self “centered-ness” (i.e., a self-oriented focus) through which we privilege and prioritize our needs, etc. above those of others. They are the ones we attend the most to: we expend more energy on them, we give them more thought, we dedicate more resources to them, and we allocate to them more time.

Yet, as most religious and ethical systems teach us, the privileging and prioritization of our needs, etc. in this way is not justified. After all, the fact that our beliefs, goals, values, and ideals are our own does not make them more likely to be true, appropriate, or worthy of pursuit. Nor does the fact that we experience our own needs and desires more strongly mean that they actually matter more.

As Mark Johnston wrote:

The truly ethical life is a life in which you encounter yourself as one person among others, all equally real. This means that the legitimate interests of others, insofar as you can anticipate them, will figure on a par with your own legitimate interests in your practical reasoning…For you will find yourself to be only one of the others, the one you happen to know so much about, thanks to being him or her.

In other words, living an ethical life requires that we encounter our needs, etc. as they truly are—that is, as only one particular set of needs, etc. (albeit, the ones we happen to know best) within a vast, complex, and interconnected universe of living beings, all with equally real and legitimate needs, etc. of their own.¹

This is where humility comes in.

Johnston also wrote:

There is massive consensus across the major religions, that salvation crucially requires overcoming the centripetal force of self-involvement, in order to orient one’s life around reality and the real needs of human beings as such.

In other words, the problem with our natural centeredness is that its centripetal force is a source of both epistemic and ethical distortion—that is, it interferes with our ability to orient ourselves towards reality (so that we can accurately perceive, and engage with, the world as it is—as opposed to how we might think, want, or wish it to be—a world in which we are each only an infinitesimal part of a larger whole), as well as our ability to orient ourselves towards other living beings (so that we can accurately perceive, and engage with, them as they are—as beings with needs, etc. as real and legitimate as our own).

Humility, as I have defined and discussed it elsewhere, is an “epistemically and ethically aligned” state of awareness, which means that humility is a state of awareness that corrects for these distortions, a state of awareness in which they are silenced. In other words, through humility, our experience of ourselves in relation to (and in relationship with) other living beings, and with the universe as a whole, is freed from the centripetal force naturally generated by our centered-ness.

As a state of awareness, humility is something we can “come into and go out of” (we can be temporarily or momentarily humble), though it is also something that can stabilize into a sort of “standing” or baseline disposition (or virtue), such that our cognition, affect, and behavior are continuously informed and influenced by it.

To say that humility orients us towards reality is to say that it enables us to understand and experience the world around us, and ourselves in it, as it is. For example, it allows us to experience ourselves within the larger context of our existence, generating a clear and accurate sense of ourselves as finite, fragile, and imperfect beings, contingent and relationally constituted—part of a vast, complex, and interconnected universe of living beings. This can be experienced spiritually, as a connection to the Divine or some higher force or power, but it can also be experienced more secularly, through an awareness of one’s place in, and connection to, the larger natural world and cosmos.

To say that humility orients us towards others is to say that it enables us to understand and experience the vast web of interconnected beings (of which we are a part) as just as morally relevant—as worthy of attention, care, and concern—as ourselves. Importantly, this ethical alignment is experienced as an expansion, not a contraction, of the force and scope of our own needs, desires, interests, beliefs, goals, and values. This is because they become interwoven with the needs, desires, interests, beliefs, goals, and values of others—and, as such, they are no longer experienced as separate, in conflict or in competition, but rather as inextricably and necessarily connected and shared.²

In other words, the quieting of the biases naturally generated by our centered-ness results in a feeling of deep connection and fellow-concern. We experience ourselves not simply as less than our natural centered-ness would have us believe, but also as more.

Importantly, this suggests that humility is needed not only to combat the distortions that naturally arise from our centered-ness, but also to develop as ethical beings, expanding our capacity for compassion, courage, honesty, generosity, and other virtues.

To see this, consider: The people we identify as moral exemplars are highly attuned and responsive to the needs, etc. of others. They experience them as being as real and legitimate—as likely to be true or worthwhile—as their own. This means, more specifically, that they are able to perceive and properly evaluate the facts as they present themselves with respect to what they ought (or ought not) do. They are also able to properly weigh the needs, etc. of all relevant others in determining what they ought (or ought not) do. Generally speaking, this allows them to respond ethically in a given situation—to do the right thing in the right way at the right time for the right reasons.³

Accomplishing all of this requires, at its base, an absence of the distortions that naturally arise from our centered-ness. In other words, it requires a state of awareness which is free of these distortions, in which they have been silenced, so we are able to experience ourselves, others, and the world we live in as they truly are. This makes humility the starting point in our development of virtue, and living an ethical life.

If humility truly is, as I suspect, the starting point, then it is important to identify and understand the types of circumstances and life experiences that are conducive—even necessary—for its cultivation.

One thing that seems pretty clear is the importance of early life experiences. In particular, the importance of close emotional bonding with one’s caregivers (which creates what developmental psychologist Darcia Narvaez calls “limbic resonance,” the feeling of deep connection to others that allows for shared emotional experiences), and the development of a healthy sense of individual autonomy that is accompanied and supported by a feeling of belonging—to a family, a peer group, a community. This combination helps to create a healthy orientation towards the self, one less inclined towards a narcissistic defense of self-importance and more open to its capacity for self-transcendence.

Beyond such early experiences, it is important to find opportunities to immerse ourselves in “deep caregiving” communities (such as caring for the dying or disabled). In the encountering of the unalterable and unavoidable vulnerability and suffering of those we care for, these experiences bring us face to face with our own finitude, fragility, and dependency. We must learn what is beyond our capacity to change, repair, or solve—or even fully understand. And in so doing, we become more open to the world and to the other living beings we share it with, able to give ourselves up to simply loving what is in front of us, without trying to change or repair it.

In these situations—and others—we gain what philosopher Iris Murdoch called a “selfless respect for reality.” Writing along these lines as well, Johnston states:

There are large-scale defects in human life that no amount of psychological adjustment or practical success can free us from. These include arbitrary suffering, aging (once it has reached the corrosive stage), our profound ignorance of our condition, the isolation of ordinary self-involvement, the vulnerability of everything we cherish to time and chance, and, finally, to untimely death.…The redeemed life is a form of life in which we are reconciled to these large-scale defects of ordinary life…the idea [that] even in the face of such things there must be a way to go on, keeping faith in the importance of goodness, and an openness to love.

Perhaps not surprisingly, a number of spiritual practices have also been strongly linked to humility. For example, the practice of Mussar (a Jewish spiritual practice that gives concrete instructions on how to live a meaningful and ethical life) actively cultivates humility by teaching us to occupy our “rightful space”—in other words, mindfully occupying a space (physical, verbal, intellectual, emotional, etc.) that leaves appropriate room for others, while at the same time not shrinking away from that which is ours to occupy. Sometimes learning the boundaries of one’s “appropriate space” requires a humbling experience—such as when we are thrown back upon ourselves, shamed for our presumption, or (alternatively) reminded of our responsibility, which we may have shirked, to ourselves and others.⁴

Similarly, meditative practices—such as those practiced by Buddhists and other eastern spiritual traditions—facilitate virtue development (and humility, in particular). The dissolution of the self that occurs during advanced meditative practices—where we experience ourselves, not as substantial entities, but as relationally constituted, and thus linked to the joy and suffering of all living beings—generates a fundamental shift in focus outwards, quieting our centeredness and generating increased patience, humor, and compassion for self and others.

Humility is also often cultivated through experiences of awe and gratitude, experiences where we encounter our smallness—such as when we see the earth as it looks from space or visit the Grand Canyon—or the wondrous majesty and beauty of the natural world and all the living beings we encounter in it.

What all these various paths to humility appear to have in common is a state of awareness, whether temporary or stable: an awareness that has shifted out of (even dissolved) our default setting of “centered-ness.” With it comes the experience of being fully present in the world, with others and ourselves, as we are. The realization that we are each only a fragment of a wondrous whole; that we are each part of an imperfect world—one that we did not make or choose—composed of undefeatable difficulties and insurmountable odds. Only together, can we see the whole—an organic preciousness for which we cannot help but experience love and gratitude. For the beauty of our imperfection, for the grace bestowed upon us by of our suffering, and for the indescribably joyful challenge of being alive.

1 By “real and legitimate,” I mean several things. First, I mean that they exist, whether we believe they do, or want them to, or not. Second, I mean that they exist as they are, not as we would think or want or wish them to be. And third, I mean that from a “god’s-eye view”—a view in which the needs, etc. of all living beings are present, they are none that are less significant, less “weighty,” less worthwhile and meaningful, than our own. They all matter, and they matter equally, even though we do not necessarily experience them this way.

2 Research on moral exemplars all over the world has found that they report flourishing as individuals through their facilitation of, and contributions to, the well-being of others, especially those in need. Indeed, these exemplars experienced their own needs and interests as essentially woven into the needs and interests of those around them, in other words, their communities (see, for example, Colby & Damon, 1992; Monroe, 2004, 2011).

3 Admittedly, this presumes a roughly neo-Aristotelian conception of virtue (e.g., Wright & Snow, 2018).

4 An excellent discussion of the practice can be found in Everyday Holiness by Alan Morinis.