The World's Hidden Harmony
"We've been blind-sided by our top-down approach. If the body is a bell, resonating to the world around it, it's as though we have stuffed the bell full of cotton balls that stifle its ringing. The present is whispering to us, "Come and play, come and risk," whatever it may be. But we don't notice. We don't feel the present in that way. We don't feel its presence. We feel it as a collection of things. And as for retiring our self-consciousness and allowing our relationship with the present to be primary rather than the one with the self that sort of partnership is almost unavailable to us as a culture.
The path to embodiment, if we choose it, means finding those cotton balls in the body--those barriers that dull us to the world and releasing them and releasing them and integrating them, so that we can once again resonate to the present and find guidance there. If you cannot feel that guidance, all you can do is go it alone; all you can do is guide yourself. And however clever your rational mind may be at supervising you, it will be pitifully inadequate to the task of assessing the world and finding your way through it in a state of grace."
How Recognizing and Cultivating a Whole-Body Intelligence Can Help Us
Rediscover Our Place in the Universe
An interview with Philip Shepherd by
Tim McKee
Tim McKee is the publisher of North Atlantic Books, which has published all of Philip’s books: New Self, New World; Radical Wholeness; and Deep Fitness,
co-authored with Andrei Yakovenko and released October
19, 2021.
Tim McKee: You’ve written, “The segregation of our
thinking from our being is the primary wound of our culture.” Could you
elaborate?
Philip Shepherd: Our culture has many wounds, but to my
way of thinking the deepest source of them is our belief that our thinking
happens in the head, and that it can happen more clearly if we stifle all the
noise that goes on below the neck. As a culture we reinforce that message so
systematically that it eventually feels right to us. When I say
‘systematically’, imagine what is happening to the intelligence of a child as
it’s made to sit in a chair at a desk seven hours a day, five days a week,
nine months of the year for twelve years. That suppression of
the body’s energy is a suppression of its intelligence. There are no two
ways about it. The child is explicitly instructed: “fill your head with these
ideas and pay attention to the head of the class and you will get ahead.” We
learn, not exclusively from the education system—it’s modeled all around us by
the adults we grow up with—to dissociate from the intelligence of the body. We
learn that lesson before we are old enough to question it. We come to believe
that we can think more clearly using the segregated portion of our
intelligence in the head than we can with the whole of our being.
McKee:
And we come to believe that our success depends on that segregation.
Shepherd:
Yes, but it’s exactly contrary to what has enabled us to survive for most of
human history. Hunter-gatherer cultures don’t live in their heads—they rely on
an attunement to the world that involves the unsegregated intelligence of
their entire being. They feel animals moving through the jungle. They feel the
gifts of healing offered by plants. They rely on such knowing.
There’s
a brilliant memoir by Robert Wolff called Original Wisdom in which he
describes his efforts to experience that way of knowing. It began when he went
to Malaysia to conduct some research. He heard about about the Sng’oi—an
indigenous culture living in the jungle, and he was deeply drawn to learn more
about them. When he started spending time with them, he was consistently
baffled by their ability to know things that they should have no way of
knowing.
For example, he might decide on a Saturday morning, “I
could go visit a village today.” He’d get in his car, drive a couple of hours
to a jungle path, walk the path for an hour and a half—but before he arrived
at the settlement he’d encounter someone waiting on the path to escort him the
rest of the way. How did they know he was coming? He didn’t know himself until
that morning.
The subtitle of Wolff ’s book is Stories of an
Ancient Way of Knowing. That ancient way of knowing relies on a hidden harmony
in the world that speaks directly to the body—but the wound we live with, the
one that confines our thinking to the silo of the head, dulls us to it. We go
round and round in our heads, stuck much of the time in thinking about our own
thoughts, and obsessed with gaining perspective on our situation.
And
there’s no question that perspective is invaluable, but perspective is made
possible by distance. You don’t have perspective on a situation when you are
in the middle of it. You gain perspective when you step back from it. And we
do that by retreating to the head. But when we remain there, we are exiled to
a realm that cannot feel the world’s intimacy or its harmony. And then we
wonder why we feel disconnected and anxious.
McKee: I’m having an
image of the brain needing a new job description: You’re welcome in the room
because you have important views to share, but you’re not going to run this
meeting anymore. We value that perspective you give, that distance you can get
on situations, that reflection that can happen in the brain, so we’re not
kicking you out. But running the show? No longer. Because otherwise it seems
that the collective, if it was a business, would fail.
Shepherd:
It would go down the tube—in part because living in the head makes everything
feel abstract. That’s what the head specializes in—abstraction—and the word
‘abstract’ literally means “to draw away from.” In many other cultures the
center of thinking is experienced in the body, which has a borderless affinity
with the world around it. It is attuning to the world in every moment. We have
‘drawn away’ from the world and the body’s intelligence so that neither can be
felt in its full reality. Being chronically disconnected like that leaves us
feeling apart from, separate from, everything around us. So we feel
chronically alone.
And that sense of being alone has become central
to our culture’s understanding of what it means to be human. We are advised in
countless ways that we are all alone. We’re taken as seedlings and stuck into
a pot of aloneness and told to grow there. But when you internalize the
message that you’re essentially alone, you initiate a cascade of effects.
First
of all, you start believing that everything you feel and think is your
exclusively private experience. In reality, all experience is shared
experience. As you sit beside me now my heartbeat is being felt by you and is
affecting you. The Heart Math Institute has done a lot of research to
demonstrate how potently what the heart experiences is shared. But the fact is
that everything we experience ripples into the world around us.
Yet
our experience feels strictly private. As soon as you accept that premise,
your primary job in life becomes to supervise your experience and manage it.
Make it feel good and make it a success. Well, you cannot take on that job
without entering a divided state: one part of you supervising and the other
part being supervised. That deepens the wound between our thinking and our
being. And when we normalize to that division, the primary relationship in our
lives can only be our relationship with the self. We live in
self-consciousness. In reality, we are held by the life of the present, as is
this planet, everything contributing to the eternal weaving of wholeness—and
so we might recognize our relationship with the wholeness of the present as
primary. But no—it’s as though we’ve taken the spotlight of our attention and
turned it on ourselves, casting the world into darkness. By dividing the self
we’ve also endarkened our partnership with the living world to which we
belong.
McKee: I wonder if this segues a bit to this term you use,
“whole-blindness.” I’m wondering if you could share more about that term. What
do you mean by it?
Shepherd: I literally mean that we as a culture
are blind to wholeness—but that requires some explaining. To begin with, it
helps to understand that wholeness is our primary reality. Everything within
the universe affects everything else. The cosmos is a unity. Despite the
efforts of science to speculate ever more minutely about the smallest
indivisible particle of nature, the cosmos is actually the smallest
indivisible unit. How do you split the cosmos from itself ? You can’t. Nor can
you split yourself from it. That wholeness holds you in every moment of your
life. That is our reality.
But if you can’t escape wholeness, you
can desensitize yourself to it. We dull ourselves by holding pat- terns of
tension in the flesh. To my mind, any energy or tension that is held in the
body is a form of resistance to the present. It’s a barrier, like surface
tension. Which also means it’s a form of resistance to
wholeness—to the very reality of the world.
And that’s the basis of our
whole-blindness. The ability to sense wholeness requires wholeness. A cracked
bell doesn’t ring. In the fractured state we consider normal we are unable to
feel wholeness. And that shows up in our lives. We struggle to feel the
wholeness of the body, or of the self. We have largely forgotten what it means
to speak from the wholeness of our being. We struggle to feel the present as a
whole. And if you can’t feel the wholeness of the present, you aren’t feeling
the present, because it exists only in wholeness.
So our culture is
characteristically whole-blind—our embodied intelligence has been
systematically desensitized to the reality in which we live.
McKee:
I heard you say once, “Independence isn’t a real quality in the world.” It
took me back a bit, and I still grapple with it. I’m wondering if you could
share more.
Shepherd: Well, I can understand that reaction, because
our culture is dedicated to the idea of in- dependence. But you can’t point to
a single example of independence anywhere in the universe. It doesn’t exist.
Everything leans on everything. Everything depends on everything. Everything
influences everything at so subtle a level that we can’t even imagine it.
For instance, it’s been demonstrated mathematically that the gravity of an
electron at the outermost fringe of the universe affects the movement of the
molecules of air in the room we’re sitting in at the moment, and the formation
of clouds drifting overhead. We live in a field of felt relationships in which
everything feels everything. Independence is a fantasy.
More
specifically, independence is the fantasy that drives the mythological tyrant.
Joseph Campbell actually characterized the tyrant as “the man of self-achieved
independence.” Now to our ears that phrase, “self-achieved independence”
sounds pretty good! Could you come up with a better descriptor of the American
dream? But it’s a figment; it’s a fantasy. Unfortunately it’s a fantasy around
which our whole culture has gathered and around which each of us in turn has
been shaped.
Like the tyrant, we yearn to be independent as a way
of fortifying ourselves against the vagaries of the world. Our typical image
of success is represented by the self-made billionaire in his mansion on the
hill, secure within its perimeter fence, needing nothing from the outside
world: swimming pool, chef, cinema, he has it all. Self-achieved independence!
Alternatively, success could be represented by a life lived in a small
community in which doors aren’t locked and you pretty much know everyone, and
people look out for each other, and they come together to celebrate and grieve
and pitch in. Some cultures measure wealth in terms of such relationships.
But
that’s not what our culture yearns for. We want independence, and the safety
it promises. Now I’ve personally observed that there’s no such thing as safety
in this world. If you’re alive, you’re not safe. If you’re alive, you’re going
to die; you are going to be hurt. There is, of course, security, the security of being, which no one can deprive you of. But we want to make
ourselves safe. I think people generally understand that if you’re alive
you’re not safe—but then they draw a corollary from it that says,
“Well then, maybe if I’m less alive, I’ll be more safe.” So you see people
compromising them- selves, making themselves smaller, binding their aliveness
with cautionary, inner barriers. They are diminishing not just their
experience of life, but their capacity for entering an exchange of gifts with
the world around them.
McKee: In your book Radical Wholeness, you
talk about being limited by our five senses: “the big five,” you call them. We
know what those five senses are, but how are we limited by them and what
senses are we missing?
Shepherd: The five senses are a cultural
construct—and as a model of understanding they just hap- pen to impair our
experience of embodiment. It seems obvious to us that we have five senses, but
when you look at other cultures you find that some have a completely different
sensorium. For example, the Anlo-Ewe in Africa don’t even have a word for
the senses as we do. What they have is the term, “seselelame.” Seselelame
literally translates as “feel-feel-at-flesh-inside.”
In her book
Culture and the Senses, Kathryn Linn Geurts itemizes approximately nine senses
that the Anlo-Ewe recognize. For example, balance is their primary sense. And
you might think, “Well that’s strange,” because in English we talk about a
‘sense’ of balance. We actually have a sense organ in the inner ear devoted to
balance. Why don’t we include it as a sense? The answer to that becomes clear
when you look at what the big five have in common: they all impute a boundary
that separates us from the world.
For example, light crosses the
boundary of the self, lands on the retina and is sent to the brain for interpretation. Smell, taste, hearing—they all conform to the same model: a
stimulus from the outside world crosses the boundary of the self and lands on
a receptor. So the senses we validate all uphold this idea that we are
separate from the world, independent from it—contained within a boundary that
helps us feel safe. The way we imagine and experience our senses, then,
actually divides us from the world.
Balance doesn’t conform to that
model. The earth’s gravity isn’t a stimulus crossing a boundary—it’s a felt
relationship you’ve been held in since the moment you were conceived. We are
utterly permeable to it. But our culture is deeply devoted to the fantasies of
separation, independence and control. So we discount balance as a sense.
McKee: You said that our model of the senses impairs embodiment. Can you clarify that?
Shepherd: Our model instructs us to look at the world from inside
our heads, as though it were a movie, or we were watching it through a
windshield. It’s ‘out there’. The Anlo-Ewe have a very different relationship
with the world. Anthropologists have described them as having a “radical indeterminacy of the self.” To us that might sound like a state of madness. But
they are porous to the world—they see the sights of the world ‘out there’, but
they feel those sights ‘in here’, in the body’s spaciousness. Similarly they
feel the sounds of the world in the body’s spaciousness. They have a word, for
example, that means “hearing with the ear”—but they distinguish between that
and real hearing.
When I feel most deeply embodied, my body
feels like a resonator—like a bell—ringing to the present as a felt whole. I
feel every sight and sound, every current of the world, etching through the
spaciousness of my being. It lives there and resonates there. If you baffle
that spaciousness with tension, the present will remain “out there” while you
are “in here,” separate from it. And that’s the experience our model of the
senses upholds. Rather than feel-feel-at-flesh-inside we have been taught to
think- think-at-head-inside.
McKee: It’s odd to think that a human
sense isn’t the same across all humanity. That the experience of seeing, for
instance, can be different for different cultures.
Shepherd:
Radically so. Another example of that is speech, which the Anlo-Ewe consider
to be a sense, like hearing or sight. And that sounds nonsensical to us. When
you speak, you are delivering your ideas to another person. And a sense goes
the other way—it receives information from the out- side. So how could speech
be a sense? But our model is flawed.
When you begin speaking, you
don’t usually know what the last word of your sentence is going to be. The
words you speak are showing you the way in real time, as though each were a
stepping-stone leading to the next. Speaking is a means of discovery. Your
words help you feel your way forward, in the same way that the touch of your
hand can help you find your way into a dark room. When you imagine that
speaking is strictly a means of delivery, as our culture does, your focus
while speaking will be on presenting your ideas rather than feeling and
discovering. And that moves you out of the present and into what I call
“presentation mode.”
McKee: You do some interesting exercises
around this in your workshops. I think about the mirroring exercise, where
one person faces you in the lunge position and you have them recite a text
they know by heart. Holding a deep lunge stresses the person, and you invite
them to use that stress to break out of presentation mode. It wasn’t easy for
people, but they all got there. And what that sounded like! When they were
finally liberated from presenting, it was like a totally different beast: both
the person him or herself and the words they were animating. The words had a
totally different quality.
Shepherd: Yes, everything changes when
our thinking and being come together. And that’s the purpose of that exercise,
to help people experience that unity. When someone begins that exercise, the
energy of their speaking tends to be protected or disconnected from energy of
their body. The intelligence in the head knows just what the words mean and
how to deliver them, and needs nothing from the intelligence of the body.
That’s how we learn to speak in our culture—in presentation mode. It’s almost
an alien experience for most of us, to remain fully present as you speak, so
that the whole of your being is heard through every word.
The
lessons of presentation mode begin very, very early in our lives. When we are
mere infants, it’s communicated to us in one way or another that the whole of
our being is unacceptable. We’re too noisy, too fussy, too messy. There’s
nothing very young children crave more than to be seen, to be unconditionally
accepted, to be loved. It’s the very nourishment that calls them into
being—and so they learn to present themselves in a way that
will win approval. They move out of wholeness into supervision—cloaking
certain parts of themselves and hoisting others into the foreground.
And
just to be clear, the purpose of presentation mode is to manipulate a certain
response in the person you’re speaking to. You’re hoping they’ll agree with
what you’re saying, you’re hoping they’ll like you perhaps. Maybe you’re
assuring them that you’re a nice person. All of these things are sub- text.
But what is readily apparent is the way presentation mode focuses our
attention on delivery and sacrifices our wholeness.
So in that
mirroring exercise the participant is in a lunge position, as you said—and I’m
facing them, doing the same. The longer we hold that position, the more
energized the legs become. As that energy ramps up, it pushes against the
habits that keep it from interfering with our thinking. At a certain point the
container fails, the words escape their predetermined cadence and control,
they dissolve into the energy of the life of the moment, and arise reborn.
McKee:
I remember you said to one of the persons in the exercise, “That energy that
you found there, that’s a strength that’s always available to you.”
Shepherd:
It was a woman. As most of us tend to do, she began in presentation
mode—unconsciously using her face to help me understand her words. I
remember her eyebrows animated, reaching for affirmation. What I said was, and
it’s a very strange instruction, “allow your face to tilt back into the body
and let it float down through the body and come to rest on the pelvic bowl so
that you have no face but that one”—because in presentation mode the face
tends to go it alone, disconnected from being. I could see her moving through
what I’d suggested and something in her shook as it happened, surrendering to
the life that was there. What awoke within her was a privilege to witness.
McKee:
Some of the people who did it were women, and one was a man. In general what I
noticed was that the man, when he got to that core power underneath, he found
a real tenderness there; a real softness. In contrast, the women seemed to
find a strength and a fire. I took note that in this current climate we’re in,
both of these are necessary.
Shepherd: Yes.
McKee: The man actually
had to “de-fire” a little bit. He had oration and potency as part of his
pose.
Shepherd: Presenting, yes. The exercise helps people ditch the pose
and welcome life just as it is. It’s very stereotypical, but women are taught
to be nice and men are taught to be strong, whatever that is. I’ve had women
tell me with gratitude that they discovered their voice in that exercise in a
way they had never experienced before. Once someone has been through something
like that, once that door has been opened, it’s never the same again.
McKee:
I wonder if people who are considered “eloquent” are actually the ones who are
most letting the words come from their whole body. Maybe eloquence is less
about the picking the right words and more about being
embodied.
Shepherd: I think what we primarily hear in a really engaging
speaker is their presence. Less engaging speakers make a commitment,
conscious or otherwise, to “sounding good” or “sounding interesting”—and
that requires a top-down supervision that is incompatible with presence.
McKee:
I’d like to ask you about the four dimensions—the “chosen four” as you call
them—and how confining the dimensions like that limits us. What dimensions are
we missing?
Shepherd: The four dimensions are the three of space
and the one of time that Einstein brought into the fold. Every one of those
dimensions enables us to specify the distance between things. I’m two feet
from you, that was three days ago. We’ve glommed on to those as a framework
that promises to contain reality, but reality keeps leaking out of it—because
there is another dimension in which everything is in contact with everything
else at all times. In a very real sense, even when there is space between
things, there is also no space between them. Entanglement is one manifestation
of that, where two particles light-years apart can instantaneously affect each
other. But everyone also has examples from their life of a similar
thing—perhaps an intuitive premonition. The kind of knowing Robert Wolff
experienced with the Sn’goi. The kind of knowing through which our ancestors
attuned to their world in order to survive.
A National Geographic
photographer, Loren McIntyre, coined the term space/time/mind continuum to
name that missing dimension. It was something he experienced personally. He
was on a mission in the Amazon basin to photograph the elusive Mayoruna
people. They are called the “cat people” because they pierce their cheeks and
put whiskers in to resemble cats. A plane dropped him off and he made camp for
the night. The next morning while he was organizing his stuff, he looked up
and saw four Mayoruna tribesmen on the riverbank. It was an incredible stroke
of luck. He was so excited that he started taking their photographs and
followed them into the jungle. Deep into the jungle. Hours later, way past any
point at which he could find his way back, they arrived in their village. No
one there spoke English or Portuguese or any other language McIntyre knew. He
was stranded in a primitive settlement with nowhere else to go. Some of the
tribe resented his presence and at one point he was almost murdered. In the
aftermath of that, sitting in the village, he heard an elder si- lently say to
him, “Some of us are friends.” From that moment he and the elder continued to
share thoughts without the benefit of speech. I mean, without even knowing the
other’s language. He later learned that the Mayoruna referred to that silent
thought-sharing as “the ancient way of speaking.”
Similarly, some
Australian aborigines use smoke signals—not to send messages in code, but to
tell someone, maybe 20 miles away, “We need to talk.” The person seeing the
smoke would sit down and the person by the fire would sit down and they would
communicate. The dimension that brings them together in that way is as real as
gravity. And we refuse to acknowledge it as real for the same reason we don’t
accept balance—our sensitivity to gravity—as a real sense: that fifth
dimension places us in a field of felt relationship—and that violates the
basic requirement of our culture that insists each of us be held in a
separate, personal boundary, safe from wholeness.
McKee: For
all our civilized advances, you have to wonder what we’ve lost.
Shepherd:
We’ve been blind-sided by our top-down approach. If the body is a bell,
resonating to the world around it, it’s as though we have stuffed the bell
full of cotton balls that stifle its ringing. The present is whispering to us,
“Come and play, come and risk,” whatever it may be. But we don’t notice. We
don’t feel the present in that way. We don’t feel its presence. We feel it as
a collection of things. And as for retiring our self-consciousness and
allowing our relationship with the present to be primary rather than the one
with the self—that sort of partnership is almost unavailable to us as a
culture.
The path to embodiment, if we choose it, means finding
those cotton balls in the body—those barriers that dull us to the world—and
releasing them and releasing them and integrating them, so that we can once
again resonate to the present and find guidance there. If you cannot feel that
guidance, all you can do is go it alone; all you can do is guide yourself. And
however clever your rational mind may be at supervising you, it will be
pitifully inadequate to the task of assessing the world and finding your way
through it in a state of grace.
McKee: I heard you say at the
workshop, “Presence isn’t something that can be achieved. It’s not a static
image.” That challenged me a bit because I think I have endeavored to find
presence as though when I get it, it’s some sort of quality that I then have.
You’re asking to think of it differently.
Shepherd: Our sense of
being independent encourages us to believe that presence can be achieved and
possessed. We think of wholeness in the same way: “Be whole in body, mind, and
spirit” as the saying goes, as though your wholeness were not contingent on
the whole to which you seamlessly be- long, but were rather a quality into
which you organize yourself. Similarly, we believe that self-knowledge is
something we achieve as we reach deep down inside ourselves and discover our
truth there. None of that seems tenable to me.
We discover who we
are by coming into felt relationship with the world around us. You can come
into felt relationship with a leaf drifting from a tree, with a child playing
with a chalk on the side- walk, with a strain of music. As you come into felt
relationship with each of those, who you are is illuminated in a particular
way. The more deeply you come into felt relationship with the world, the more
deeply you discover who you are—not as a fixed, known entity but as a
responsive presence illuminated by the world.
We similarly think of
presence as a quality on its own rather than one of relationship. We speak of
the importance of “being present”—as though it were a static quality. Again, I
don’t believe presence can be derived except through relationship. It needs a
preposition. So I can be present to my friend, or to the sounds of the world
around me, or to the moment as a felt whole. Presence is gifted to me by the
world. The more receptive I am to the world, the more present I am. And I feel
that receptivity very specifically within my body as a spaciousness that makes
room for the world to live in me and through me. It’s in the realm of
feel-feel-at-flesh-inside that self and world meet as one.
McKee: It’s
almost like presence then is not the end but actually just the beginning,
because if you are really present and in relationship with
the moment—with the person beside you, with the tree you walked by—who knows
what you’re going to learn about yourself, what your journey is going to be
with that. I guess it doesn’t even really start then until the presence
starts.
Shepherd: Exactly. So then the most personal, most crucial
journey we each make is the journey of surrender that opens us to receiving
the gift of presence from the world around us. And as you say, who knows how
the world will touch you as you allow it to pass through you and live within
you? If you do know how that’s going to happen, then you are holding on to an
idea of who you know yourself to be. That’s the either/or choice we face: you
can be who you know yourself to be or you can be present. Not both.
McKee:
It seems so easy to get complacent in this. Like, I’ve grown enough. I’m more
comfortable now in my skin. Do I really need to keep stretching? It seems
vigilance is key.
Shepherd: Yes, and the most mindful part of that
vigilance is around surrender. You can’t achieve presence, you can’t achieve
wholeness—you are inescapably whole, so how could you achieve it? In that way
wholeness is unlike other ideals we might choose to live by, such as
compassion, honesty, peace of heart or gratitude, because we can achieve
those. You know how compassion feels, you know what it looks like, and you can
choose to be compassionate in a given situation. But that choice risks putting
you in a divided state—one part of you knows what should happen and takes
charge of the other parts of you to make it happen.
Wholeness is
different. It’s the inescapable nature of our reality. Nothing to achieve. All
you can do is surrender to it. And as you say, who knows where that might take
you? A surrender to the reality of the present is a surrender to newness
itself. One thing I have noticed, though, is that when I do surrender to
wholeness I can be no other than compassionate; I have peace of heart; I live
in gratitude. All those other ideals fall into place naturally. And of
course vigilance is needed because the surrendering never ends. Wholeness
isn’t a destination you arrive at. You don’t wake up one day and say, “Finally
I’m whole! What next on my agenda?” It’s a continuous, physical process of
undoing—of releasing the shadows of neglect in the body, the divisions, the
cotton balls. Of settling into a place where you can make room for the present
and resonate to it without expectation.
But there are so many ways
of contracting and disconnecting! Our entire lives are shaped by a tug- of-war
between two competing desires within us: the desire to remember and the desire
to forget. The desire to remember is the more difficult route, but it’s also
what we truly crave. I think we yearn to connect with reality and grow into
our gifts. That’s what feeds our lives. Our forgetfulness can feel like a
cloak of neglect that falls over our bodies and begins to feel comfortable,
drawing us into a sense of dulled, isolated privilege.
McKee: It
seems that a lot of your work is to, on a physical level, fall into that space
of remembering that resides in the pelvic bowl. I’m wondering why you focus on
that region of the body so much.
Shepherd: The reason is experiential
rather than scientific. A lot of our culture wants to shape experience
according to our ideas of how it should be. I tend to go the other way. I
honor the experience and then I’ll try to make sense of it later.
When
I was a teenager I studied classical Japanese Noh theater: a 600-year-old form
of theater that to my mind is a consummate art. That’s where I experienced the
power of the pelvic bowl for the first time. The Japanese culture speaks of
Hara, which translates literally as “belly.” They honor the belly as a region
of faultless intelligence and as the source of their profoundest truth. When
an accomplished actor performs Noh, every movement of the arm accords with
that intelligence, every turn of the head is initiated there, the actor sees
from that place—and the effect is extraordinary.
I watched hours
and hours of Noh theater. And it seeped into my being. I experienced the
stirring of an intelligence within me that is connected to wholeness, that
comes into felt relationship, and that is capable of integrating anything. It
took me years to learn to trust it and understand it and grow into it. But
living in accord with it is so different from the pursuits we commit to when
we live in our heads: grasping, analyzing, scheming, narrating, planning,
rehashing, and second-guessing. We may despair at our fragmented lives, and
yearn for the qualities of grace, harmony and presence that belong to
wholeness. But we’re striving to achieve wholeness with an intelligence that
specializes in perspective and analysis.
Perspective requires
separation—some sort of distance. Analysis requires the separation of a whole
into its component parts. Those qualities, marvelous as they are, are
incapable of attuning to wholeness. The surrender that presence requires,
that wholeness requires, is a physical experience: your body softens, and your
center of awareness descends until it comes to rest on the pelvic floor, and
then dilates into the world—much as a water drop landing on a still pond
initiates widening concentric circles that travel to the farthest shore.
McKee:
And it seems that the moment you feel wholeness from the pelvic bowl, you are
also joining it.
Shepherd: That’s my experience. And yet that realm
of the pelvic bowl has been cast into shame and neglect by our culture. I find
it more than mere coincidence that our aversion to that realm—which I
experience as the female realm of my consciousness—is mirrored in our cultural
neglect of women. Thousands of years ago, people in Europe experienced their
thinking in the pelvic bowl and their cultures were gathered around the
mother. When people shifted from hunting and gathering to farming, that center
of awareness began to rise through the body towards the head, and their
allegiances began to shift from the mother to the father, from the earth to
the sky, and from the goddess to the god. To- day we have departed so far from
that grounded intelligence in the pelvic bowl that we have difficulty even
being aware of it. As for the experience of being aware of the world from the
pelvic bowl—well, that seems truly alien to us. Impossible, even. But it’s
commonplace among other cultures.
McKee: “Being aware of ” the
pelvic bowl is still the same brain-centered approach, much like, “What’s your
gut saying?” or “What’s your heart saying?” That’s basically asking the brain,
“Hold on a second. Go check in to those other spots. Get the information and
then report back.” As opposed to “being aware from” these
other places, which actually don’t involve the head at all, frankly.
Shepherd:
They certainly don’t defer to the head’s intelligence. The intelligence in the
head operates by exclusion. It perceives by exclusion, it categorizes by
exclusion, it discerns by exclusion, it systemizes by exclusion. But the
intelligence in the pelvic bowl is inclusive. As your awareness descends to
the pelvic bowl, comes to rest there and attunes to the world, it excludes
nothing, not even the thinking of the head.
McKee: It seems that
you’re not necessarily trying to make argument about the preeminence of the
pelvic bowl. You’re just saying that our intelligence resides throughout our
body.
Shepherd: Yes, and... There is a specific geography to
the body’s intelligence. For instance, I feel the pelvic floor as the ground
of my being. When I allow the center of my awareness to rest there, there is a
phase shift in my sensitivity to the world around me, as though it melts into
wholeness. At the center of the pelvic floor is the perineum—a place of still,
resonant knowing. Even in the midst of heightened activity, I find the
stillness of that center is intact—attuning without effort, without division, without expectation. It becomes the gravitational center of my being and
my thinking.
So yes to intelligence of the heart, yes to the
intelligence of the shoulder blade, of the little finger— but the ground of my
being is the pelvic floor. When I return to it, I come home to myself. It has
a solidity to it, and a sense of fluid possibility. It’s a little like that
green layer of life on the Earth’s surface that’s rich with fecundity. That
comparison might seem to leave the legs out of the picture, but I experience
them as the roots of my being. They connect with the ground and reverberate to
its presence. To extend the metaphor, the realm of the body above the pelvic
bowl is like the sky. It can feel a little foggy. It might feel as though
thunderheads are moving through it. There could even be an electric storm
going on in your head. Or that whole realm can feel like a clear blue sky.
When I experience the unsullied spaciousness of a clear blue
sky within me, that is when I’m most clearly attuned to the present, and most
gracefully moved by it.
McKee: You’re not a big fan of the phrase “raise your consciousness,” and I wonder why not.
Shepherd: When you are
addressing a culture that has been indoctrinated to live in their heads and
you’re saying to them, “Go higher, go higher”— I mean, how much more
disconnected from the earth could we be? How fully do you want to leave the
body? Do you want to escape it all together?
I have nothing against
welcoming the energy of the sky but, my gosh, it better be counter-balanced by
having your feet on the ground. We are becoming resolutely more and more
abstract in our values, in our ways of being, in our ways of relating, in our
experience of the self. I mean, our relationship with the cellphone is
positively umbilical, titillating the abstractions of the head and shifting
our awareness of the body and the present into dark neglect. So I’d say lower
your consciousness! I think our desire to transcend imperils not just
ourselves but the earth around us.
McKee: It could be a bumper sticker: Lower your consciousness! [laughter]
I see some interesting parallels
between your work and this Italian scientist named Monica Gaglia- no, whom
I’ve been doing some work with. She’s a plant scientist and she’s proven
through various experiments that plants have the ability to learn and
remember. She has basically proven that they have a Pavlovian response to
stimuli. Her science in the experiments is rock solid. There’s nothing fuzzy
about her, but her assertions about plant intelligence have largely been
dismissed until recently because the plants don’t have a brain or neurons and
so how could they be intelligent? She is saying back, “Oh, I don’t know why or
how they are. I just know they are. Maybe instead of fighting what I found,
there might be something there for humans to take, in terms of what our own
intelligence might look like. Perhaps our intelligence is more like the
plants’ intelligence, which is more diffuse and mysterious than residing in
one specific place.” As you’ve been talking about wisdom in the body, I’m
really quite taken with this idea that maybe that’s where we might be going,
hopefully—really be- ginning to accept that our intelligence is more like
plants. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I see it connecting.
Shepherd:
It feels like a stretch because of the way we experience our intelligence. But
when my thinking and being reunite, every thought resonates as feeling through
the whole of my being, and I recognize every feeling in my body as a form of
thought. The unity of my intelligence feels like a field without limit. My
whole life’s experience is at odds with our definition of intelligence as
abstract reasoning. And it’s no accident that that particular definition was
created by the intelligence in the head, which specializes in abstract
reasoning. It’s a somewhat flattering and self-serving viewpoint!
[laughter]
McKee: We’ve extended the notion of intelligence to animals but not yet plants.
Shepherd: Not yet, and I completely agree with
Gagliano’s suggestion that we also misunderstand the nature
of our own intelligence. Abstract reasoning is a part of it, but I think it’s
just one wave- length within a massive spectrum. We need a more accurate
definition. To my way of thinking, the foundation of our intelligence is
sensitivity. You might have a sensitivity to a child’s tears, to the smell of
roses, to legal argument, to birdsong—there are innumerable sensitivities, and
every one of them is a form of intelligence. But sensitivity is by nature
reactive. If the retina didn’t react to light it wouldn’t see. And that
reactivity has to be grounded to become coherent. And groundedness involves
the body. I would say, then, that we could more accurately characterize our
intelligence as a grounded sensitivity.
That definition sheds an
unflattering light on our public education systems. They certainly promote
abstract reasoning, but they directly violate a child’s sensitivity, and have
an institutional bias that undermines a child’s sense of groundedness. If
intelligence is a grounded sensitivity, schools are demonstrably corrosive
to it.
McKee: And what about the question that Gagliano’s research
raises, whether intelligence is a local phenomenon, or something more
diffuse?
Shepherd: There’s extensive evidence that points to
something more diffuse. In his book The Hidden Life of Trees, Peter Wohlleben
offers astonishing accounts of the ways in which trees communicate with each
other and make collective decisions. One example really struck me: a beech
forest can decide one year not to make any nuts, because the animals feeding
on them have become too numerous and aren’t leaving enough on the ground to
become new trees. The forest may even extend that decision to the following
year. The animals, with less to eat, diminish in number—and eventually the
forest will decide it’s time to make nuts again. The forest en masse exercises
intelligence.
Slime molds are another example. A slime
mold—something you might come across in the woods— isn’t an organism; it is
thousands of individual amoebae that gather in a visible clump. But studies
have shown that the clump operates with an astonishing intelligence: it’s able
to solve mazes, select the most nutritious food from an assortment, and even
measure time. You could dissect and scrutinize an individual amoeba to your
heart’s content, but you’ll never find a local source of that intelligence
within it.
Harvester ants present another puzzle. Deborah Gordon
has studied them for decades, and her re- search has completely overturned our
conventional understanding of how a colony operates. It turns out a colony is
completely unmanaged—no ant, not even the queen, ever gives an order to
another ant. Gordon uncovered some simple rules that govern ant behavior—but
there’s more going on than those rules. For instance, something can alter
those rules over time, and something alters the behavior of the colony as it
ages—even though the ants in the old colony are genetically identical to the
ants in the young one. She describes one incident that falls way outside the
scope of simple rules. She was observing a colony just before the seasonal
monsoons were to begin, and some of the ants started building a little turret
around the entrance to the colony. When the rains came, the turret held and
the colony didn’t flood. Now, these ants weren’t alive the previous year when
it rained: how did they know how to build a turret? They didn’t, individually.
They didn’t even ‘know’ what a turret is. And how were those
turret builders selected from the colony? If all the ants congregated to build
it, it would have been chaos; and if not enough came it wouldn’t have been
completed.
McKee: It seems that the intelligence being expressed is
not merely diffuse—it may not even be material.
Shepherd: We want
to locate the source of intelligence in a material interaction, but in these
cases it can’t be done. It doesn’t reside in the material parts. It doesn’t
arise as an additive quality—little individual smarts adding up to create a
larger overall intelligence. Intelligence is an emergent phenomenon. It
emerges from the harmony of an organic unity. Invariably. And that unity can
occur on any scale: a cell, a slime mold, an ant, a human, or a forest. Or
even a planet. And like Russian dolls, each intelligence is guided by the
larger intelligence within which it is nested.
Once we recognize
that, we begin to see the implications for us of the ant, for example, which
doesn’t know what is guiding it to build a turret, isn’t objectively aware of
the source of that guidance in any way, but follows it infallibly—and as a
result just happens to harmonize with the forces of the world around it. Now
if an ant colony can attune to an emergent intelligence, surely to goodness
the human being can.
But only, I believe, if we recover our
grounded sensitivity, a quality that thinks hand-in-hand with the world. We
have come to deny that partnership, secure in the knowledge that we are the
cleverest culture that has ever lived. And we are right—but we have forgotten
how to live intelligently.
McKee: Cleverness doesn’t need the body, but intelligence does.
Shepherd: The body’s intelligence attunes. On a
cellular level it knows that it belongs to the world. It feels the whole of
reality in its flesh. It’s been estimated that the body is aware of a billion
times more information than the conscious mind. A billion times! In one way
all that information is hidden from us—we can’t consciously know it. It is
pre-conscious, or unconscious. But in another way it is all there to be
felt—specifically and intimately, resonating to the present. We cannot live
intelligently if we disconnect from that.
McKee: It seems that
there’s an increased awareness in Western culture about the ways we store and
process trauma in our bodies. Are you heartened by this? Can you attribute it
to anything? It seems like there’s a literacy that’s developing.
Shepherd:
I do find it encouraging. I think trauma is primarily characterized by a
dissociation from the body. By that standard our entire culture is
traumatized. So it’s a huge step for us to recognize that the body has
intelligence. That the body remembers. That the body discerns. Sometimes,
though, I feel that our awakening to the body’s intelligence is limited by the
way we want that intelligence to be siloed. We don’t want it to be diffuse. We
want it to be contained so we can work on it and sort it out. And certainly
that focus can be helpful. It’s a necessary beginning if we are to confront
the body’s shadows. But as long as we fixate on the self, we will remain in
charge of organizing it. And then the possibility for healing
is limited. There’s no question that unlocking the body from trauma is a
crucial stage—but if the focus remains on the self, we will remain
self-conscious, which is itself a wound. It’s a wound that turns the self into
a problem that needs supervision. In the meantime, the body’s intelligence is
nested within a larger harmony to which it will naturally attune. It’s in that
attunement that we truly heal into wholeness. Athletes describe that
attunement as being in the zone; it’s what carries artists in the midst of
their creativity. But to find that attunement we need to relinquish our
self-supervision and give ourselves over to the present, to be organized by
its bottomless sensitivities.
Of course we resist that. We
seem incapable of finding the world around us more interesting than our
obsessive self-organizing. We seem unable to reconcile our fantasies about
what the self is with the fact that it is inseparable from everything around
it. We want to believe we are separate. But every- thing that exists is a
process that is participant in every other process in the universe.
Take
a tree as an example of that. A tree isn’t a static thing that sits within its
specified boundary. Like us, it’s a process—changing and being changed with
every passing moment. Once you understand the tree as a process, you might ask
where the boundary of that process lies. Certainly the roots are part of the
process of the tree, but you also have to recognize that the moisture around
those roots keeping them alive is part of it too. The minerals in the soil
into which the roots have grown are part of its process. The bacteria and
fungi and bugs in that soil are part of its process. As is the mulch that
leeches into the earth to nourish the soil. And the rain that falls is
certainly part of the process of the tree. So then the mountains that pushed
the rain out of the clouds are part of the process of the tree.
And
the sun that lifts the water from the sea is part of the process of the tree.
And the galaxy that holds the sun in place is part of the process of the tree.
When you look for the boundary of the tree, you eventually end up searching
for it at the outer fringes of the cosmos. The same is true of us. You could
pretty much replace the word ‘tree’ with ‘self.’
McKee: It feels so
natural, though—to look around and see all the things in this room as
essentially separate. And to feel myself as separate.
Shepherd: It
does feel natural, because we have grown up in a culture that has unknowingly
aligned itself with the aspirations of the mythological tyrant. Like the
tyrant, our agenda of control imposes divisions on the world. And we similarly
divide ourselves from the world, and feel safer within those divisions. But
our dream of separation pulls us into ceasless conflict with reality, and with
nature.
If you look at what nature loves, you can see that conflict
clearly. For instance, nature loves change— there’s nothing that exists in
nature that isn’t changing. Everything is in flux. And nature loves diversity—it’s not interested in making the same thing twice. It wants to play
and spawn newness. It produces an endless abundance of differences. And
finally nature loves service—there is nothing that is born that is not born
into service. The earthworm burrowing in the dark earth; the shark in the
ocean’s depths; the snail sliding along the twig—they are all in service. The
flight of a bird is an act of harmonizing with the world.
But when
you long for the ‘self-achieved independence’ of the tyrant, then you’ll
resent change, be- cause you’ve got an agenda and change messes with your
plans, or upsets the status quo. Diversity is perceived as a threat. You fear
it because sameness and conformity are predictable, and newness and the
unknown aren’t. And service? You serve only yourself. Again, that sounds
completely natural to us: determine will benefit you personally and make your
choices accordingly! If you achieve personal success, what else matters? But
just like the bird on the branch, in every moment we are called into
service—and we are called into the richest, most gratifying experiences of our
lives as we answer that call.
McKee: It strikes me that if the
increased awareness around somatics and trauma becomes just an- other arm of
the self-help movement, we’ll be missing out on the larger picture that exists
outside of ourselves.
Shepherd: I think that’s true. Most self-help
initiatives say to you, “The ideas you are living by are mistaken. You need
the true set of ideas. Switch to it and everything in your life will improve.”
Living in compliance with ideas traps us in a top-down, self-conscious way of
organizing ourselves—the approach we have been trained to trust. And certainly
there are times when being conscious of the self is crucially helpful—but our
culture is stuck in that state, and is disabled by it. It generates an inner
monologue of self-judgement, correction, narrative and flattery that drowns
out the intimate whispering of the world—which is always calling you to
wholeness, calling for your unique gifts to be offered in service. The chatter
of our inner monologue also prevents us from becoming truly conscious, in
the literal meaning of the word. Our word conscious comes from a Latin verb
that means, “to be mutually aware.” And that root meaning
brings us back to Gagliano’s question: is consciousness a local phenomenon, or
something more diffuse? What I know is that when I come into a mutual
awareness with the present, that’s when I feel my own reality most clearly.
And
I’ve thought a lot about what it means to feel reality, because what else is
my life going to be grounded in? And I’ve come to understand that my
experience of reality is my experience of the world passing through me. That’s
something the world does all the time—whether it’s light passing into my eye
or the exhalations of forests passing into my lungs as breath and becoming
part of my cells, and moving out again to offer in exchange a gift to the
trees. It happens as I bite into an apple and chew it, and its flesh and its
juice become my flesh and blood. The apple becomes my eyelashes and
capillaries. It becomes my energy as I run on the beach. And as the apple
passes out of me it brings nourishment to the apple tree—or did until toilets
were invented.
The world is continuously becoming me and I am
continuously becoming the world, and as it passes through me it sustains my
reality. But the world passes through me in less material ways as well. I look
at a tree, and I can either just know it as a thing, or I can come into felt
relationship with it, and in our mutual awareness, feel its energy moving
through me and attuning me to myself in a whole different way. The same can
happen as I meet a person.
McKee: It’s interesting how you seem to
come at your work from an experiential and a bodily point of view, as opposed
to anything overtly spiritual. Is that intentional?
Shepherd: I’ve
personally been enriched and challenged and deepened by a range of spiritual
practices—but yes, it’s a deliberate choice. It’s made with an awareness
that any spiritual reference instantly evokes a whole realm of suppositions. I
think the essence of any spiritual tradition is depleted as it’s hardened into
dogma. If I am present to a stalk of grass with the whole of my being, it’s a
spiritual experience. I don’t need a formal theology to explain that to me. I
don’t even need language. Nor would I wish to impose a whole catalogue of
suppositions on someone else by suggesting my spiritual experience should be
theirs.
I think the nature of a spiritual experience is essentially
the experience of a very big question. When I encounter the world directly, I
make peace with my ignorance—the world in its wholeness is unknowable, and I
can only feel it in its wholeness by feeling the mystery that makes it whole.
When I feel that, I have the sense that I am experiencing a living question.
Nature doesn’t deliver answers. You can’t locate a single answer anywhere in
nature. Every plant is a question. Every bug on a twig is a question.
Formalized spirituality gravitates towards answers. I want to feel the
questions.
McKee: The physician and thinker Gabor Maté talks about
the almost impossible conundrum that the western child faces. He said on the
one hand, they’re born with an imperative to bring their gifts to the world.
To live out their soul’s purpose. On the other hand, they are hardwired to
seek attachment with their birth family, since their survival literally
depends on that. So he went on to say that many families, due in part to their
own social conditioning, ignore or even disparage the child’s gifts as they
begin to manifest. Thus, the child learns to suppress or ignore these gifts in
order to guarantee their survival through the attachment.
“What a loss,” he said. But he went on to challenge the audience: what would
it look like both to give attachment and see the gifts of the people in our
lives? Imagine if that’s who was running around the planet right now: people
who hadn’t had to sacrifice their gifts in order to survive. He is issuing an
invitation: to not do that to other people, and to not let that get done to
us.
I imagine you have seen a lot of healing in your workshops. And
you’ve seen what it looks like when people have those gifts seen and loved.
Shepherd:
Maté is such an astute thinker. Yes, we are taught that the gifts of our
wholeness are somehow unacceptable—but we need attachment, and that makes the
denial of our wholeness necessary. That personal conundrum is complicated by
our culture. We desperately underestimate its effect on us. Our culture—any
culture—provides its members with a story of what it means to be human. But
it’s just a story, and if we mistake that story of reality for reality itself,
we run into trouble.
Our story tells us that being human means you
are superior to the natural world. That you are alone. That your head should
be in charge of your being. That you should out-think your problems. That your
primary job is to control your life and your world to the best of your
ability. The divisions enforced by that story live within our neurology and
lock up our natural gifts. By blinding us to wholeness, the story sets us up
to chase fantasies. But you are right that I’ve been privileged in my work to
witness what happens when the body’s intelligence is shown another way—when it
is allowed to soften into the world, and surrender to the inner spaciousness
that opens heart and soul to the intimate embrace of the present. I think if
we are to survive as a culture, if we are to thrive as individuals, we have to
change who we know ourselves to be. And to change that story we need to come
back to the body, and renew our relationship with its intelligence, and
nurture the birth of a new story.
McKee: I think we should end there.