Stopping and Seeing
Stopping and Seeing
From our friend Lindsey V. of the New York Centre
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems. ― Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
I am sure that we can all think of instances when we have been rushing around or deeply absorbed in an imaginary conversation and suddenly we break a glass, bump into something and slightly hurt ourselves, or the phone rings. We suddenly stop and see how completely identified and asleep we were. These simple interruptions, or shocks, as they are called in the Fourth Way, break our mechanical momentum and allow for a new line of action, the possibility of presence.
But we need not wait for a teacher or some extraordinary event to provide a shock. Our everyday life offers countless opportunities. As I am writing this in New York City, there is a very loud siren outside. My teacher often reminds us, “This is not an interruption, it is the Third State.”
Changing our attitude toward these interruptions and shocks allows us to use them as alarm clocks rather than respond with habitual patterns of irritation or impatience. We can learn to use these small disturbances as reminders to awaken and eventually create them for ourselves.
Gurdjieff used the musical octave to illustrate how processes develop. According to his Law of Seven, every process contains intervals where its momentum weakens and its direction may change. At these intervals, an additional shock is needed if the process is to continue in its intended direction. In spiritual work, we may begin with a sincere intention to be present, but soon become distracted, identified, or absorbed in imagination. A conscious shock can interrupt this identification and allow the process of awakening to continue.
There is a familiar Zen story about a university professor who visits the master Nan-in to inquire about Zen. While Nan-in serves him tea, the professor is busy asking questions and speaking about his experiences. At some point, Nan-in fills his visitor's cup but continues pouring until the tea overflows onto the table. The professor watches in astonishment until he can no longer restrain himself. “It is overfull. No more will go in!” Nan-in replies that, like the cup, the professor is full of his own opinions and speculations. How can he be shown Zen unless he first empties his cup?
The overflowing tea was a shock, an unexpected interruption of the professor's habitual thinking and expectations. For a moment, his familiar way of approaching the world was stopped. This is one of the roles of a teacher: to provide shocks that can help us stop and see ourselves objectively. When the restless activity of the mind becomes quiet, we begin to see ourselves and the world more objectively.
Gurdjieff taught that the higher emotional and higher intellectual centers are already functioning, but that our ordinary consciousness is unable to receive their impressions because of the incessant activity of our lower centers. A conscious interruption may momentarily quiet this activity, making us receptive to impressions from higher worlds. This is beautifully illustrated in Katsushika Hokusai’s woodblock print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa. The enormous wave embodies the relentless momentum of our mechanical lives, while distant Mount Fuji remains visible and still amid the turbulence.
By stopping, we may become available to something beyond our familiar thoughts, emotions, and self-concerns. We do not have to manufacture this deeper reality; we need to receive it. The art of interrupting is therefore not only about stopping what we are doing. We are interrupting the momentum of our mechanical lives, the momentum of imagination and sleep, so that presence can appear.
We must be grateful for anything that calls us from imagination. ―The Teacher
The Great Wave off Kanagawa, Katsushika Hokusai, 1861
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