The Gurdjieff teaching is known as a work in life — that is, a striving to find spiritual solace and meaning in the details of everyday life. To illustrate this idea, I would like to relate a recent interaction I had with my cat, Gus.
I am on the couch, relaxing after a day of work. Gus comes in, sits by my feet, and looks at me intently. I know that look; he wants to play. But I don’t want to play. I try to get him to sit on the couch with me but he is not interested. So I relent, and follow him to the spot where his toys are. I get down on the floor and give him the attention he wants, petting him and throwing toy mice for him to chase. After a few minutes he’s had enough and walks away.
This interaction, although outwardly mundane, was particularly meaningful to me. Its meaning was shaped by four aspects of the Gurdjieff teaching: conscience, external considering, three-centered attention, and conscious labor. Let me elaborate.
Conscience
Gus spends most of his day alone. So when he came to me asking to play, I felt for him. How could I say no? I ascribe this feeling to Gurdjieff’s idea of conscience.
According to Gurdjieff each of us has a conscience, which is composed of particles that emit a very subtle energy. When we are attuned to our conscience, this energy can be felt. I experience this energy as a call — a call to relationship, a call to caring. In effect, when Gus sat in front of me, he woke me to the call of my conscience.
External Considering
The pang of conscience got me off the couch, but soon something else took over. I saw myself filled with resentment. I was playing with Gus, but without interest and dreaming of things I would rather do. Gurdjieff spoke of the need for external considering, the idea that one should consciously play a role in one’s actions. In the current situation my role was “Gus’s playmate,” and I saw that I was fulfilling this role very badly. Conscience again kicked in, and I felt that I was letting Gus down.
To be a good playmate, I needed to enter Gus’s world and devote all of myself — my thoughts, my emotions, and my actions — to the role. As I became immersed in this effort, I got more and more interested. I began paying attention to the nuances of what Gus liked, and experimented with different ways to spice up the game. I felt unexpectedly energized, and more connected to Gus. I was disappointed when he ended the game.
Three-centered attention
My immersion into this role resulted in what Gurdjieff called three-centered attention, a state where one’s thoughts, emotions, and body work together. I rarely get to experience such cooperation between my centers. Usually, one center decides to take charge and compel the other centers to follow. I have not had much success with this approach.
But something different occurred while I was playing with Gus. When I saw how badly I was playing, I decided to not try to fix things. Instead, I chose to continue playing while also taking in the impression of what I was doing. Gradually, my emotions began to feel my disconnect with Gus, my intellect saw the tedious, automatic way I was playing, and my body sensed how my tiredness was causing me to make the most minimal of efforts. As I held on to these unpleasant impressions, something in me softened. It was as if each center, in its own way, understood what was needed. Cooperation occurred of its own accord.
Conscious labor
I initially engaged with Gus because my conscience told me it was the right thing to do. The rest of me, however, was not so convinced. I had to compel myself to get off the couch, to sit on the floor, to play. This effort is an example of what Gurdjieff called conscious labor. Conscious labor is the effort to do what needs to be done, to the best of my ability, without any expectation of personal gain. External considering is a form of conscious labor.
Conscious labor is difficult. My daily life is governed by impulses that I submit to blindly. By making an effort of conscious labor, I interfere with these impulses and delay their gratification. My habitual nature does not like being interfered with, and pushes back. It comes up with numerous excuses to persuade me why I should give in. When I can maintain my effort in the face of this resistance, I experience what Gurdjieff called intentional suffering.
I am usually unaware of my habitual impulses. But when I make an effort of conscious labor, I see the impulses as they push back. This gives me a view into aspects of my psyche that are normally hidden. For example, consider my interaction with Gus. The effort to get off the couch showed me my tendency toward laziness. And while playing with Gus I saw my vanity (as in “look at how wonderful I am because I took time to play with a cat”) and self-importance (“this is so annoying; there are so many better things I could be doing”). These true impressions of myself conflict with my self image, and are uncomfortable and humbling. To willingly open to them is also intentional suffering.
A life of work
A fundamental tenet of the Gurdjieff work is that we spend our lives in sleep. Intentional suffering, by confronting me with who I am, wakes me up. I become more present to my life and can feel its vitality, which can lead to a sense of joy in being the person that I am. In other words, intentional suffering is not only the consequence of conscious labor, it is also the reward.
Conscious labor has a dual nature: outwardly, there is an effort to do the right thing; and inwardly, there is the joy of being present to my life. Experiencing both of these aspects together is compelling, and brings a sense of meaning. It motivates me to make more frequent efforts, with the hope that perhaps they can become a dominant part of my life.
And there seems to be no end to the opportunities. During the writing of this article, Gus visited me several more times. Family members kept me from things I wanted to do. Chores beckoned. I welcomed each one as a wake-up call and an invitation to make an effort of conscious labor.
Work in life gives rise to a life of work — a life of conscious labor, a life of intentional suffering, a life of meaning. This, to me, is the promise of the Gurdjieff teaching.
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