Hearing the Call in Our Moment
- Evan Heymann
- Apr 1
- 5 min read
Updated: Apr 7
Today many of us find ourselves bewildered in the midst of exponential change, and the effort to understand our moment is like trying to catch a glimpse of a bullet train on whose side is written our destiny. But some things are obvious enough.
The tectonic shift we’ve all been vaguely sensing for several years is now at the surface of our awareness, making itself known in almost every aspect of life. The erosion of everything communal and familiar; the feeling of a slide toward calamity that is somehow accelerating and yet drained of vitality; and, of course, our blind migration into the digital realm.
But this is not to wallow in despair! Indeed, quite the opposite, for troubles can spark a fire that lights the seeker’s way. After all, are troubles not the genesis of questions? And are questions not the arising of hope?
One starting point, then, may be to ask what is truly unique about our moment, to understand what a human being is today, and to see what countermeasures—each in our own milieu—may be worth a try. In other words, to see where we are, what we are, and how we may correspond more responsibly to our moment.
It should go without saying that our time is characterized by atomization and a loss of connection. Community bonds; relation to neighbors, relation to strangers; adventure; serendipity; attention; stillness; silence; eye contact; touch—we see that none have been spared by the cutting edge of market rationale. Even taking into account our tendency to always believe our own moment is uniquely wayward, the typical modern’s daily experience has changed drastically in just the last 40 years. It would seem to follow, then, that this shake-up has had a profound effect on contemporary people. Indeed, it has, and we are just now seeing this with any clarity.
Are troubles not the genesis of questions? And are questions not the arising of hope?
So, finally, a hypothesis: the mysterious forces of nature and history (though surely already in motion since the dawn of life) have conspired to profoundly re-order the functioning of contemporary man such that our minds are increasingly impenetrable to the influence of vivifying ideas. Meanwhile, our physical and emotional centers, though also compromised by modernity, are far more available to being touched and inspired.
This inspiration—entering through the body and spirit, bypassing the mind—arises from contact with experience, such as when we sense inner stillness in another, or when we see and feel that someone truly values something. Glimpses of this kind are transformative for us. They turn us toward an inner call, motivate us toward a more serious search of the inner landscape, and change our relationship to the world outside. To those of us interested in bridging spiritual life with everyday life—both by ourselves and in working with others—this could inform our approach as we seek a way in.
Glimpses of this kind are transformative for us. They turn us toward an inner call, motivate us toward a more serious search of the inner landscape, and change our relationship to the world outside.
I should say that my perspective here is largely informed by my experience working with younger generations, both as a high school teacher and, more relevant for the present discussion, as an organizer of one of GSM’s out-reach groups, where we work directly with “younger people” interested in the Gurdjieff teaching—usually in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. These weekly gatherings, now in their fifth year, have yielded a great deal of material toward understanding the nature of people’s inner search, how they are hearing the call in our moment, and how they respond to it.
Our gatherings typically begin informally as people arrive, a soft start with tea and conversation. Then, on the hour, we begin together with a shared period of collecting ourselves in silence—usually about 15 minutes—before a reading, and then a longer period of exchange, where people bring their questions and experiences.
Through these meetings and in getting to know many of the attendees, I find myself perpetually returning to a single revelation: it seems that words, ideas, concepts, and formulations—in short, material primarily of the intellectual center—are somehow powerless and lame compared with the silent material that can inhabit a shared space, the subtle but powerful qualities of presence and attention.
This is a difficult thing to show empirically, but there are clues. We learn this as people reveal why they’ve come and what draws them to return each week. In so many cases, it is not primarily exploration of the Gurdjieff ideas—though the ideas are the touchstones and language of our exchanges—but in … something else. And this something else has become a field of deep exploration for me.
It seems that words, ideas, concepts, and formulations—in short, material primarily of the intellectual center—are somehow powerless and lame compared with the silent material that can inhabit a shared space, the subtle but powerful qualities of presence and attention.
If it is true that a group can to some degree fulfill people’s wish for community, for self-understanding and the yearning to be truly seen, then it must be that presence and attention are among the active ingredients. And these active ingredients do not belong to the domain of the ordinary mind; they are, it seems, impressions received and metabolised by the body and by feeling.
Often, as we sit and talk—sometimes ten of us, sometimes just a few—I sense how remarkable it is that we are assembled, all relatively still, not fidgeting, and trying to really listen to one another. How many other conversations, at this very moment, I think to myself, have anything of this quality? Surely some, but surely it is rare and precious.
My own first exposure to people connected with the Gurjieff teaching accords with this trend as well. The initial meeting was with a man who had been in the work for many years. Over hot tea and bowls of oatmeal at a café in Harvard Square, we spoke of several interesting topics, but the content of the conversation feels pale now in comparison to the power of the impression I received from the quality of this man’s attention. I remember being struck, and surely unnerved, at the fact that he was completely still and focused as I spoke. It was a shock, an attention that corresponded to a wish I had—no doubt a wish we all have—to be deeply seen and heard.
I fear this may all suggest that we should relegate ideas, and even the mind itself, to some subordinate rank in the order of things. Not at all. In fact, I believe that a “backwards approach” to the Gurdjieff teaching—at first privileging quality of experience over concepts and ideas—could actually help the mind find its essential and rightful place in the balance of our functioning. It could become more settled, not so zealous and eager to commandeer. That is, rather than merely thinking, it could help us understand.
Whether as a spiritual community chewing on the stubborn questions around “outreach” or as a simple denizen of the modern world trying to help reclaim a sense of shared humanity in our daily lives, we can find ourselves frozen between the obvious need to correspond in a new way and sensing the pitfalls in contorting ourselves artificially.
This inspiration, breathed into us from a sacred place, puts us into contact with the unceasing pulse of spiritual life, always unspoiled by the ills of any moment in time.
Thankfully, we can always return to the firm ground of presence and attention, for these can be the touch of inspiration mentioned above. And this inspiration, breathed into us from a sacred place, puts us into contact with the unceasing pulse of spiritual life, always unspoiled by the ills of any moment in time. But they never seem to arise on their own, so we have to open to them, to become them in our own lives. And it may take courage.