Hope of Body, Hope of Feeling, Hope of Consciousness

I spend much of my life in hope. It seems that every time I look, I’m hoping for something. Some hopes of mine from the last few minutes are: “I hope it stops raining”; “I hope this essay turns out well”; “I hope I can find time to organize my desk”. My hopes affect my attitude and are a driving force in my life.

Gurdjieff spoke highly of hope, calling it a sacred impulse. This intrigues me, because my hopes don’t feel sacred. So what was Gurdjieff getting at? What would it mean to experience hope as something sacred? As a way to approach these questions, I would like to examine the following aphorism from Gurdjieff’s book Beelzebub’s Tales to his Grandson:

            Hope of consciousness is strength

            Hope of feeling is slavery

            Hope of body is disease

Hope of Body is Disease

My body seeks comfort. When I am sitting in an uncomfortable chair, it demands that I adjust my position. When a fly lands on my skin, it demands that I brush off the fly. When I ask it to work, it complains that it needs a break. This unceasing impulse for physical satisfaction is the hope of the body.

The problem with this impulse is that my body complains the same whether it needs attention or merely wants attention. In this sense, the hope of the body is like a disease because it does not distinguish a threat from an inconvenience. It is the boy who cried wolf.

Hope of the body often appears as procrastination. When I procrastinate, I let my body convince me that doing something later will be more palatable than doing it now. Gurdjieff called this the “disease of tomorrow”.

I remember when my children were young and starting to do chores. After a brief effort they would stop, dramatically flop on a chair and say, “I can’t go on — I’m exhausted!”  As a parent, I saw these tantrums as the ridiculous behavior of a child. However, I can see now that I behave the very same way when I get tired of doing my own chores; the only difference is that my tantrums are subdued and internal.

 When I procrastinate, I let my body convince me that doing something later will be more palatable than doing it now. Gurdjieff called this the “disease of tomorrow”.

The disease of tomorrow is not restricted to tedious chores. It also afflicts activities I value, such as my daily meditation practice. Each morning I sit with the intention of becoming quiet and attentive. As I struggle with my lack of attention, my body tries to convince me that today isn’t a good day for sitting. It has many excuses: I have too much on my mind; my body is too uncomfortable; there are too many distractions. It takes perseverance to resist my body’s impulse to try again later.

Hope of Feeling is Slavery

The feeling center hopes for desirable outcomes and roots against undesirable ones. Example of hopes of the feeling are “I hope I get a raise” and “I hope I get a pony for Christmas.” Ask someone to make a wish, and they will probably express a hope of their feeling.

The danger with hopes of the feeling is that I can become attached to my desired outcomes. The deeper the hope, the stronger the attachment and the more likely I will change my behavior in an attempt to attain the outcome. Two examples: I hope that if I put more effort into my job, I will get a raise; I hope that if I am really good, I will get a pony.

My attachment to an outcome affects the way I experience life. I begin to see things through the lens of the desired outcome, disregarding experiences that do not help me attain it. Examples: Hoping for a raise may cause me to ignore quality of life issues at my job. My desperate hope for a pony may cause me to reject a far more appropriate opportunity to take pony-riding lessons.

 My attachment to an outcome affects the way I experience life. I begin to see things through the lens of the desired outcome, disregarding experiences that do not help me attain it.

Attachment to a desired outcome also generates a fear of not attaining that outcome; the result is needless anxiety. I am reminded of Buddhism’s Second Noble Truth: Suffering arises when we want things to be other than they are.

Attachments to outcomes can occur despite the best of intentions. For example, Gurdjieff taught that one must make efforts of self-observation and conscious labor in order to develop one’s being. However, if I make those efforts in the hope of attaining that goal, I become attached to that hope and my efforts will be filtered through that hope. I will overlook any impression I receive that doesn’t fit my expectations. I will develop anxiety that I am not progressing fast enough. In my single-minded quest for the goal, I will ignore the very things that will help me attain it. The Gurdjieff teaching calls this attachment “working for results,” a common trap.

Hopes of the feeling play a part in many aspects of my life. My attachments to them provide me with pleasure, but they also narrow my world view and co-opt my thoughts and actions. They hold me tightly and keep me from experiencing a fuller life. In effect, I have let them enslave me.

Hope of Consciousness is Strength

Hopes of body and feeling are familiar to me, but hope of consciousness is less so. To better understand this hope, let’s compare the needs of consciousness with the needs of the body and feeling. The body has physical needs and hopes for comfort. The feeling has emotional needs and hopes for pleasure. Consciousness has spiritual needs. It hopes for being — that is, it wishes to be more present to the world and have a deeper relationship with it.

Birds and Flowers of Summer and Autumn, Shikoku Terutada, mid-16th century, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

 Hopes of the body and feeling are impulses that move me toward a narrower, more self-centered experience of my life. Hope of consciousness is an impulse in the other direction, towards a more expansive participation in my life. Emily Dickinson describes this impulse metaphorically:

            “Hope” is the thing with feathers

            That perches in the soul

            And sings the tune without the words

            And never stops at all

Hope of consciousness is a sacred impulse. It calls me to experience a world larger and more profound than I am used to. Its song makes me feel that my life is an important part of that larger world, even though I do not fully understand my role in it. I feel supported by this larger world, with a renewed strength that sustains me as I continue to find my way.

Sometimes it is hard for me to hear the call of hope of consciousness. The practice of self-observation helps. The effort is to follow my activities from moment to moment, taking in impressions of where I am and what I am doing. During this process, something may emerge — a growing interest in these impressions, a desire to follow my actions more intently, a subtle feeling of being more present. These are all aspects of the call of hope of consciousness. The call might even awaken me to the shallowness of my current hopes and point me towards something more real.

Earlier in this essay, I wrote about how the hopes of my body urge me to cut short my meditation sessions. I need strength to not succumb. I can get that strength by listening for hope of consciousness while I sit. When I hear its call, I feel how the impressions I receive nourish me. I also feel the growing connection with the world that comes from simply sitting attentively. In the face of these feelings, the hopes of my body lose their influence; in fact, they appear rather petty.

 ... to listen and be available.

With hope of consciousness, there is no goal, no striving, and no attainment. The only efforts it requires from me are to listen and be available. Even so, making these efforts has a noticeable effect: I start to feel unsatisfied with my everyday life with its everyday hopes. I yearn for a deeper sense of presence and more frequent connections to the larger world. In other words, I sense the arising in me of a hope for being — a hope that comes not from my feelings, but from my consciousness.