Two dominant strands of thought in moral philosophy— rationalism and sentimentalism —are usually seen as opposites.
However, the inner laboratory of nondirective meditation may bring out a limitation common to both of them. Both conceive of morality as requiring us to look at ourselves from the outside—from an objective, distant, and impersonal point of view. While this may be a good thing to do in many situations, it may also ultimately alienate us from ourselves. Nondirective meditation may point in the direction of an alternative, more integrated ethics.
Discussions about ethical choices tend to appeal to two kinds of reasons: Moral rules (“It is wrong to lie.”) and moral feelings (“I must do what I feel is best.”). Moral philosophers have tended to regard one or the other as the most fundamental. Following the American moral philosopher Christine Korsgaard, I shall call these traditions the rationalist and the sentimentalist traditions.
The traditional understanding has been that rationalist and sentimentalist moral philosophies are fundamentally different. I will try to show that in an important sense, they are also similar. Both conceive of morality as requiring that we look at our inner lives from an objective, distant and impersonal point of view.
In nondirective meditation, we have an opportunity to test out the implications of these philosophical views. The experiences and insights gained in the inner laboratory that nondirective meditation provides may bring out certain limitations in both the rationalist and sentimentalist strands of thought, and teach us that a distanced stance may be alienating and unfruitful. The experience we gain may instead point us in the direction of an alternative integrated ethics of nondirective meditation.
As human beings we are both active and passive, both agents and subjects of experiences. When we practice nondirective meditation, we invite both parts of the mind to meet: we act by repeating the meditation sound with as little effort as possible. This stimulates a stream of activity in our minds that happens spontaneously.
The rationalist tradition, of which the German philosopher Immanuel Kant is the prime example, emphasizes the active side of our nature—our agency. Those who, consciously or unconsciously, are influenced by this way of thinking will in meditation typically focus on the rules that govern the active aspect of meditation—what we choose to do, how we exercise our will: “What should I do now? What is right and wrong here?”
The sentimentalist tradition, of which the Scottish philosopher David Hume is an important example, emphasizes the passive side of our nature—what happens to us and how it makes us feel. Those who are influenced by the sentimentalist tradition will in meditation tend to focus on the passive or spontaneous aspect of meditation: “What is happening to me now in my meditation? Do the thoughts, feelings, and experiences that I am having feel good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant?”
Consider the case of Peter. He is 45 years old, works as an accountant, is married, and has two children. Peter is conscientious in his work, and a dutiful husband and father. He is meticulous and careful in his profession, and rarely makes mistakes. He is trustworthy and dependable, but not very creative or spontaneous. Some of Peter’s colleagues and friends find him a bit dry and boring at times.
The demands at work take their toll on Peter, and when he comes home, he has to contribute to family life—help his children with their homework and his wife with practical duties in the house. His wife loves and respects Peter dearly, but has lately complained that there is something lacking in the marriage—some sense of nearness, contact, warmth, spontaneity. Peter has difficulty understanding what his wife is missing. He feels that he is fulfilling all of his marital obligations, and asks her, “Am I doing anything wrong?”, to which she merely replies with a deep sigh.
A major client of his accounting firm is undergoing a tax audit. The firm has given him the responsibility to follow up the audit, and there are indications that the company may have been giving poor advice. This is a cause of considerable tension in the firm, and Peter feels the burden of this additional responsibility.
All of this has made Peter feel stressed and tired. He is overwhelmed by his obligations at home and at work, and seldom feels he is able to satisfy all of them properly. He reads about a nondirective meditation method called Acem Meditation that is supposed to alleviate stress and stimulate mental and physical rejuvenation, and signs up for the course.
Peter grasps the basic principles easily, and, being a man of self-discipline, begins to meditate regularly—thirty minutes twice a day. Initially, he experiences that meditating gives him deep and profound relaxation, and he feels energized afterwards.
Strangely, however, after a while, the simple task of meditation becomes difficult. The spontaneous activity that his meditations elicit often consists of a feeling of tiredness and fatigue, and an onrush of stressful thoughts from work and home. His mind becomes tense, blurred, and fogged. The meditation sound becomes less distinct, and often disappears entirely. This gives Peter the feeling that he is not repeating the sound properly, which makes him feel bad about himself. Not only is he unable to fulfill his obligations at home and at work, he is not even able to perform the simple task of repeating a meaningless sound in his mind in the right way.
Peter therefore begins to concentrate a bit more on the sound— using a bit of effort to produce it distinctly. This seems more satisfying; now he feels that he is doing what he is supposed to do. Strangely enough, however, the relaxation he initially experienced gradually recedes, and he feels that the meditation becomes less rewarding. This puzzles him. He is trying to do the right thing—to meditate properly—but the results do not come as expected. Perhaps there is some deficiency in the technique, or it simply isn’t the right method for him? He considers switching to another meditation method, but wants to give this method a last try, and asks for some meditation guidance.
Immanuel Kant was the last great philosopher of the Enlightenment. He was born in 1724, in Königsberg, the capital city of East Prussia—today modern day Kaliningrad.
Kant finished his studies in 1755, and lectured thereafter in mathematics and physics at Königsberg University. Despite his highly technical philosophical writings, hundreds of students attended his lectures, where he was an eloquent speaker and made use of lively examples and humor.
Kant first published several works on the movement of heavenly bodies, on the different human races, and on the causes of earthquakes.
In 1770, Kant was given a professor’s chair for logic and metaphysics, which he held until a few years before the end of his life. It was during this period that he published his greatest philosophical works: Critique of Pure Reason (1781), Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals (1785), Critique of Practical Reason (1788), and Critique of Judgment (1790).
Kant lived a highly regulated and uneventful life, never married, and never traveled away from Prussia. Legend has it that he was so punctual that local housewives set their clocks at 3:30 every afternoon when he passed on his regular walk.
Kant died on the cold morning of February 12, 1804. He was buried in the graveyard of the Königsberg Cathedral. His tomb was inscribed with the closing words of his second Critique: “The starry heavens above me and the moral law within me fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the more often and the more steadily we reflect on them.”
Peter has never read Immanuel Kant. He has definitely not consulted Kant’s works in his understanding of his meditation problem. Nevertheless, Peter’s approach to and understanding of what is going on in his meditation may be understood as a reflection of Kant’s moral philosophy.
Kant famously held that the very concept of morality assumes that human beings have free will. As human beings, we are what Kant called practically autonomous: we have the ability to direct our actions—our practice—according to our rational will, rather than merely giving in to our spontaneous “inclinations,” to use Kant’s terminology. As rational agents, we have the ability to regulate our actions based on rules and principles that we regard as sufficient reasons for our actions.
Morality consists of choosing to act in accordance with rules that all rational agents would be willing to accept—Kant’s famous 1 categorical imperative.
The fundamental virtue that we as human beings should aspire to, is the ability to act as rational agents—that is, the ability to exercise our autonomy by using our will to make choices that are 2 motivated by principles that agree with the categorical imperative.
The basic premise of Kantian ethics appears to be in harmony with the basic premise of nondirective meditation. Both emphasize the importance of practice (what we do) over outcomes (what happens to us).
From a Kantian point of view, Peter’s understanding of his meditation problem also appears to make good sense. Peter is repeating a meditation sound, and thereby choosing to act—exercising his autonomy. However, in so doing he is inviting his spontaneous activity—his “inclinations”—to express themselves, and they often take over and make it difficult, at times impossible, to repeat the sound exactly as he originally was taught. From a Kantian point of view, this represents a surrender of his autonomy to his “inclinations”; an abdication of his ability to act as a rational being. In order to reestablish his autonomy, Peter should therefore begin actively to subject his repetition of the sound to his will—to shape and form it in accordance with the rule that states how it is supposed to sound.
If this requires effort, so be it. Exercising our autonomy may at times require that we suppress our inclinations, and instead choose to act in accordance with what the rule dictates. Peter’s self-esteem is attached to his feeling that he is in control, that he can decide what is going on in his mind as well as in the way he behaves. According to Kant, the ability to act autonomously is the fundamental virtue that human beings can exercise. Peter is therefore quite right in feeling good about how he is approaching the meditation problem he encounters. If this reduces the effects of meditation, he should probably try to find a different, more “Kantian” meditation technique, most likely one involving concentration.
From the point of view of meditation, however, Peter’s approach to his meditation problem is not fruitful. Through guidance sessions and long meditations, Peter gradually begins to understand that in using effort and concentration he is constraining and limiting the flow of spontaneous activity and therefore hampering the meditation process. Peter’s problem is that he is using rather than losing too much control. He gradually begins to let go of his rather rigid and inflexible understanding of the principles of meditation, and learns to accept to a greater extent that spontaneous activity will inevitably influence his ability to repeat the sound. This, and learning to accept this, is part of the process. The results he initially experienced—relaxation and greater energy—gradually return. His wife notices that he is less stressed and controlled, and easier to get close to.
So much for Peter. What can this tell us about rationalist moral philosophy and Kant?
First, the experience we gain in nondirective meditation shows us that for practical purposes, human beings are not always completely autonomous. Nondirective meditation teaches us that autonomy is not an ability we all possess merely because we are rational beings, but rather something we are able to exercise to a greater or lesser degree, depending on who we are and the situation in which we happen to be. Indeed, this is something that everyday life also teaches us. When we for example find ourselves in challenging situations that we feel threatening, we may experience that our freedom to act becomes more limited. We tense up our bodies, and our minds become more constrained.
Second, autonomy is for practical purposes not only the ability to control ourselves according to rules, as Kant argues. It is also the ability to let go of this control if that is what the context requires. Even Kant would, I conjecture, have to acknowledge that letting go of control occasionally is both necessary and fruitful. An obvious example is our need to sleep. Experience tells us that if we are too locked into a control mode, falling asleep becomes difficult. So we have to let go in order to fall asleep, and indeed, sleep is in itself giving up our autonomy. If we don’t, our autonomy suffers—we become so tired that we are less able to function properly. (To my knowledge, Kant does not explicitly discuss this or similar kinds of cases.)
Furthermore, people who are always in control (or try to be) may tend to be less inspiring and interesting to be with, as Peter’s friends find him to be. Creative processes are hampered by too much control. To be creative, we need at times to let go of our preconceptions, hence the expression “thinking outside the box.” Too much control also inhibits closer contact with others, as in Peter’s relationship with his wife. True autonomy would in this light appear to be the ability to use control when and to the extent the context requires, and to let go of control if that is what is called for. Most often this is not a question of either/or, but rather of how much or little control is appropriate in a given situation.
Kantian thought prescribes that in thinking about what we should do and how we should exercise our autonomy, we should first identify our motives. Why would I want to do this rather than that? We are then to ask ourselves whether the underlying principles on which our motives are based, are principles that we would wish to apply universally. This assumes that we are truly able to identify our motives. Life, and if this is not enough, certainly literature, art, and basic psychology teach us that this is not always the case. On the contrary, our choices, thoughts, and behavior are also very much influenced by unconscious beliefs and motives to which we do not have direct access. Kant’s conception of autonomy is therefore unrealistic.
When Peter began to encounter challenges in his meditation, for example, he believed that he knew what was going on, and how to solve his problems. His spontaneous activity was disturbing the repetition of the sound, and this effect had to be controlled. Through meditation guidance, practice, etc., Peter gradually realizes that what he believes is rational is rather the opposite. At an even deeper level, long meditations combined with guidance may lead Peter to a realization that what he believed was a virtue— being in control —may in reality be a defense mechanism against spontaneous feelings that he experiences as threatening.
Finally, Peter’s—and probably Kant’s—conception of what it is to follow a rule appears to be too rigid and simplistic.
It would be easy to show how common sense, with this compass [the categorical imperative] in its hand, knows very well how to distinguish good from bad, consistent with duty from inconsistent with duty. (Kant, 2008, p. 12)
Some rules are quite clear, and following them is more or less a mechanical exercise. Other rules require interpretation and an exercise of judgment to apply appropriately (something with which lawyers and theologians are quite familiar). The basic rules of nondirective meditation are intellectually easy to grasp. However, the inner landscape that we encounter when practicing nondirective meditation is ever changing. The effects of spontaneous activity and our self-conceptions, our personal constraints, and limitations on our practice will therefore invariably challenge our ideas about how to apply the rules in a fruitful way. This is especially the case in longer meditations. We can therefore never hope to understand how to translate these basic principles into practice once and for all. Indeed, this is one of the things that make nondirective meditation so interesting and stimulating! The longer the meditations, the more closely the principle of free mental attitude in nondirective meditation resembles using a compass, but one that does not behave as simply as Kant claims his compass does. Rather, it behaves as a compass behaves when we are close to the magnetic pole, and we notice that it spins in for us strange and incomprehensible ways.
An expert on Kant might argue that the weaknesses we have indicated in his philosophy are based on a misinterpretation. Rules of nondirective meditation are rules of skill, not of morality, and therefore not subject to the moral rules that Kant developed. Kant, or a Kantian, might therefore conceivably accept the principle of the free mental attitude as a rule of technique that reflects the purpose and working mechanisms of nondirective meditation. As the purpose of these methods is to relax and to rejuvenate, letting go of one’s control may be exercising a skill that is prudent to develop, much as developing the ability to relax and let go before falling sleep is a good skill to acquire.
However, many practice nondirective meditation not only to relax, but use the potential of the method to learn more about themselves and change in a more positive direction. Nondirective meditation then becomes an engagement in a process of discovery of who we really are and how we best ought to live our lives.
The ancient Greeks believed that engaging in a process of developing greater self-knowledge also reflects a moral obligation. Socrates famously taught that the unexamined life is not worth living. In doing so, he expounded on the Ancient Greek aphorism “know thyself” (γνῶθι σεαυτόν). Understood in such a context, nondirective meditation is much more than a relaxation technique, and lies clearly within the ethical domain. The experience we can acquire in nondirective meditation, when it becomes part of a project of developing greater self-knowledge inter alia in order to live a more ethical life, brings out fundamental limitations in the Kantian picture of autonomy as the ability of our rational will to exercise control over our inclinations.
David Hume (May 7, 1711–August 25, 1776) was a Scottish philosopher of the Enlightenment, as well as an historian, economist, and essayist. He is best known today for his philosophical empiricism, skepticism, and naturalism. Hume’s empiricism places him with John Locke, Francis Bacon, and Thomas Hobbes as a British Empiricist. Kant wrote that it was reading David Hume that “woke him from his dogmatic slumber” and inspired him to write his most important philosophical works.
Hume attended the University of Edinburgh at the age of twelve. At first he considered a career in law, but came to have, in his words, “an insurmountable aversion to everything but the pursuits of Philosophy and general Learning.”
At 18, he made a philosophical discovery that opened up to him “a new Scene of Thought,” which inspired him “to throw up every other Pleasure or Business to apply entirely to it.” It is generally agreed that Hume’s most important and philosophically distinctive arguments are found in his literary debut, A Treatise of Human Nature. Hume was just 23 when he started this work. It is now generally regarded as one of the most important in the history of Western philosophy. Nevertheless, Hume wrote that his Treatise “fell dead-born from the press.” Despite the disappointment, Hume later wrote, “Being naturally of a cheerful and sanguine temper, I soon recovered from the blow and prosecuted with great ardour my studies in the country.”
Diarist and biographer James Boswell saw Hume a few weeks before his death. Hume told him he sincerely believed it a “most unreasonable fancy” that there might be life after death. Adam Smith later recounted Hume’s amusing speculation that he might ask Charon [the ferryman in Greek mythology who ferried the dead to Hades] to allow him a few more years of life in order to see “the downfall of some of the prevailing systems of superstition.” The ferryman replied, “You loitering rogue, that will not happen these many hundred years... Get into the boat this instant!” The Scottish philosopher David Hume’s views on morality appear at first to be very different from Kant’s. Whereas Kant believed that morality was grounded in reason, Hume believed that reason had very little to do with morality. On the contrary, morals were for Hume grounded in feelings —in his terminology “passions,” more specifically, the pleasure or pain that arises in us when we consider some state of affairs. Hume was therefore a representative of the sentimentalist tradition in moral philosophy.
Hume famously set himself in opposition to most moral philosophers, ancient and modern, who speak of the combat of passion and reason, and who urge human beings to regulate their actions by reason and to grant it dominion over their contrary passions. He claimed to prove that “reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the will,” and “can never oppose passion in the direction 3 of the will.”
According to Hume, morality does not consist of exercising our reason in order to find the action that best satisfies the moral law. Morality simply consists of the feelings of approval and disapproval that arise in us when we observe certain actions, situations, or human characteristics.
However, Hume introduced an important modification to this theory. We do not normally consider all the kinds of feelings of pleasure and pain that we may happen to have when we consider some state of affairs to be moral feelings. We taste something bitter, and spit it out because we do not like the taste. Our feeling of displeasure toward what we ate is nevertheless not something we would consider to be a moral feeling. Hume observed that we may be so closely involved with the object that our sentiments do not express a moral point of view, but are merely reflections of our own subjective interests.
According to Hume’s theory, the specifically moral sentiments are therefore emotions that are caused by contemplating the person or action to be considered without regard to our self-interest, and looking at ourselves from the outside from a common or general perspective that compensates for certain likely distortions in our 4 sympathies.
In order properly to evaluate a feeling, person, or action morally, we therefore need to observe the object of evaluation from a certain distance, so that the effects of our own subjective interests do not cloud our feelings of sympathy or antipathy.
This makes good sense when we think of how we judge others. We feel that our own children are the most beautiful and precious creatures we can imagine. Nevertheless, we recognize that other parents tend to view their children in a similar manner, and that all children cannot simultaneously be the most precious in the world. Reflection therefore suggests that when we make moral judgments, we should adopt a more impartial point of view. Although Hume does not state this directly, his moral theory similarly suggests that when we make judgments about our own actions and personal traits, and consider choices that we make, we should also adopt a distanced and impartial perspective. We should look at ourselves from the outside, and base our judgment on what we feel when viewing ourselves from this kind of perspective.
Consider the case of Madeleine. She is a social worker, and is very much engaged in her work. She easily establishes contact with her clients, and shows great empathy with them and their problems.
Madeleine is highly motivated, and works tirelessly to help them. Often she is successful. However, at times she experiences setbacks: clients with alcohol or drug problems who relapse, or immigrants who reject her advice and offers of help. This makes her dejected.
Madeleine is in a new relationship. She is very attracted to her partner, and hopes this relationship will last longer than her previous ones. However, at times she becomes overwhelmed by feelings of jealousy and insecurity. She is ashamed about her feelings, and feels that they are irrational. Nevertheless, they take their toll. She becomes more and more tired, and hears about a nondirective meditation technique that is supposed to alleviate stress and tension and provide rejuvenation and increased energy in daily life. She signs up for the course. Madeleine immediately feels the effects of her first meditations. She senses that her body relaxes, the stream of thoughts flows easily from one memory to another, and she feels re-energized afterwards. “This is the method for me!” she says to herself. “Finally something that helps!”
After a while, however, Madeleine becomes less enamored with her meditations. She feels that she is not relaxing the way she did in the beginning, and unpleasant thoughts have begun to occupy her mind: memories from the day of difficult encounters with clients, worries about what will happen to some of them, and doubts about how her new relationship is developing. Her meditations simply do not feel as good as they first did, and she wonders why. She notices a tendency in herself to want to avoid or get away from her unpleasant thoughts, but the meditations seem to do the opposite—they draw her nearer to them.
In meditation, Madeleine relives images of recent episodes with her partner, which make her extremely jealous and insecure. The situations themselves appear to be rather neutral and mundane: her partner happens to talk to someone else about ordinary matters, or he is reading a book, and would rather continue doing so than talk to Madeleine.
Madeleine regards her feelings of jealousy and insecurity as being far too strong and inappropriate in light of what really is taking place in these situations. She regards them as reflections of her own distorted subjectivity, and feels she lacks proper distance to them. We may fundamentally agree with her. “I shouldn’t have these jealous and insecure feelings,” Madeleine thinks. They sour the relationship and make life difficult, even though she tries to hide them and not to act on them.
However, in her meditation, the jealousy and insecurity become more intense. They present themselves with a strength that is almost overwhelming. Better if they had not been there, she thinks. She wants to distance herself from the jealousy and insecurity, and rid herself of these feelings. She spontaneously feels that this is the “morally” right thing to do. For after all, the jealousy not only torments her, but creates difficulties for her partner as well, and she wants to detach herself from it.
From a Humean point of view, Madeleine’s understanding of and solution to her meditation problem appears to make good sense. Madeleine feels that she should not feel jealousy and insecurity, and that these feelings cause her as well as her partner pain. She rightly believes she has to distance herself from these feelings in order to be able to judge herself and her partner adequately. She wants to make the feelings “less Madeleine,” and more as if they were someone else’s feeling that she can observe from an impersonal perspective.
Part of the Humean perspective is in harmony with the principles of nondirective meditation. In repeating the meditation sound with a free mental attitude, we gradually learn to detach ourselves from automatic effects that impulses and feelings may have on us. Further, to practice this method is to develop a greater sensitivity for what goes on inside us, in Humean terminology, a greater “sensibility.” And surely Hume is right in pointing out that when our own subjective interests and feelings are strongly involved, we may lose perspective, and our attitudes and beliefs may be colored and distorted by our subjectivity. Part of the growth process that nondirective meditation can contribute to involves the gradual discovery of such distortions in ourselves. Most often, the deeper aspects of our subjective perspectives are so entrenched in our psychologies that we have difficulty discovering and understanding them. Hence the benefits of talking about our meditation in individual guidance and guidance groups, where others can suggest to us perspectives other than those we are inclined to adopt.
Nevertheless, Madeleine’s solution is not fruitful from the point of view of nondirective meditation. In trying to distance herself from her feelings by pushing them away, she is denying herself the possibility to gain greater knowledge of her feelings and of the underlying forces that drive them. She is also denying herself the opportunity to both be near to and have these feelings as her own, and at the same time act in a way that is not entirely driven by them: detachment without disownment.
Although Kant’s and Hume’s pictures of morality are different, they also have something in common. Morality consists of values and norms that are generally held to be valid. They become part of us through socialization, what we call the process of internalization. Through this process, the commonly accepted social norms of morality take up their abode in us, and become a faculty of the personality that regulates our internal and external behavior. From there, this faculty then passes judgment on our inner impulses, represses those that are unacceptable, and encourages those that are valuable. Through internalization we make the sanctions of our parents and society—their rewards and criticisms—our own. We are ashamed, or feel guilty, if we do something wrong, and we feel good, or proud, if we do something well or correctly.
These feelings are part of a kind of internal reward and punishment system that helps us to control our behavior. In this way, society does not have to control our behavior entirely through systems of external reward and punishment, because these systems have become part of our minds.
This is a fundamental view of the human condition. On one side stands morality, which wants to watch over and decide, and on the other side impulses, which want to express themselves freely. We are locked in an internal struggle with ourselves. Or perhaps we rather see a picture of two selves in one: a “moral” self, and a spontaneous, impulsive self.
For Kant, a moral stance is to choose to act in accordance with reason and the moral law, rather than one’s inclinations. For Hume, the solution is to distance oneself from one’s subjective position, and use one’s feelings to judge the situation as if from the outside.
Interestingly, although Peter’s and Madeleine’s psychologies, it is tempting to say, even philosophies, are very different, they lead to similar solutions. When confronted with the influence of spontaneous activity in meditation that they consider undesirable, either because it challenges the meditator’s autonomy (Peter) or makes the meditator feel bad about herself (Madeleine), meditators should try to avoid or distance themselves from this influence. In so doing, they are attempting to alienate themselves from parts of themselves, and thereby impede development of greater self-knowledge, a process that points in the direction of both greater autonomy and independence from the influence of their inclinations and emotions.
The characteristic alienation that is inherent in this “moral” perspective that we adopt in regard to ourselves or others is easiest to understand when we are confronted with aspects of ourselves or others that are difficult to accept. It is more surprising that this alienation can also characterize positive relationships between human beings. In an important and interesting article, the American philosopher Peter Railton discusses issues that are tangential to the questions we are discussing here.
Railton describes the case of a model husband, called John, who almost invariably shows great sensitivity to his wife’s needs, and willingly goes out of his way to meet them. When a friend remarks on the extraordinary quality of John’s concern for his wife, John responds without any self-indulgence or self-congratulation:
I’ve always thought that people should help each other when they’re in a specially good position to do so. I know
Anne better than anyone else does, so I know better what she wants and needs. Besides, I have such affection for her that it’s no great burden—instead, I get a lot of satisfaction out of it. Just think how awful marriage would be, or life itself, if people didn’t take special care of the ones they love. (Railton 2003, p. 152)
His friend accuses John of being unduly modest, but John’s manner convinces him that he is telling the truth—this is really how he feels. Railton says that what is troubling to us here is not so much what John says, but rather what he does not say:
Anne might have hoped that it was, in some ultimate sense, in part for her sake and the sake of their love as such that John pays such special attention to her. That he devotes himself to her because of the characteristically good consequences of doing so seems to leave her, and their relationship as such, too far out of the picture—this despite the fact that these characteristically good consequences depend in important ways on his special relation to her. She is being taken into account by John, but it might seem she is justified in being hurt by the way she is being taken into account. It is as if John viewed her, their relationship, and even his own affection for her from a distant, objective point of view—a moral point of view where reasons must be reasons for any rational agent and so must have an impersonal character even when they deal with personal matters. His wife might think a more personal point of view would also be more appropriate, a point of view from which ‘It’s my wife’ or ‘It’s Anne’ would have direct and special relevance, and play an unmediated role in his answer to the question ‘Why do you attend to her so?’ (Railton 2003, p. 153)
The “moral” perspective that John takes sees the situation from the outside, objectively, rationally, and impartially. It is interesting to note that almost all moral philosophers, not only Kant and Hume, have held this to be one of the most essential characteristics of the moral perspective. There is nothing in what John says that is unreasonable. There are no norms or values that he advocates that we immediately want to disagree with. Nonetheless, John’s attitude toward his wife appears to us so alienated, so impersonal, that we feel a need to say that John lacks something, and further, that what he lacks has important moral qualities—qualities that disappear when a “moral” attitude such as John’s is adopted.
Experience with nondirective meditation in a process of increasing self-knowledge, as well as Railton’s discussion, point in the direction of a form of morality that it is tempting to characterize as more mature than the Kantian and Humean conceptions. At this stage, moral reflection and decisions are not based on fear of sanctions from the outside, or on a divided self, in which a moral part deliberates at a distance and controls the impulses through internal reward and punishment. Rather, it is founded on an ideally integrated self, in which all the parts of the psyche are allowed to express themselves, and decisions are made after one’s inner voices have been acknowledged and listened to.
The meditative attitude is in this sense fundamentally different from the alienated attitude. It listens, embraces, and accepts (which is not the same as condones, or even forgives). In doing so, it integrates. It receives the difficult and provocative in us as well as the acceptable or pleasing: “Yes, this too is a part of me.” In this lies not only its liberating potential, but a fundamentally different attitude to what is genuinely human.
Investigating through meditation our tendency to dissociate ourselves from what is in us provides an opportunity to gradually alleviate our own alienation, thus becoming more whole as human beings. If Peter is to gain greater autonomy, he must accept that the spontaneous forces that distort his production of the meditation sound are parts of himself that he must get to know better. If Madeleine is to make any progress in her struggle with her jealousy, she must be able to recognize and come closer to her jealousy in her meditation, and learn to act from the perspective of the free mental attitude. If John is ever to attain insight into who his wife really is to him, he must be willing to accept and even embrace his own subjective feelings, and not merely regard himself and his wife from the outside.
The insight into morality that nondirective meditation can help us to attain does not necessarily provide us with clearer or more concise answers as to which moral rules should be applied in exactly which way in specific situations, or the exact position of various values in the value hierarchy. It is a form of ethical knowledge that is not to any great degree based on guidance from ethical formulae such as: “Love thy neighbor as thyself”, or “The greatest happiness for the greatest number”, or “Human life is the highest value”. The ethical insight that meditation cultivates is by nature more personal, more personally experienced and lived through, and is more directed towards the development of one’s own integrity and ability to discern the difference between right and wrong, good and bad. In practicing acceptance of previously dissociated parts of ourselves, we gradually develop more complete selves, and thereby gain greater resonance.
It is difficult to have very definite opinions as to whether quite specific moral values are developed in such an open, non-directed process. Experience nevertheless tells us that typically, the process facilitates the development of an increased ability to empathize with others. We are better able to recognize and empathize with the emotions and perspectives of others when we are able to recognize and empathize with challenging parts of ourselves. Seen in a self-psychological perspective, this appears natural: the integration through meditation of fragmented partial selves can be understood as exercises for a partial self in taking in, tolerating, and being able to listen to the perspective of a different partial self. The distance from increased empathy with a previously dissociated part of oneself to increased empathy with another person is perhaps not so very great.
Implicit in the practice of nondirective meditation also lies an important distinction. In nondirective meditation we are not only to let go and encounter what expresses itself spontaneously in our minds with a free mental attitude. We are also to repeat the meditation sound with a free mental attitude. We are in other words to act. In this act, the attempts of the spontaneous part of the mind to take control over our actions, to capture our mind and close it off, are to be met, not with struggle and combativeness, nor with surrender, but with attentive listening. Nondirective meditation is therefore training in listening to, feeling, becoming aware of, without becoming controlled or overwhelmed by what we are listening to. It is to learn through experience that there is a difference between becoming aware of an impulse and being controlled by or succumbing to it—a difference between having a fantasy or thought and expressing it in action. For Peter: a difference between experiencing the influence of spontaneous activity and surrendering his autonomy. For Madeleine: a difference between being jealous and insecure and acting it out. It may be argued that this is also an important moral distinction. This difference is also an important component of the principle of the free mental attitude in nondirective meditation.
The training takes place in our own meditations. We constantly experience that we become caught up in our own spontaneity, both the parts of it that enrich us and the parts that appear to muddle and distort. This spontaneity is of course the same thing that sometimes inspires or controls us, whether we want it to or not, in the rest of our lives as well. The need always to be in control does not disappear for Peter when he follows it, and the negative consequences that this need has for his relationships do not go away because he is in control. Nor do the jealousy and insecurity that Madeleine feels disappear if she distances herself from them. On the contrary, they are then given a greater opportunity to influence her life through the unconscious; unseen, making their imprint on her life, stealing her happiness and her ability to enjoy a trusting and giving closeness to her partner. The “immorality” in us does not disappear, in other words, merely because we distance ourselves from it.
Meditation is in other words to bring together forces and voices within us that in their spontaneity drive us in opposite directions: forces that wish to possess us exclusively and compel everything else to go away. Meditation is in this way an attempt to create a form of inner democracy, where dictatorship or totalitarianism previously has reigned. There is in this sense a substantial kinship between the meditative project and what some philosophers—notably the German philosopher Jürgen Habermas—have regarded as the paradigm of ethical community between human beings: communication without coercion. Seen in the self-psychological perspective, the analogy is even closer: the task in nondirective meditation is to bring together various partial selves, enable these to enter into dialogue, where they have previously been split off and have had to occupy the field alone. Meditation as mediation.
The ethical consequences that flow from such a process cannot be predicted with any great degree of certainty. The purpose of the meditative project is not the development of categorical imperatives or generally applicable principles of conduct. More important than the result is that the attitude that precipitates it is something that the practitioner can vouch for with more than only parts of herself. It is not the fragmented, idealized morality that meditation cultivates, but a kind of ethics that is a personal concern, and moreover a concern of the whole person.
None of us is of course a completely integrated, perfectly enlightened human being. Those of us who meditate are as human as the rest of the flock. There will therefore always be a need for the form of morality that is not only based on completely reflective, integrated, and enlightened knowledge, but which instead is based more on minimum requirements for social intercourse, sanctioned by external or internal rewards and punishment. Nevertheless, a form of morality that relies on the distanced stance can prevent us from gaining greater self-knowledge and freedom. The moral reflection that nondirective meditation invites us to take part in is in principle different. Its challenge is primarily to examine our own lives, our own lifestyles, behavior, and actions, and to listen attentively, sensitively, respectfully, openly, but at the same time not automatically believe or follow, the messages of all of our inner voices: the free mental attitude.
1 Kant (2008, p. 11): “I ought never to act in such a way that I could not also will that the maxim [rule] on which I act should be a universal law.” (For the original text, see Kant, 1906). 2 Kant (2008, p. 34): “Autonomy is thus the basis for the dignity of human nature and of every rational nature.” 3 Hume (2004, Book III, Part I, Section II): “Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or pain, which arises from characters and actions, of that peculiar kind, which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an enemy are hurtful to us; but may still command our esteem and respect. ’Tis only when a character is considered in general, without reference to our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as denominates it morally good or evil.” 4 Hume (2004, Book III, Part I, Section I): “Morals excite passions, and [only thereby] produce or prevent actions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. … To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a character. The very feeling constitutes our praise or admiration.”
Hume, D. (2003 [1739–1740]). A Treatise of Human Nature. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications.
Kant, I. (1906 [1785]). Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten. Leipzig: Verlag der Dürr’schen Buchhandlung.
Kant, I. (2008). Groundwork for the Metaphysic of Morals. Transl. J. Bennett. http://www.earlymoderntexts.com/assets/pdfs/kant1785.pdf
Railton, P. (2003). Facts, Values, and Norms: Essays Toward a Morality of Consequence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.