Moments of Enlightenment – When the Light Comes On

The word enlightenment carries a great deal of weight. For some people, it brings to mind Buddhist monks meditating for decades in monasteries, spiritual masters living apart from society, or philosophers and sages who have somehow reached a level of understanding beyond that of the average person. In our modern culture, however, the word is also used much more casually. Someone may describe becoming enlightened after discovering a new philosophy, surviving a difficult period of life, traveling to another culture, studying under a particular teacher, or suddenly seeing something from an entirely different perspective.

The problem is that enlightenment is not something that can easily be measured or verified. There is no blood test for enlightenment. There is no brain scan that can definitively determine that someone has crossed a particular threshold. There is no universally recognized certificate stating that a person has successfully completed the requirements and is now officially enlightened. Perhaps that is part of the problem with the way we sometimes think about it.

Over many years, I have been around individuals who appeared to possess considerably more wisdom, awareness, patience, or insight than others. Some were teachers. Some were martial artists. Some were involved in Eastern philosophy or contemplative practices. Others were simply people who had accumulated a great deal of life experience and, more importantly, had apparently learned something from those experiences. Interestingly, some of the wisest people I have encountered were also among the least likely to describe themselves as enlightened.

What several of these people shared with me over the years was a somewhat different way of looking at enlightenment. Rather than viewing it as a permanent destination that someone eventually reaches, they viewed enlightenment as something that can occur temporarily and repeatedly throughout one’s lifetime. I have come to appreciate this perspective more and more as I have grown older.

We often speak about enlightenment as though it were a place. Someone searches for enlightenment, reaches enlightenment, or becomes enlightened. The language itself suggests a destination. Once the traveler arrives, presumably the journey is complete. But human beings do not seem to function that way.

We can be remarkably insightful about one aspect of our lives and surprisingly unaware about another. We can understand something clearly today and become confused about it tomorrow. We can give excellent advice to someone else while failing to recognize the exact same problem occurring within ourselves. We can spend decades studying a subject and then suddenly realize that something we had believed for years was incomplete or perhaps even incorrect.

Perhaps enlightenment, then, is better understood not entirely as something we are, but as something we occasionally experience.

Psychologists have studied what are sometimes called insight experiences, those sudden moments when a previously confusing problem or situation becomes understandable. The familiar “Aha!” experience can involve a rapid restructuring of how we perceive something, producing the feeling that an answer has suddenly become obvious even though it had been hidden only moments before (Kounios & Beeman, 2014).

Most of us have experienced something similar, and I prefer the simple analogy of walking into a dark room and turning on a light. Before turning on the light, everything in the room was already there. The doors, windows, tables, chairs, and other objects existed whether we could see them or not. Turning on the light did not create anything. It simply allowed us to perceive what had previously been hidden by darkness.

Sometimes understanding works much the same way. Suddenly we see something that we did not see before. We might wonder how we could have missed something that now seems so obvious. The information may have been available to us for years, but for whatever reason we were not yet capable of seeing it from that particular perspective. We often call these “lightbulb moments.” Perhaps, at least temporarily, we might also call them moments of enlightenment.

There is another part of this analogy that I find equally important. The light does not necessarily stay on. Someone can have a profound realization during meditation, while practicing tai chi or qigong, walking through nature, recovering from an illness, traveling, losing someone they love, becoming a parent or grandparent, reading a book, talking with a friend, or simply sitting quietly and thinking. For a moment, something becomes remarkably clear. Then everyday life returns.

The bills still need to be paid. Someone cuts us off in traffic. Our body hurts. We become impatient with another person. We worry about tomorrow. Someone challenges one of our beliefs and we immediately become defensive. The supposedly enlightened human being suddenly looks remarkably human again. This does not necessarily invalidate the earlier experience. It may simply demonstrate that insight and wisdom are not always permanent states.

Even contemplative traditions that place great importance on awakening frequently emphasize continued practice rather than treating insight as permission to stop learning. Buddhist traditions themselves contain numerous interpretations of awakening and enlightenment, and they do not all describe the process in precisely the same way (Gethin, 1998). This alone should make us somewhat cautious about declaring exactly what enlightenment must look like.

Perhaps there is another possibility worth considering. As people become more curious, observant, reflective, and willing to question their own assumptions, these moments may begin occurring more frequently. Experience itself does not automatically produce wisdom. Someone can repeat the same mistake for forty years and simply become very experienced at making the same mistake. Reflection matters.

Psychological research distinguishes between merely accumulating experiences and developing wisdom through the way those experiences are interpreted. Wisdom has been associated with qualities such as reflection, compassion, emotional regulation, tolerance for uncertainty, and the ability to recognize multiple perspectives (Ardelt, 2003; Grossmann et al., 2020). Knowledge tells us things. Experience exposes us to things. Reflection helps us understand what those things might mean. Wisdom may gradually emerge from the interaction of all three.

This may explain why certain experiences that seemed insignificant when we were younger suddenly make sense decades later. The information did not necessarily change. We changed. Sometimes I think wisdom involves repeatedly walking through the same room and discovering another light switch.

There is also an interesting paradox that comes with all of this. The moment someone announces that they have become enlightened, I tend to become somewhat cautious. Claims of extraordinary wisdom or spiritual attainment can create authority. If other people accept that an individual possesses knowledge, awareness, or consciousness beyond their own, questioning that person can become increasingly difficult. This can be particularly relevant within spiritual communities, martial arts organizations, wellness movements, philosophical schools, and other groups built around respected or charismatic teachers.

A teacher may indeed possess extraordinary knowledge in certain areas. That does not mean that person possesses extraordinary knowledge in every area. Expertise is not omniscience. Wisdom is not infallibility. And enlightenment, however we choose to define it, should probably not provide immunity from reasonable questions.

There is even a psychological problem that can occur when we begin believing that we have finally figured everything out. Human beings remain vulnerable to confirmation bias, overconfidence, motivated reasoning, and numerous other cognitive tendencies that influence how we interpret information (Kahneman, 2011). Years of study do not necessarily make these tendencies disappear.

Ironically, believing ourselves to be permanently enlightened could become another obstacle preventing us from seeing what remains hidden. Perhaps one characteristic of wisdom is recognizing just how much remains unknown. This brings me back to another question that has always interested me. Who gets to decide what qualifies as enlightenment?

One person’s profound spiritual revelation may seem perfectly ordinary to someone else. A person may experience an overwhelming realization that everything in nature is interconnected. A biologist or ecologist might respond that ecosystems have demonstrated interdependence all along. Someone may suddenly realize that possessions do not create lasting happiness, while a philosopher may have reached that conclusion decades earlier. Someone else may discover through meditation that thoughts arise and disappear without necessarily requiring action, while a psychologist familiar with mindfulness may consider this a well-established observation. Does the fact that someone else already understands something make another person’s realization less meaningful? I do not think so.

Understanding is personal. Knowing something intellectually and realizing it through experience are not necessarily the same thing. We can tell someone for years that life is temporary. They understand the words. They may even agree with them. Then someone close to them dies, they survive a serious accident, their children grow up and leave home, they retire from a lifelong career, or they suddenly recognize their own aging in the mirror. The words have not changed. Their understanding has. The light came on.

This is perhaps why one person’s nirvana may be another person’s typical Tuesday afternoon. What is profound to one person may seem obvious to another because we are all arriving at these realizations from different starting points. We carry different experiences, different beliefs, different educations, different cultures, different hardships, and different levels of awareness. Perhaps we also make enlightenment unnecessarily exotic.

Maybe enlightenment does not always require mountaintops, monasteries, gurus, secret teachings, or decades of esoteric study. Perhaps some of our most meaningful moments of enlightenment occur while washing dishes, teaching a class, walking through the woods, talking with our children, practicing a familiar exercise, sitting beside someone who is dying, traveling through an unfamiliar country, or simply recognizing that something we believed for many years was incorrect. That last example may be particularly important. There is a certain freedom in being able to say, “I was wrong.”

That simple statement may represent a greater degree of awareness than defending an old belief simply because we have invested years of our lives in it. Real learning frequently requires revising our existing understanding rather than merely adding more information to what we already believe. Sometimes growth occurs because we discover something new. At other times, growth occurs because we finally become willing to let go of something old. Both can turn on another light.

After decades of studying martial arts, Eastern philosophy, mind-body practices, holistic health, psychology, and simply observing people, I have become increasingly comfortable with the possibility that enlightenment may not be an all-or-nothing condition. Perhaps we do not become enlightened once and remain that way forever. Perhaps we become enlightened for a few seconds. Maybe for several minutes. Occasionally perhaps for an afternoon, or during some particularly meaningful period of our lives. Then we return to being ordinary human beings again, carrying our habits, emotions, assumptions, strengths, weaknesses, and unfinished business along with us. Over time, however, perhaps the lights begin coming on more frequently.

Through practice, reflection, curiosity, humility, experience, and a willingness to reconsider what we think we already know, we may begin noticing things that were previously hidden from us. The room becomes brighter. Then we discover another room. And perhaps another after that. Eventually we may realize that there was never going to be a final room where all of the answers were waiting for us.

I find something encouraging about this way of looking at enlightenment. It makes enlightenment less of a trophy reserved for a select few and more of an ongoing human possibility. We do not need to prove that we have reached some ultimate state of consciousness. We do not need to convince others that we possess secret knowledge. We simply need to remain receptive enough to recognize those moments when something becomes clearer than it was before. Maybe that is enough.

The universe, nature, society, relationships, our bodies, and our own minds seem to provide endless opportunities for observation, learning, questioning, and reconsideration. Some of those opportunities are dramatic. Most are probably quite ordinary. Many may pass directly in front of us without our ever recognizing them.

The challenge may simply be remaining open enough to notice when another light comes on. And perhaps there is a final paradox in all of this. The more lights we turn on, the more clearly we may see just how much remains in the dark.

References

Ardelt, M. (2003). Empirical assessment of a three-dimensional wisdom scale. Research on Aging, 25(3), 275–324. https://doi.org/10.1177/0164027503025003004

Gethin, R. (1998). The foundations of Buddhism. Oxford University Press.

Grossmann, I., Weststrate, N. M., Ardelt, M., Brienza, J. P., Dong, M., Ferrari, M., Fournier, M. A., Hu, C. S., Nusbaum, H. C., & Vervaeke, J. (2020). The science of wisdom in a polarized world: Knowns and unknowns. Psychological Inquiry, 31(2), 103–133. https://doi.org/10.1080/1047840X.2020.1750917

Kahneman, D. (2011). Thinking, fast and slow. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Kounios, J., & Beeman, M. (2014). The cognitive neuroscience of insight. Annual Review of Psychology, 65, 71–93. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-psych-010213-115154

The Healer as a Teacher: Helping Others Learn to Heal Themselves

Over the years, my understanding of what it means to be a healer has changed considerably. When many people hear the word healer, they may picture someone who possesses a special ability to cure another person, remove their pain, correct their illness, or somehow make them whole again. In this model, the healer does the healing while the person in need receives it. One person is active, while the other is largely passive. That has never completely fit with how I have come to understand healing.

My definition of a healer is not necessarily someone who cures or fixes another person. Rather, I see a healer as someone who shows, helps, guides, or teaches another person how to participate more fully in overcoming whatever may be troubling them. Sometimes that trouble is physical. Sometimes it is emotional or psychological. Sometimes it involves lifestyle, relationships, stress, purpose, or simply the realization that the way we have been living is no longer working very well. This distinction may seem subtle, but I believe it is important.

A healer can provide knowledge, encouragement, perspective, techniques, and perhaps even treatment. But ultimately, much of the work of healing still takes place within the individual.

I often think of something as simple as preparing a meal. I can teach someone how to make a healthy meal. I can explain the ingredients, demonstrate how to prepare them, discuss why certain foods may be beneficial, and perhaps even stand beside that person while they cook. But at some point, they have to make the meal themselves. More importantly, I cannot eat the meal for them and somehow transfer the nutritional benefits into their body. Their body has to chew it, digest it, absorb it, and make use of what has been provided. Healing often works in much the same way.

A physician can explain why someone needs to exercise, but the physician cannot perform the exercise for the patient. A physical therapist can teach movements that may restore strength and mobility, but the therapist cannot make the muscles stronger without the patient’s participation. A counselor can help someone recognize unhealthy patterns of thought or behavior, but eventually that person must practice responding differently when those patterns appear in everyday life.

The same is true within many of the practices I have studied and taught over the years. I can teach someone tai chi, qigong, breathing exercises, meditation, stretching, strengthening, posture, relaxation, or other methods of self-care. I can explain the principles behind them and help correct mistakes. I can encourage someone when progress seems slow. But I cannot practice for them.

That is where I believe an important part of healing is sometimes overlooked.

We have become accustomed to thinking of health care as something that is primarily done to us. We go somewhere, receive something, and hopefully leave feeling better. Certainly, there are situations where this is exactly what is needed. If I break a bone, suffer a serious infection, require surgery, or experience a medical emergency, I am very grateful that trained professionals can intervene. There are times when another person’s expertise and intervention may literally save our lives.

But that is only one part of the much larger picture of health and healing.

There is also the enormous territory between being perfectly healthy and experiencing a medical emergency. This is where we live most of our lives. It includes how we sleep, breathe, move, eat, manage stress, maintain relationships, respond to setbacks, use our bodies, and care for ourselves day after day. No practitioner can completely control those things for another person.

This is why I tend to think of the healer as being closer to a teacher, guide, or facilitator than a repair technician. A good teacher does not simply give students answers. A good teacher helps students develop the ability to find answers themselves. In the same way, a good healer should ideally help people develop greater awareness and greater participation in their own well-being.

This does not mean blaming people for becoming sick or suggesting that every illness can be overcome through positive thinking, exercise, diet, or self-discipline. Biology is far more complicated than that. Genetics, injury, aging, infection, environment, socioeconomic circumstances, and simple chance can all affect our health. There are conditions that cannot simply be exercised, meditated, or breathed away. But recognizing those realities does not mean that personal agency disappears.

There is usually a difference between asking, Who is going to fix me? and asking, What can I do to participate in getting better?

That second question can change the relationship between the practitioner and the person seeking help.

Instead of saying, “Heal me,” we begin asking, “Teach me.”

Teach me what I can do.

Teach me what I may be doing that is making the situation worse.

Teach me what signs I should pay attention to.

Teach me how to move differently.

Teach me how to breathe differently.

Teach me how to strengthen what has become weak.

Teach me how to recognize when I need professional help and when I can safely help myself.

This type of relationship does not diminish the importance of physicians, therapists, counselors, teachers, coaches, or other practitioners. I believe it actually makes their knowledge more valuable because their expertise becomes something that can continue working through the individual long after an appointment, treatment, or class has ended.

This has always been one of the things that appeals to me about teaching mind-body practices. If I teach someone a simple breathing exercise that helps them calm themselves during stressful situations, they now possess a tool that can potentially be used for the rest of their life. If I teach an older adult how to improve balance and leg strength, that knowledge does not belong to me anymore. It belongs to them. If someone learns how to recognize unnecessary tension in their shoulders, change their posture, move more efficiently, or calm their breathing, they have gained something far more valuable than simply receiving temporary relief.

They have gained another degree of independence.

Perhaps this is one of the differences between treatment and healing. Treatment may sometimes be something we receive. Healing, however, often requires participation.

Even the word practice tells us something important. We practice tai chi. We practice qigong. We practice meditation, better eating habits, communicating with others, managing stress and becoming more aware of what our bodies and minds are telling us.

There is rarely a point where someone announces, “That’s it. I have mastered my health and never have to think about it again.” Life keeps changing, and so do we.

What worked for us at twenty may not work the same way at forty. What worked at forty may require modification at sixty, seventy, or eighty. Injuries happen. Responsibilities change. Stress comes and goes. Our bodies age. Our priorities shift. The person who understands how to participate in their own well-being is better equipped to adapt to these changes than someone who has always expected another person to provide the solution.

This is also why I am cautious about placing healers on pedestals. The idea that another person possesses some special knowledge or power that we cannot possibly understand can easily create dependency. Certainly, expertise matters. Someone who has spent decades studying medicine, physical therapy, psychology, nutrition, martial arts, traditional practices, or any other discipline should know considerably more about that subject than the average person.

But expertise should ideally empower others rather than make them permanently dependent upon the expert.

The best teachers I have encountered throughout my life did not seem interested in keeping knowledge locked away. They wanted students to understand it, test it, practice it, question it, and eventually make it their own. Their success was not measured by how helpless their students remained without them. It was measured, at least in part, by how capable their students became. I believe healing can follow a similar philosophy.

Perhaps one of the greatest things a healer can eventually hear is, “I know what to do now.” That does not mean the person will never need help again. None of us becomes completely independent. We all need teachers, physicians, friends, family members, mentors, and communities at different times throughout our lives. Independence and interdependence can exist together.

But there is an enormous difference between receiving help and surrendering responsibility. I can point toward the path. I can walk beside someone for part of the journey. I can share what I have learned from my own experience and from the teachers who came before me. I can offer tools, encouragement, and perspective. But eventually, each person has to take their own steps.

Just as I cannot eat your meal and digest it for you, I cannot exercise your muscles for you, breathe your breaths for you, change your habits for you, or live your life for you.

Perhaps what a true healer does is not say, “I will heal you.”

But someone who says, “Let me show you what you may be able to do for yourself.”

To me, that is not a lesser form of healing. It may be one of its most meaningful forms, because instead of simply helping someone feel better today, we may be helping them become more capable of caring for themselves tomorrow.

Yin and Yang: Understanding the Degrees Between the Opposites

When people are first introduced to the concept of yin and yang, it is easy to see it simply as a philosophy of opposites. Yin is often represented as dark, while yang is light. Yin is stillness, while yang is movement. Yin is inward, while yang is outward. Yin is soft, while yang is hard. These comparisons are useful when we are first learning the concept, but yin and yang become much more interesting when we stop thinking about them as simply black and white. Between the two extremes are countless degrees of difference.

One of the easiest ways I have found to explain this is to think about a thermometer. We might say that 80 degrees is warm and 40 degrees is cold, but what about everything in between? There is no magical point where cold suddenly becomes hot. Temperature moves through degrees along a continuum. Even our perception of temperature depends upon what we are comparing it to. Sixty degrees may feel cold after several days of 90-degree weather, while the same 60 degrees may feel wonderfully warm after several weeks of freezing temperatures. Yin and yang can be understood in much the same way. They describe relative conditions rather than permanent labels.

This becomes clearer when we consider what I refer to in my teaching as the five manifestations or relationships of yin and yang: opposition, interdependence, mutual consuming and increasing, mutual transformation, and infinite divisibility. These concepts help move our understanding beyond the familiar black-and-white yin-yang symbol and into something we can actually observe throughout nature and our own lives.

Opposition is probably the easiest manifestation to recognize. Day and night, activity and rest, heat and cold, expansion and contraction all demonstrate contrasting qualities. Yet opposition does not necessarily mean conflict. The two sides actually help us recognize and define one another. We understand darkness partly because we have experienced light, and we recognize stillness because we understand movement.

This leads naturally into interdependence. Yin and yang do not exist independently of one another. We cannot meaningfully describe something as hot without having some concept of cold. Movement is understood in relation to stillness, just as day has meaning partly because there is night. Each side provides a reference point for the other. This is one reason yin and yang should not be viewed as competing forces where one side must eventually defeat the other. Their relationship is complementary.

The manifestation I find especially useful when discussing the stages of our lives is mutual consuming and increasing. This describes how, as one aspect increases, the other relatively decreases. We can observe this simply by watching a day unfold. As morning progresses toward midday, the yang qualities of light, warmth and activity generally increase. As afternoon moves toward evening, these qualities begin to decline while the yin qualities of darkness, coolness and rest gradually increase.

There is no precise moment when day suddenly becomes night. Sunrise itself is a transition. Darkness gradually gives way to light. The sun rises higher, the air warms and activity increases. Later, the process reverses. The sun descends, shadows become longer, temperatures begin dropping and eventually darkness returns. Yang has gradually decreased while yin has increased. Then, during the night, the process eventually begins moving in the opposite direction again.

This is very similar to the thermometer. The temperature does not have to drop from 80 degrees to 60 degrees. It passes through 79, 78, 77 and all of the smaller measurements in between. Nature tends to move through transitions rather than constantly jumping between absolutes. Yin and yang provide a philosophical way of describing these changing relationships.

This also helps us understand why balance does not necessarily mean maintaining a perfect 50/50 relationship between yin and yang. Nature rarely seems interested in remaining perfectly balanced in that sense. Summer does not contain exactly the same amount of warmth and daylight as winter. Noon does not contain the same amount of light as midnight. The relationship is constantly adjusting. Balance, therefore, can be dynamic rather than static.

We can see this same process across the course of a human lifetime. The earlier stages of life tend to contain many yang characteristics. Children run, climb, jump, explore and seemingly move simply for the sake of moving. Young adults often continue this outward expansion as we build careers, raise families, compete, travel, accumulate experiences and test ourselves against the world. There is often considerable emphasis upon doing, achieving and moving outward into life.

As we grow older, the proportions may gradually change. This does not happen on a particular birthday, nor do we suddenly become “yin” because we have reached a certain age. Instead, the degrees begin shifting. We may become more selective about where we spend our physical and emotional energy. Physical training may gradually shift from concerns about how much weight we can lift, how fast we can run or how hard we can strike toward maintaining mobility, balance, coordination, breathing, posture and overall health.

Our priorities may change as well. Experiences can become more important than possessions. Understanding may become more valuable than proving ourselves correct. Listening can become as important as speaking, and reflection may begin accompanying action. This can be viewed as another example of mutual consuming and increasing. Some of the yang characteristics that dominated earlier stages of life may gradually decrease while certain yin characteristics increase.

Of course, this does not mean that older people are yin and younger people are yang. That would simply return us to the black-and-white thinking we are trying to move beyond. A 70-year-old lifting weights or hiking a mountain is expressing relatively yang qualities. That same person sitting quietly afterward, practicing breathing exercises or reflecting upon the day’s experiences is expressing relatively more yin qualities. Likewise, a young martial artist practicing a slow tai chi form may be expressing more yin qualities than an older practitioner performing vigorous strength training. Yin and yang always depend upon what we are comparing.

This is also where infinite divisibility becomes important. Even something we categorize as yang contains different degrees of yin and yang within itself. Exercise may generally be considered yang compared with sitting quietly, but walking is relatively yin compared with sprinting. Jogging might be more yang than walking but more yin than running at full speed. We can continue making these distinctions almost indefinitely. The same principle applies to yin. Sitting quietly may be yin compared with walking, while deep sleep may be even more yin compared with sitting awake. Every time we divide something into yin and yang, those divisions can themselves be divided again.

The principle of mutual transformation takes this relationship another step further. Under the appropriate circumstances, yin can transform into yang and yang into yin. Night eventually becomes day, just as day eventually becomes night. Vigorous activity eventually creates the need for rest, while sufficient rest restores our capacity for activity. Winter eventually gives way to spring, and the quiet dormant period of nature becomes the foundation for renewed growth.

I have noticed a similar transformation within martial arts and mind-body practices. When we are younger, we may be fascinated primarily by speed, strength, flexibility, techniques, forms, fighting applications and physical accomplishments. We want to learn more and do more. Over time, however, some practitioners begin asking different questions. Instead of simply asking how to perform a movement, we begin asking why we are performing it. Instead of constantly collecting another form, another technique or another exercise, we may spend considerably more time examining the principles contained within movements we already know.

The external practice gradually creates an opportunity for internal observation. Tai chi, qigong, yoga, meditation and many traditional martial arts contain this possibility. At first we may be concerned primarily with what our body looks like from the outside. Where does the foot go? Where should the hand be? How low should the stance be? Eventually our attention may begin turning inward toward what the movement actually feels like, where we are holding unnecessary tension, how our breathing changes and whether we can sense our balance shifting before we lose it. The exercise may look almost identical from the outside, yet the experience occurring within the practitioner may be considerably different.

This brings us to an observation from the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung. In a 1916 letter, Jung wrote, “Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside awakes.” The statement appeared within a longer discussion about the importance of turning attention inward and examining oneself (Jung, 1973). I think this provides an interesting bridge between Western psychology and some of the ideas we encounter within yin-yang philosophy.

Much of our younger life is understandably directed outward. We wonder what we can accomplish, what we can obtain, where we can go and what we can become. We are concerned with establishing ourselves within families, careers and communities. These are not foolish or superficial concerns. They are important parts of interacting with the world and developing ourselves within it.

Over time, however, another set of questions may become increasingly important. Why do I believe what I believe? Why do certain situations bother me? Why have I repeatedly made some of the same choices? What have my experiences actually taught me? What should I continue carrying with me, and what should I finally let go? These are quieter and more inward-looking questions. In that sense, looking outward might be considered relatively more yang, while looking inward and reflecting upon ourselves might be considered relatively more yin.

Neither direction is necessarily superior. Too much outward activity without reflection can leave us constantly busy without understanding why we are doing what we are doing. Too much inward reflection without action can leave us contemplating life without actually living it. There are times to act and times to wait, times to speak and times to listen, times to push ourselves and times to recover. There are times to experience the world around us and times to consider what those experiences have taught us.

Even within a single day, we continually move through these degrees. We awaken from the relatively yin state of sleep and become increasingly yang as we get out of bed and begin moving. We work, exercise, interact with people and engage the outside world. Eventually activity begins to decline. Evening arrives, the lights dim, conversations quiet down and the body prepares for sleep. Yang gradually decreases as yin increases. Then morning comes and the cycle begins again.

Perhaps this is one of the most practical lessons contained within yin-yang philosophy. Life is rarely absolute. We like categories because they make the world easier to understand: hot or cold, strong or weak, active or passive, young or old, healthy or unhealthy. But much of human experience exists somewhere between these extremes.

The five manifestations of yin and yang help us understand why. Opposites define one another. They depend upon one another. As one increases, the other relatively decreases. Under the appropriate circumstances, one can transform into the other. And within every distinction we make, further degrees of yin and yang can still be discovered.

As we move through life, our own relationship between these qualities changes as well. What served us at 25 may not serve us in exactly the same way at 65. That does not necessarily mean that something has been lost. It may simply mean that our position along the continuum has changed. The outward journey can gradually become accompanied by a deeper inward journey. Movement becomes increasingly balanced by stillness, speaking by listening, doing by reflecting and accumulating experiences by trying to understand what those experiences actually mean.

Perhaps wisdom itself involves becoming increasingly comfortable with these changing degrees. Yin and yang remind us that we do not always have to choose one side and reject the other. Instead, we can learn to recognize where we are at a particular moment, what the circumstances require and when the balance may naturally begin moving in another direction.

Just as daylight gradually becomes darkness, summer eventually gives way to winter, activity leads toward rest and rest eventually prepares us for activity again, our lives continue to move through different degrees of yin and yang.

The degrees are always changing, and so are we.

Reference

Jung, C. G. (1973). Letters of C. G. Jung: Volume 1, 1906–1950 (G. Adler & A. Jaffé, Eds.; R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press. (Original letter written October 22, 1916)

The Johari Window

What We Know About Ourselves, What Others Know About Us, and What We Have Yet to Discover

One of the more practical yet often overlooked psychological models for understanding ourselves and our relationships with others is known as the Johari Window. Developed in 1955 by psychologists Joseph Luft and Harrington Ingham, the model has remained relevant for more than seventy years because it addresses a timeless aspect of human nature: our inability to fully know ourselves. Whether we are teachers, parents, students, business leaders, healthcare providers, martial artists, or simply individuals striving for personal growth, we all possess strengths, weaknesses, biases, talents, and blind spots that influence how we think and behave.

The Johari Window reminds us that personal development is not merely about learning new information. It is equally about discovering aspects of ourselves that have always existed but remained hidden. Some are hidden intentionally. Others remain concealed simply because we have never looked deeply enough or because others have never shared their observations with us.

Throughout my years teaching wellness, martial arts, Tai Chi, Qigong, and holistic health, I have often found that people spend far more time trying to understand the world around them than understanding themselves. Yet genuine self-awareness may be one of the greatest skills we can cultivate. Before we attempt to improve our health, relationships, careers, or spiritual lives, we first need an honest picture of who we currently are.

Understanding the Four Quadrants

The Johari Window is divided into four sections, each representing different levels of awareness between ourselves and others.

1. The Open Area

The Open Area consists of characteristics known both to ourselves and to other people. These include our visible personality traits, habits, abilities, beliefs, communication style, and behaviors.

This is the portion of ourselves that requires the least explanation because it is openly expressed. Friends may recognize our sense of humor, coworkers may appreciate our reliability, students may value our patience, and family members may know our daily routines.

Ideally, this area grows over time as trust develops and communication becomes more honest. When people openly share their thoughts and receive constructive feedback, misunderstandings decrease and relationships strengthen (Luft & Ingham, 1955).

Unfortunately, many people never intentionally expand this area. Instead, they spend much of life protecting an image rather than revealing their authentic selves.

2. The Blind Spot

Perhaps the most fascinating portion of the Johari Window is the Blind Spot. These are characteristics that others clearly recognize in us but that we fail to see ourselves. Someone may consistently interrupt conversations without realizing it. Another person may project arrogance while believing they appear confident. A teacher may sincerely believe they communicate clearly while their students remain confused. A leader may think they encourage open discussion while unknowingly intimidating everyone around them.

Blind spots exist because human beings are naturally limited by their own perspectives. We experience life from inside our own minds, making it difficult to objectively observe our own behavior. This is why honest feedback is so valuable.

Unfortunately, many people never receive accurate feedback because those around them fear confrontation, wish to avoid conflict, or simply tell them what they want to hear. This phenomenon is related to concepts such as pluralistic ignorance, groupthink, conformity, and impression management (Janis, 1972; Solomon Asch, 1956).

Receiving thoughtful criticism can be uncomfortable, yet it often becomes one of the greatest catalysts for personal growth.

Throughout my own journey, I have had to acknowledge that some things I once confidently taught were later discovered to be incomplete or even inaccurate. While this realization was initially uncomfortable, accepting new evidence ultimately made me a better teacher. Blind spots do not disappear by ignoring them. They shrink only through humility, education, and honest reflection.

3. The Hidden Area

The Hidden Area contains information we know about ourselves but intentionally keep from others. These may include fears, insecurities, regrets, disappointments, painful experiences, private ambitions, or even personal successes that we choose not to disclose. There is nothing inherently wrong with privacy. Healthy boundaries are important. Not every thought or life experience needs to be shared. However, problems arise when fear prevents healthy disclosure.

Many individuals spend years wearing emotional masks, believing that revealing vulnerability will make them appear weak. Ironically, research consistently demonstrates that appropriate vulnerability often strengthens relationships by increasing trust and authenticity (Brown, 2012). As trust develops, portions of the Hidden Area gradually move into the Open Area.

4. The Unknown Area

The final quadrant represents aspects unknown both to ourselves and to everyone else.

These include untapped abilities, hidden talents, unconscious motivations, future potential, and reactions that have simply never been tested. A person may never realize they possess exceptional leadership abilities until placed in a crisis. Someone may discover artistic talent later in life after retirement. Others uncover remarkable resilience only after surviving illness, trauma, or adversity.

Modern psychology refers to many of these experiences as post-traumatic growth, where adversity becomes the catalyst for discovering strengths previously unknown (Tedeschi & Calhoun, 2004). The Unknown Area also reminds us to remain humble. No matter how much education, experience, or wisdom we accumulate, there will always be aspects of ourselves waiting to be discovered.

Expanding the Open Window

The overall goal of the Johari Window is to expand the Open Area while reducing the Hidden and Blind areas. This occurs through two complementary processes. The first is appropriate self-disclosure. By honestly sharing our thoughts, experiences, goals, and concerns with trusted individuals, we allow others to know the authentic person behind the public image.

The second is receiving constructive feedback. Listening carefully to others allows us to identify habits and behaviors that may otherwise remain invisible. Neither process is easy. Both require humility, courage, and emotional maturity. Yet these same qualities are fundamental to lifelong learning.

The Johari Window in Everyday Life

The Johari Window applies almost everywhere.

Parents benefit from understanding how their children perceive them. Teachers become more effective by inviting student feedback. Healthcare providers improve patient relationships through greater empathy and communication. Business leaders strengthen organizations by encouraging psychological safety and honest dialogue. Martial artists discover that technical skill alone is insufficient without self-awareness, emotional regulation, and humility.

Even our closest relationships benefit when assumptions give way to honest conversations. Often, conflicts persist not because people disagree but because neither side truly understands how they are being perceived.

Wisdom Requires Seeing Ourselves Clearly

Many philosophical traditions have emphasized self-knowledge for thousands of years. The ancient Greek maxim, “Know thyself,” remains as relevant today as ever. Eastern traditions likewise encourage continual observation of one’s thoughts, emotions, habits, and attachments through meditation and mindful awareness.

Modern neuroscience supports these ancient practices. Mindfulness has been shown to improve emotional regulation, self-awareness, and interpersonal functioning (Siegel, 2010). The Johari Window provides another practical framework for this same lifelong pursuit. Rather than asking only, “What do I know?” it encourages us to ask: “What don’t I yet know about myself?” That question alone can transform one’s personal growth.

The older I become, the less interested I am in appearing knowledgeable and the more interested I become in continuing to learn. Life has repeatedly shown me that confidence without humility often leads to blind spots, while curiosity keeps those blind spots shrinking.

The Johari Window reminds us that every one of us possesses areas of certainty, areas of privacy, areas of blindness, and areas of untapped potential. None of us has a complete picture of ourselves. That realization should not discourage us. Instead, it should inspire us.

If we remain teachable, invite honest feedback, examine ourselves objectively, and maintain the humility to change when presented with better evidence, our understanding of ourselves continues to grow. In doing so, we not only become better students of life but also better teachers, mentors, leaders, spouses, parents, friends, and human beings.

Perhaps true wisdom is not believing we finally know ourselves completely. Rather, it is recognizing that self-discovery is a lifelong process, one that continues for as long as we remain open to learning.

References

Asch, S. E. (1956). Studies of independence and conformity: I. A minority of one against a unanimous majority. Psychological Monographs, 70(9), 1-70. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0093718

Brown, B. (2012). Daring greatly: How the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent, and lead. Gotham Books.

Janis, I. L. (1972). Victims of groupthink. Houghton Mitllin Company. Retrieved from https://ia902805.us.archive.org/2/items/victimsofgroupthinkirvingl.janis/Victims%20of%20GROUPTHINK%20-%20Irving%20Janis.pdf

Luft, J., & Ingham, H. (1955). The Johari Window: A graphic model for interpersonal awareness. Proceedings of the Western Training Laboratory in Group Development, University of California, Los Angeles.

Siegel, D. J. (2010). Mindsight: The new science of personal transformation. Bantam Books.

Tedeschi, R. G., & Calhoun, L. G. (2004). Posttraumatic growth: Conceptual foundations and empirical evidence. Psychological Inquiry, 15(1), 1-18.

Learning to Think in Another Language: How Language Reshapes the Mind

Most people approach foreign language learning as the memorization of vocabulary, grammar rules, pronunciation, and sentence structure. While these components are essential, true fluency extends far beyond translation and communication. At deeper levels of mastery, language learning becomes a process of cognitive transformation. One no longer simply speaks another language but gradually begins to think within another cultural and psychological framework. This distinction is profound.

A beginner often thinks in their native language first and then mentally translates into the target language. An advanced speaker, however, begins bypassing translation altogether. Thoughts arise directly within the new language. Emotional associations, humor, social awareness, symbolism, and patterns of perception begin reorganizing themselves according to the structure of that language. In this sense, language learning becomes not merely educational, but neurological, psychological, and even philosophical.

Language as a Framework for Reality

Every language contains embedded assumptions about reality. Language does not simply describe the world; it helps organize how individuals perceive and interpret it. Different languages emphasize different aspects of human experience.

For example:

English often favors directness, categorization, and linear explanation.
Japanese commonly encodes hierarchy, respect, and social relationship directly into grammar.
German allows highly specific conceptual compounds.
Classical Chinese and Daoist language patterns often emphasize process, harmony, balance, and relational dynamics over rigid categorization.

As individuals become immersed in another language, these linguistic patterns begin influencing cognition itself.

This idea is associated with the linguistic relativity hypothesis proposed by Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf. Their work suggested that language can influence habitual patterns of thought and perception (Whorf, 1956). While modern scholars debate strong deterministic interpretations of this theory, research supports the idea that language can shape attention, memory, categorization, and emotional interpretation (Boroditsky, 2011).

In practical terms, individuals exposed to multiple languages often develop increased cognitive flexibility because they learn that reality can be organized through more than one symbolic framework.

Thinking About a Language vs. Thinking In a Language

There is a significant difference between knowing the mechanics of a language and internally operating within it.

A student may memorize thousands of words yet still mentally translate every sentence. This process creates cognitive friction and slows communication. Over time, however, the language can become embodied. The learner no longer consciously translates. Instead:

Internal dialogue begins occurring in the new language.
Emotional reactions become linked directly to foreign words and phrases.
Humor and metaphor become intuitive rather than analytical.
Dreams may occur in the target language.
Communication becomes spontaneous rather than calculated.

This process resembles many mind-body training systems found in martial arts, meditation, qigong, and tai chi. In the early stages of training, movement is intellectual and mechanical. Over time, however, movement becomes instinctive and integrated into the nervous system. The body no longer “thinks” step-by-step. Language acquisition follows a similar progression.

Repeated exposure gradually transforms conscious effort into unconscious competency.

Neuroplasticity and the Multilingual Brain

Modern neuroscience suggests that multilingualism physically alters the brain through neuroplastic adaptation. Research indicates that language learning may strengthen executive functioning, attentional control, working memory, and cognitive flexibility (Bialystok, Craik, & Luk, 2012).

Studies using brain imaging have demonstrated structural and functional changes in regions associated with language processing and attentional regulation among bilingual individuals (Li, Legault, & Litcofsky, 2014). These changes appear related to the ongoing management of multiple linguistic systems simultaneously.

From a holistic perspective, learning another language can be viewed as a form of cognitive cross-training. Just as physical exercise challenges the muscles and cardiovascular system, language learning challenges the brain’s adaptive capacities. The mind becomes more flexible, less rigid, and more capable of shifting perspectives.

This cognitive flexibility may extend beyond language itself into broader emotional and social functioning.

Emotional Meaning and Cultural Consciousness

Words rarely carry identical emotional weight across cultures. Every language contains unique concepts that reflect the values, worldview, and lived experiences of the people who developed it.

Certain ideas resist direct translation because they represent entire modes of consciousness rather than isolated definitions.

For example:

The Japanese concept of ma refers to meaningful space, interval, or emptiness.
The African philosophical concept of ubuntu emphasizes shared humanity and interconnectedness.
Daoist concepts such as Dao and wu wei describe natural harmony, effortless action, and alignment with the flow of existence.

These terms cannot be fully reduced to simple English equivalents because they carry layers of cultural, philosophical, and experiential meaning.

This is one reason many Eastern traditions preserve original terminology in martial arts, meditation, yoga, Traditional Chinese Medicine, and philosophy. Translation may communicate information, but often loses subtle experiential depth.

Language therefore becomes more than communication. It becomes participation in another mode of perception and awareness.

Language and Identity

Many multilingual individuals report feeling psychologically different depending upon the language they are speaking. Some describe becoming:

More formal.
More emotionally expressive.
More analytical.
More humorous.
More reserved or socially aware.

These shifts may occur because language activates associated cultural conditioning, emotional memories, behavioral expectations, and social frameworks.

In this sense, language acts almost like a psychological operating system. Different languages encourage different modes of self-expression and social interaction.

From both psychological and Eastern philosophical perspectives, repeated mental and verbal patterns gradually shape consciousness itself. Daoist and Buddhist traditions have long emphasized that repeated thought and speech influence perception, intention, and identity. Modern neuroscience similarly recognizes that repeated neural activity reinforces cognitive and behavioral pathways through neuroplasticity.

Thus, learning another language may partially reshape how an individual experiences reality.

The Deeper Value of Language Learning

The greatest value of language learning may not be practical communication alone. Its deeper benefit may be the expansion of consciousness itself.

Learning another language can cultivate:

Greater empathy.
Increased cultural humility.
Enhanced adaptability.
Broader cognitive flexibility.
Reduced egocentric thinking.
Greater awareness of multiple perspectives.

A person who truly learns another language often discovers that their native way of thinking is not the only possible interpretation of reality.

This realization can be transformative.

In many ways, learning another language is not simply the acquisition of new words, but the temporary experience of becoming another version of oneself. It reveals that human perception is not fixed, but shaped continuously through language, culture, attention, and experience.

From a holistic perspective, language learning becomes a form of self-cultivation, one that expands not only communication, but awareness itself.

References

Bialystok, E., Craik, F. I. M., & Luk, G. (2012). Bilingualism: Consequences for mind and brain. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 16(4), 240–250. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tics.2012.03.001

Boroditsky, L. (2011). How language shapes thought. Scientific American, 304(2), 62–65. https://doi.org/10.1038/scientificamerican0211-62

Li, P., Legault, J., & Litcofsky, K. A. (2014). Neuroplasticity as a function of second language learning: Anatomical changes in the human brain. Cortex, 58, 301–324. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cortex.2014.05.001

Whorf, B. L. (1956). Language, thought, and reality: Selected writings of Benjamin Lee Whorf. MIT Press. Language, Thought, and Reality: https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhbx2