Meditation and Animal Consciousness

I’ve been meditating more regularly for the last couple of months—about 20 minutes once or twice a day. I’m still very much a novice but the experience is vivid and calming. I’ve been thinking about how it may be showing me a piece of the history of my consciousness.

I’m gradually finding it easier to stay tuned to my breathing and lengthen the quiet spaces between the word streams that seep through my head. I think those quiet moments take me briefly to a state that has elements in common with the consciousness of animals. Of course we can’t know much about what goes through the heads of a crocodile or a horse or what nuances of emotions they may feel. But we can be fairly sure that animals experience their sensory world without the complications and distractions of language and the social web that language is anchored in. I think meditation has about it a kind of withdrawal from mental complexity that takes us back to a small portion of the calm and direct sensory life of animal consciousness.

But in my meditative 20 minutes, this peaceful withdrawal doesn’t last long and soon the words come banging at the door again. No matter how earnestly but gently I try to float them away, they return like a too-friendly dog that refuses to be pushed off. This fervent activity is what our brains are good at. Even when they are idling with no particular task at hand, they crank away, replaying bits of yesterday, rehearsing bits of tomorrow. That’s how our minds protect us, that’s why they evolved: to anticipate the future on the basis of the past.

I have the image of two lines running through me, two orientations in time and place. One runs through me from back to front, from past to future. This is the calculating cognition of language and our intense social lives; we are almost always, in our heads, thinking about and talking to people. The other line runs through me sideways, in the here and now, the wordless, calm mindfulness of meditation (or any other concentrated task such as playing music).

With more practice, I find this orientation growing a little more available even when I am not meditating. I can take a minute to focus on myself, relax my body, turn down the volume in my head. I think of this orientation as an outrigger, extending sideways to the immediate world, stabilizing me, with little fuss about where I’m heading—a small bit of the peaceful confidence of animals.


The Purpose Problem

Years ago I heard about a book on the purpose-driven life. I rushed to a bookstore (ah, bookstores), only to find that it was mostly about God. But I realized then that I had uncertainties that had snuck up on me about my life’s purpose . Now, years later, I’m thinking that life is indeed purpose-driven but not at all in Rick Warren’s terms.

But let me back up and summarize some basic ideas about purpose.

A traditional view has been that things happen in order to achieve a final goal, a goal often involving God. Today we often think about goals on the more modest scale of strategic plans and personal targets. And yet the idea that everything is part of a grand plan remains very comforting. People seem calmer about bad news after saying that “everything happens for a reason.”

Over the last century, this traditional view has been largely dismantled. Things in nature and life happen for reasons—physical, social, psychological—that are rooted in the past and present more than in the future. A woman who is looking for a job might say that her purpose for doing so is to earn money so her young children will be able to go to college some day. The traditional analysis of her actions would be that she is “pulled along” through her job search by the final goal of college for her kids. But her friends today might tell you that while that distant goal may boost her spirits from time to time, her actions are more the result of her history, her personality, and her current debts.

god and purpose statement

People take comfort from viewing the world, including themselves, as full of purpose. (

Now the pendulum is swinging again and a different perspective about purpose is getting attention. This is the observation that certain ordinary actions are indeed clearly purposeful. If you’re getting hungry and planning your dinner, your planning is purposeful. Maybe you need to drive to Subway to buy that sandwich; the drive is purposeful. Once you’ve eaten the sandwich, your digestive system will take up its own purposeful process. It turns out that most of what you and your body parts do—your stomach, your heart, your sleeping, your socializing—is purposeful in that it accomplishes some basic biological function or meets a biological need.

In other words, human organs and behaviors did not come into existence for a purpose but came into existence because they served a purpose. There is very little in us that is not purposeful in terms of functioning to keep us alive. 

Evolution of the heart

The heart evolved not for a purpose but because it served a purpose. (

So back to the big question about the purpose-driven life. Are the purpose-serving activities of the organs that keep us alive related to that Purpose with a capital P that we look for in our  life as a whole? Do these biological functions and behaviors with their specific purposes make up part of  what we can think of as “the purpose of life”?

I think so. I think it would be surprising if they didn’t. We may each frame our Purpose in a different future-oriented way—to live happily, to be creative, to find peace, to achieve success. But each vision of a direction seems to me to be the work of our brain as it extends and embellishes the biological functionality that keeps us alive. We are indeed purpose-driven.



Note: A useful source has been a paper by Nathan Bourne, “Teleology as Evolutionary Etiology: An analysis of teleological explanations of biological phenomena,” at Bourne draws on the work of Larry Wright, especially his book Teleological Explanations: An Etiological Analysis of Goals and Functions, UCal Press, 1976.

The Homely Truth About the Shortest Day

We passed the shortest day of the year last week. It’s the annual drama of encroaching darkness turning to growing light, the grand rebirth, the celestial, uplifting reminder that in any sphere of life, the gloom gives way to brightness.

I’ve always imagined the event as accompanied by an elegant symmetry. I thought that the darkness closed in evenly from both sides, that the sun rose a little later each morning and set a little earlier until the shortest day on December 21st, when the process neatly reversed at both ends of the day. The sequence, I thought, between early December and early January had the shape of a tall hourglass. The left “sunrise” side sloped in to the right during most of December and the right “sunset” side sloped left, each changing by a minute or two each day. On December 21st, they met at the narrow waist and reversed direction.

Well, it doesn’t work that way. Changes in sunrise and sunset times aren’t in synch. The sun doesn’t neatly rise later each morning until the 21st and then reverse course. It keeps rising later and later well beyond the 21st, past Christmas and into the first week of January. Imagine the left side of the hourglass sloping down and right until it’s well below the waist.

The timing of sunsets changes in the opposite way. Sunsets change direction, from happening earlier to happening later, about a week before the shortest day. Imagine the right side of the hour glass sloping inward not all the way down to the waist but only part way. Such an hourglass would have a weird, uneven tube descending from the upper left to lower right. It isn’t until early January that both sides would be moving apart from each other again.

The shortest day is the shortest only because the speed of the changes in the times of rising and setting vary from day to day. In early December, the sun rises later by a sizable couple of minutes every day, while sunset drags on at almost the same time, so the length of daylight shrinks until the 21st. After that, the changes in sunrise slow way down while it is sunset’s turn to pick up the pace, getting rapidly later (by about 7 minutes between the 21st and New Year’s Eve in New York) and lengthening the day.

So the shortest day grows out of a ragged process, not the aligned and symmetrical one we thought we were seeing. The universe spins in ways that we don’t or can’t grasp in detail, but we pull the meanings that we need from our approximations anyway.