Part of the series Get the King Out of the Garden: A Practical Journey into Self-Observation
New to the series? [Start at Chapter 1 →
In the previous chapters, we have looked at the strange realization that what we normally call “I” may not be nearly as unified as we assume. One part of us wants to get up early and exercise, while another wants to stay in bed. One part decides to eat better, while another reaches for something it had promised not to eat. One part wants peace, while another is already preparing the argument it intends to have tomorrow. The Fourth Way asks us not to condemn these different parts of ourselves, but simply to begin noticing them.
Once we begin doing that, however, an even more interesting question appears: Who is doing the noticing?
If I can observe anger arising within me, am I the anger? If I can notice fear moving through me, am I the fear? If I can hear an argument taking place inside my own mind, with one part saying one thing and another answering back, am I either voice? Or is there something else present—something capable of watching them both?
The One Who Notices
Imagine that someone says something that irritates you. Almost instantly a response begins forming. Perhaps your body tightens. Maybe you feel something in your stomach or chest. Words begin assembling themselves in your mind. Normally we simply become the reaction. There is little separation between what is happening inside us and the person we believe ourselves to be. We don’t think, “Anger has appeared.” We think, “I am angry.” We don’t notice the defensive response forming. We simply begin defending ourselves.
But suppose something different happens. For just a moment, you notice it. Instead of immediately becoming the anger, you recognize, There is anger occurring within me.
That tiny change may seem insignificant, but I think it is enormous. The anger hasn’t disappeared. We haven’t suppressed it or pretended it isn’t there. We have simply become aware of it. In that instant there are now two things present: the reaction and the awareness of the reaction.
This is where the Fourth Way becomes much more than an interesting philosophy. It becomes something we can actually practice in ordinary life.
Which Part of Me Is Answering?
One question I have found particularly useful is, Which part of me is answering? Someone challenges us, criticizes us, disappoints us, or simply interferes with what we had planned. Immediately one of our inner characters steps forward. Perhaps it is the defender. Perhaps it is the wounded child. Perhaps it is the person who always needs to be right. Perhaps it is the frightened part that expects rejection, or the impatient part that simply wants the problem to go away.
These parts aren’t necessarily bad. Many developed for good reasons. Some may have protected us during difficult periods of our lives. Others learned ways of functioning that once served us well. The problem comes when one of them grabs the steering wheel without our even realizing it.
That is why another question becomes important: Can I see that part without becoming it?
There is a significant difference between saying, “I am angry,” and recognizing, “A part of me is angry.” In the first case, anger has become my entire identity for that moment. In the second, I have created just enough distance to observe it. I haven’t rejected the anger. I haven’t declared it wrong. I have simply stopped allowing it to define the whole of me.
The Space Between Impression and Response
Something interesting begins happening when we practice this kind of observation. A space appears. At first it may last only a second. Something happens, the reaction begins, and then we notice it. Within that tiny space lies the possibility of choice.
Perhaps we still say exactly what we were going to say. Perhaps we still become irritated. Perhaps the mechanical reaction wins the day. That doesn’t mean the practice has failed. The purpose isn’t perfection. The purpose is seeing.
Over time, however, that tiny space can become larger. Instead of immediately reacting, we may find ourselves able to receive the impression first. Something comes toward us from the outside world—a criticism, an inconvenience, an insult, a disappointment—and rather than instantly sending a reaction back, we allow ourselves to experience what is happening within us.
We notice the tightening in the stomach. We hear the words forming in the mind. We recognize the familiar emotional pattern. And instead of automatically obeying it, we wait.
Then we decide whether anything actually needs to be done.
Sometimes the conscious response may be to speak. Sometimes it may be to ask a question. Sometimes it may be to walk away. And sometimes the most conscious response may be no response at all. The important difference is that the response comes after awareness rather than before it.
The Observer Can Become Another King
There is a trap here worth recognizing. We can easily turn the observer itself into another character. We might begin thinking, “I am the enlightened one who watches all these foolish parts of myself.” If that happens, we haven’t escaped the problem at all. We have simply crowned another king.
True observation seems much quieter than that. It doesn’t brag. It doesn’t condemn. It doesn’t congratulate itself for being spiritual. It simply sees.
There is actually a kind of humility that develops through genuine self-observation, because the more honestly we watch ourselves, the more clearly we discover how mechanical we can be. We begin noticing reactions that have probably repeated themselves hundreds or even thousands of times. We see the same defenses, the same fears, the same arguments, and the same emotional patterns appearing again and again.
Strangely enough, that realization doesn’t have to be discouraging. It can be liberating, because what we can see clearly no longer has quite the same power to control us unconsciously.
What Is on the Throne?
This brings us back to the central image behind this entire series: Get the King Out of the Garden. The garden represents this inner field of consciousness where thoughts, emotions, memories, desires, fears, habits, and impressions constantly arise. And there are plenty of candidates for king.
Fear wants the throne. Pride wants the throne. Anger wants the throne. The wounded child occasionally wants the throne. The need to be admired wants the throne. Even our religious beliefs can climb onto the throne if we become more concerned with defending what we believe than discovering what is true.
But perhaps the goal isn’t merely to remove a false king. Perhaps we also need to discover what belongs there.
For me, the higher King points toward that deepest God-oriented center within us—the place that seeks truth, conscience, love, humility, awareness, and genuine understanding. It isn’t meant to replace Christ or remove Him from His throne. Quite the opposite. It reminds me of Jesus’ instruction to seek first the Kingdom of God. Perhaps part of seeking that Kingdom involves learning to recognize what has been ruling us instead.
That is why self-observation isn’t merely psychological housekeeping. It can become spiritual work. Each time we notice what is attempting to take the throne, we have an opportunity to ask whether that part should actually be ruling the garden.
Who Is Watching?
Eventually the question becomes deeper than a Fourth Way exercise. If I can observe my thoughts, perhaps I am more than my thoughts. If I can observe my emotions, perhaps I am more than my emotions. If I can observe my body growing older, perhaps I am more than the changing condition of my body.
I can remember the frightened child I once was, the teenager I once was, the young man I once was, and all the other versions of myself that have appeared throughout this lifetime. My body has changed enormously. My circumstances have changed. My beliefs have changed. My understanding has changed. Some things I once considered absolutely certain I no longer believe at all.
Yet through all those changes, something remarkable seems to remain.
There has been a continuity of awareness.
There has always been this mysterious experience of simply being me—the one looking out through these eyes.
That raises questions the Fourth Way itself may not completely answer. What exactly is this awareness? Where does it come from? Is consciousness produced entirely by the physical brain, or does it run deeper? And if nearly everything I normally identify as “myself” can be observed, then who is the observer?
I don’t pretend to have a final answer. In fact, I increasingly wonder whether rushing to an answer sometimes prevents us from experiencing the question.
Practicing the Question
During the next few days, when a strong reaction appears, don’t immediately try to change it. Just notice it. Feel where it appears in the body. Listen to the thoughts accompanying it. Notice how quickly one particular part of you wants to take control of the situation.
Then quietly ask, Which part of me is answering?
After that, ask, Can I see this part without becoming it?
And finally, ask the question at the heart of this chapter:
Who is watching?
Don’t struggle to produce an intellectual answer. Remain with the question for a moment. Perhaps the answer isn’t something we think our way into. Perhaps it is something we gradually learn to experience.
And perhaps that quiet awareness—the part that can see the activity in the garden without immediately being swept away by it—is the beginning of discovering that we are considerably more than the collection of thoughts, emotions, habits, fears, and reactions we have spent a lifetime calling “me.”
Coming Next — Chapter 12: Remembering Yourself
Seeing ourselves is the beginning, but the Fourth Way speaks of something deeper called self-remembering. It is possible to be awake physically, functioning normally, talking, working, driving, even praying—and yet in another sense be asleep.
In the next chapter, we will explore what Gurdjieff meant by remembering ourselves, why it is different from merely thinking about ourselves, and how something as ordinary as washing dishes, walking across the yard, or having a conversation can become an exercise in awakening.