In the previous article, we began with a simple idea: perhaps real spiritual growth requires more than believing the right things or even sincerely wanting to become a better person. Perhaps we also have to learn to see ourselves as we actually are. That sounds simple enough, but if we begin practicing self-observation—even for a short time—we may discover something rather unsettling. The person we call “I” does not seem nearly as consistent as we imagine.
One morning I may wake feeling patient, peaceful, and grateful. An hour later someone says the wrong thing, and suddenly I am irritated. A little later I may feel generous and compassionate. Then someone challenges an opinion I hold strongly, and another part of me appears that wants to defend itself, prove a point, or win the argument. Each time, I say “I.” I am thankful. I am angry. I think this. I don’t care. I am going to change. I will never do that again. Yet the “I” making one statement may not be the same “I” that takes control a few hours later. That observation lies near the heart of what has sometimes been called the teaching of the many I’s.
Are There Really Many of Us?
This does not mean that we literally contain separate people, nor does it mean that something is psychologically wrong with us. It is simply a way of describing something we can observe for ourselves. Different impulses, desires, fears, emotions, habits, and opinions move through us continually, and for a time each one can speak as though it represents our entire being.
Consider something very ordinary. At night I may sincerely decide, “Tomorrow morning I am going to get up early and exercise.” The person saying that may mean every word. Morning arrives, the alarm goes off, and another voice says, “You didn’t sleep that well. Missing one day won’t matter.” Ten minutes later, I am still in bed. Which one was me? The one who sincerely intended to exercise, or the one who sincerely wanted another half hour of sleep? We normally resolve this by simply saying, “I changed my mind.” Sometimes we did. But sometimes it may be more revealing to ask whether a different part of us temporarily took control.
The same thing happens in much more important areas of life. We may sincerely decide to be patient with someone, only to become impatient when that person annoys us again. We may determine that we are finished carrying an old resentment, yet find ourselves replaying the offense the next time the person’s name is mentioned. We may tell ourselves that possessions are not terribly important, then become surprisingly upset when something we value is damaged. We may believe deeply in kindness and compassion, yet become harsh toward someone whose political, religious, or social opinions offend us. None of this necessarily means we are hypocrites. It may simply mean that we have never really noticed how many different forces compete for the throne within us.
Who Is Sitting on the Throne?
This is where our earlier image of the king begins to become useful. There may be many legitimate “kings” within us. The intellect has its place. Emotion has its place. Instinct has its place. Our physical drives, ambitions, fears, memories, caution, imagination, and desire for approval may all serve useful purposes. The problem begins when one of them takes authority that does not belong to it.
Fear may be useful when danger is real, but fear makes a terrible ruler. Anger can alert us that something is wrong, but anger makes a dangerous king. Intellect is a wonderful servant when something needs to be understood, but intellect can also sit on the throne and convince us that because we can explain something, we have actually become it. Even our spiritual identity can become a king. “I understand things other people don’t.” “I am more awake.” “I know the truth.” “I would never behave the way that person does.” The costume may be spiritual, but the throne is still occupied.
This gives us a remarkably practical question to begin carrying into daily life: Which “I” is present right now—and is it the one I meant to be? Or, using the language of our larger journey: Which king is ruling right now—and is that the king I truly want to serve?
Catching the Change
We do not have to accept any particular teaching about the “many I’s” to investigate this. We can simply watch. Suppose someone says something critical about us. There may be a brief instant when the words are simply heard. Then something happens. Perhaps there is a tightening in the stomach. A little heat rises. Thoughts begin forming almost instantly: “Who does he think he is?” “She doesn’t know the whole story.” “I need to straighten this out.” Before long, an entire inner courtroom has assembled. Prosecutor, defense attorney, witnesses, judge, and jury are all present—and remarkably, they all seem to agree with us.
If we remain identified with this process, we simply call the whole thing me. But self-observation introduces another possibility. I can notice the tightening. I can notice the defensive thought. I can notice the desire to respond. Perhaps, for just a moment, I don’t have to become any of them. Something can be happening within me without that something being the whole of me. That small distinction may be one of the most important discoveries we can make.
There is a subtle difference between saying “I am angry” and noticing “Anger is present in me right now.” The first statement tends to join our identity to the emotion. The second creates a little space around it. We aren’t suppressing the anger. We aren’t pretending it doesn’t exist. We aren’t condemning ourselves for having it. We are simply seeing it. The same can be done with fear: “Fear is present.” Or jealousy: “Jealousy has appeared.” Or the need to be right: “There is the part of me that wants to win.” Or self-pity: “There is the part that wants someone to recognize how badly I have been treated.”
We don’t have to fight these parts. In fact, fighting them can simply create another “I”—the part of us that becomes proud of fighting the other parts. Observation is quieter than that. We see. We acknowledge. We wait. And something very interesting begins to happen.
Then Who Is Doing the Watching?
This brings us back to the question from the previous article: If I can observe my thoughts, emotions, impulses, and reactions, who is the “I” doing the observing? I don’t think we should answer that question too quickly. The temptation is to turn it into another belief. We could call the observer consciousness. We could call it spirit. We could call it the true self, the deeper self, or eventually perhaps the Real I. But giving something a name is not the same as experiencing it.
For now, it may be enough to notice that there appears to be something within us capable of observing the parade without automatically joining it. That possibility has enormous spiritual implications. When Jesus repeatedly called people to watch, to wake up, and to develop eyes that see and ears that hear, perhaps these teachings reach further inward than we sometimes realize. We usually think of awakening as recognizing truth outside ourselves. But what if awakening also involves recognizing what is happening inside ourselves?
The old person and the new person spoken of in Scripture may not simply describe someone before and after accepting a set of beliefs. They may point toward an actual transformation in the center from which we live. The old pattern reacts. Something deeper can observe. And observation creates the possibility of choice.
The Space Between Impression and Reaction
Most of our day begins with impressions. Someone looks at us strangely. A news story appears on the screen. A bill arrives. Someone praises us. Someone ignores us. Our spouse uses a certain tone of voice. A memory appears. An ache develops somewhere in the body. Each impression enters us, and almost immediately something responds. The response may be so fast that we experience the two as one event. Someone insults me—I become angry. Someone compliments me—I feel important. Someone disagrees with me—I defend myself.
But what if there is a tiny space between the impression and the reaction? And what if self-observation gradually allows us to become conscious within that space? That does not mean we become emotionless. Quite the opposite. We may begin to experience emotion more clearly because we are no longer being completely swept away by it. We can receive the impression first, then see what arises, and then choose whether the reaction deserves expression. This may be one small beginning of freedom.
This is also why the goal is not to eliminate emotion, intellect, instinct, personality, ambition, caution, or even the parts of ourselves that sometimes cause problems. Each has its place. Intellect should think. Emotion should feel. Instinct should protect. The moving part of us should act. Caution can protect us from foolish choices. Ambition can motivate us to accomplish something worthwhile. Even anger may sometimes provide energy to confront injustice. The trouble comes when a part assumes that because it has something important to contribute, it should therefore rule the entire kingdom.
Each king has its place, but is subordinate to the King we put into office.
And that brings the dream phrase that began this entire project into a slightly sharper focus: Get the King Out of the Garden. Perhaps the question was never simply, “How do I get rid of the ego?” Maybe it is more subtle. Which king needs to get out of the Garden? The answer may change from moment to moment. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes pride. Sometimes resentment. Sometimes our need to be liked. Sometimes our need to be right. Sometimes even the image we have constructed of ourselves as a good, spiritual, enlightened, or knowledgeable person. Any of these can walk into the Garden and sit on the throne. The work is not necessarily to destroy them. It is to recognize them before they convince us that they are the King.
A Simple Experiment
During the next few days, try something very simple. Don’t attempt to change anything. Just notice the different “I’s” as they appear. When irritation arises, notice it. When you suddenly want someone’s approval, notice that. When you feel the urge to correct someone, notice it. When you make a promise to yourself and another part later tries to renegotiate it, notice both. When you are generous, notice that too. When compassion arises naturally, notice it.
This isn’t a hunt for everything wrong with us. That would quickly become another form of judgment. We are simply becoming acquainted with the inhabitants of our own inner world. You may even begin recognizing some regular visitors: the worrier, the critic, the rescuer, the judge, the one who wants recognition, the one who avoids conflict, the one who enjoys being needed, or the one who wants to prove something. And perhaps occasionally something much quieter appears—something that does not seem to need to defend itself at all. Don’t hurry to name that either. Just notice.
The Beginning of Self-Knowledge
For most of our lives, we naturally assume that because a thought occurs in our mind, I thought it; because an emotion appears, I feel it; and because an impulse arises, I want it. Self-observation begins loosening that assumption. Not every thought deserves our agreement. Not every emotion deserves expression. Not every impulse deserves action. Not every inner voice deserves the throne.
Perhaps that is part of what spiritual maturity actually looks like. The Fruit of the Spirit may not develop because we force ourselves to act loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled. Those qualities may increasingly appear as the inner kingdom comes into better order. The lesser kings return to their proper places. The throne is no longer seized by every passing reaction. Somewhere within that process, we may begin to discover the person beneath all the changing personalities we have accumulated—not a person we manufacture, but a person we uncover.
Perhaps we may even begin to encounter something of the original essence with which we entered this life, now matured through everything we have experienced. The journey inward, then, is not about becoming someone artificial. It may be about finally discovering who has been hidden beneath all the voices saying “I.”
That leaves us with two questions worth carrying for a while: Which “I” is present right now—and is it the one I meant to be? And beneath that question lies an even deeper one: If I can see all these different parts of myself coming and going—who is it that sees them?
We will continue there.
Coming Next
In the next article, we will look more closely at identification—what happens when a thought, emotion, role, opinion, fear, or desire does more than appear within us and instead becomes, for the moment, who we believe ourselves to be. That may help explain why simply knowing better so often fails to produce lasting change—and why the ability to observe ourselves without immediately becoming what we observe may be one of the first real steps toward inner freedom.
If this series speaks to something you have been sensing in your own life, feel free to share it with someone who may be asking similar questions. We are not trying to establish another system of beliefs. We are exploring together, testing these ideas in our own experience, and seeing where the search for truth leads.