The nineteenth-century poet Emily Dickinson illustrates well the characteristics of operating in Perceiver Mode—the mode of thinking and behaving in which people deeply engage in observing and analyzing their surroundings and circumstances (using the bottom-brain system) but tend not to implement complex or detailed plans (using the top-brain system).
Born into a well-to-do family in Amherst, Massachusetts, Dickinson was a conscientious student who had talent in music and art. She received a classical education and was exposed to the works of poets Wordsworth, Longfellow, Emerson, and Thoreau. Sickness periodically interrupted Dickinson’s studies. After a few months in college, she retreated to the family home. She had no career ambitions and essentially lived day to day, occasionally entertaining friends but mostly reading and writing poems that she made little effort to have published. As the years passed, Dickinson became increasingly reclusive, although she did correspond with a number of people. Her life unfolded with little outward drama—but with a surplus of time, a gift for those who are prone to reflection.
According to the Theory of Cognitive Modes, people who habitually rely on Perceiver Mode are most comfortable when they are in positions that require them to be sensitive observers, advisers, or evaluators, and thus it was with Dickinson. She appears as if she did not utilize the top-brain system as much as she could have for devising complex and detailed plans (although she did use it, clearly, for formulating poetic narratives to describe and explain what she encountered). And when she did rely on the top-brain system for planning, such as when the day-to-day care of her chronically sick mother fell to her, she did not formulate elaborate multistep plans and did not adjust her plans based on her observations. She apparently got up every day and did what she felt required to do. Except for those duties, her time was her own.
Dickinson was a devoted gardener, and she treasured her hours with her flowers, bees, and butterflies, from which she drew insights that informed her poetry. Solitude suited her writing, but she was never a true hermit. Even at the point in her life when she rarely welcomed visitors, she kept contact with the outside world—and sought the counsel of certain trusted friends, notably writer Sarah Huntington Gilbert, who married her brother. Dickinson and Gilbert maintained a long correspondence, and Gilbert wrote the poet’s obituary in 1886.
Perhaps not surprisingly, given her voracious reading, Dickinson wrote poems about the brain, which had become of great interest to nineteenth-century Americans, in part because of the publicity surrounding Phineas Gage and the great popularity of phrenology. In poem number 632 (Dickinson did not title her works), she writes lyrically of its power:
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—
But science was not Dickinson’s abiding passion; she found her greatest themes in observing nature, in the changes of season and day, in the cycles of life and death. This, too, would characterize someone for whom Perceiver Mode was the dominant way of thinking and behaving. Of the hundreds of Dickinson’s poems about the natural world, we find that this one nicely captures both Dickinson’s talent and the wisdom—presumably gleaned through her utilization of the bottom-brain system:
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Seas—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is—
To her Simplicity.
The Theory of Cognitive Modes leads us to expect that people whose dominant cognitive mode is Perceiver Mode often lead quiet lives, like Dickinson. Although they do use the top-brain system to organize information from the bottom-brain system into a coherent narrative and (at least to an extent) to plan and move ahead in life, they tend not to make or adjust complicated or detailed plans. However, because they use the bottom-brain system effectively, they tend to make sense of what they experience and they try to respond wisely. With experience, such people can become paragons of wisdom.
If the theory is correct, then people who habitually think and behave in Perceiver Mode will not ordinarily seek publicity. Still, some have achieved prominence without aggressively seeking it. History has shown that spiritual and religious figures who have helped make sense of human existence can attract large followings. Although they do not engage in self-serving campaigns, their ideas compel others.
In our own time, the Dalai Lama fits that description. Like Dickinson, he illustrates someone whose dominant mode of thinking appears to owe much to external factors (nurture, as opposed to nature): At the age of two, this son of a simple Tibetan farming family was decreed to be the reincarnation of Thubten Gyatso, the 13th Dalai Lama. Renamed Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama was sent at age six to a Buddhist monastery. “The major subjects were logic, Tibetan art and culture, Sanskrit, medicine and Buddhist philosophy,” he later wrote; poetry, music, and drama were among the minor subjects that rounded out his education. At the age of twenty-three, he sat for his final examination, passing with honors and receiving the equivalent of a doctoral degree in Buddhist philosophy. This achievement may have demonstrated a capacity to operate in Mover Mode, if he had to make complex and detailed plans to succeed in this particular context.
Although he describes himself as “a simple Buddhist monk,” his teachings, hardly simple, transcend Buddhism. The Dalai Lama has never sought to “succeed” (in the way that someone who habitually operates in Mover Mode, such as Mayor Bloomberg, has worked to succeed), nor has he sought to change the world or even individual minds by devising plans that lead to specific actions. Rather, the Dalai Lama’s thinking and behavior serve well to illustrate the results of typically relying on the bottom-brain system and allowing the bottom-brain system to drive top-brain processing (to formulate narratives). The Dalai Lama appears to try to make sense of what he has experienced, observed, read, and studied.
Our purpose is not to explore the Dalai Lama’s teachings but only to note the depth of wisdom that is possible when a person habitually engages in Perceiver Mode, striving to find meaning over the course of a lifetime.
One could argue that a person who habitually thinks in Perceiver Mode is better suited to bringing a deeper perspective to human existence than is usually offered by someone who generally thinks in one of the other three modes. “It is possible to divide every kind of happiness and suffering into two main categories: mental and physical,” the Dalai Lama writes in Compassion and the Individual.
Of the two, it is the mind that exerts the greatest influence on most of us. Unless we are either gravely ill or deprived of basic necessities, our physical condition plays a secondary role in life. If the body is content, we virtually ignore it. The mind, however, registers every event, no matter how small. Hence we should devote our most serious efforts to bringing about mental peace.
From my own limited experience, I have found that the greatest degree of inner tranquility comes from the development of love and compassion. The more we care for the happiness of others, the greater our own sense of well-being becomes.
According to the theory, everyday people who habitually rely on Perceiver Mode can contribute this sort of perspective to their families, their social relationships, and their workplaces. They needn’t be the Dalai Lama.
Perceiver Mode thinking typically does not lead to bold or dramatic strokes—or compel people who rely on it to seek credit for their accomplishments. According to our theory, people who habitually rely on this mode of thinking should generally occupy quiet corners of the world. Dickinson’s genius was not recognized while she was alive. But some people who appear to engage in this mode do come to the attention of a wider audience. Along with the Dalai Lama, famed photographer Annie Leibovitz fits the bill. So do certain eminent novelists: Philip Roth, Toni Morrison, and Alice Walker among them.
Most of us don’t live in the world of writers and spiritual leaders. Meet Hannah, a character we’ve created: a woman in her fifties who habitually thinks and acts in Perceiver Mode.
Hannah is the youngest of the six children of an artist mother and a father who was the chief policy analyst for the education department of a large state. As the youngest in her large family, Hannah learned early to observe carefully what was going on around her and act only when she felt that she had understood the situation. With parents who treasured books, she seemed naturally to gravitate to reading. A quiet and well-behaved student, she received mostly Bs and was satisfied with them, although she realized that she probably could have done better. In high school, Hannah found refuge in the library from the chaos of teenage life, so when she graduated, it was only natural that she would become a librarian. She worked as a reference librarian, fell in love with a good man, and had two children, both now in college.
Having raised her children, Hannah returned to full-time work. She has weekend duty on this particular Saturday, but the library doesn’t open until noon; this leaves her plenty of time for grocery shopping. Husband Rick, an environmental lawyer, sometimes suggests that she shop online—home delivery would save time—but Hannah prefers a physical store, which allows her to stroll the aisles, contemplating new possibilities as she checks off the items on her list. Rick is golfing today and, after a leisurely breakfast, they both head their separate ways. They have discussed attending a play this evening (Rick received complimentary tickets) and the discussion will resume when they reunite, in the late afternoon.
Sure enough, Hannah makes a discovery at the grocery store: live lobsters, which the store rarely carries. After talking to the seafood manager about the best way to cook them, she buys two. Perhaps she and Rick will eat them tonight, and if not, on Sunday. Hannah completes her shopping and has moved through the checkout line when she discovers that she’s missing her wallet. She puts her cart off to the side and walks to her car—but doesn’t find her wallet. She vaguely remembers seeing it on the table in her bedroom and suspects that it’s still there. As luck would have it, Hannah knows the manager of the store, and when she returns from her car, she asks to see her. The manager understands the situation, and she grants Hannah’s request for very short-term credit. Hannah takes the groceries home, gets her wallet, returns to the store, and pays.
Hannah leaves the store to head to work, but she runs into a construction site. The street is temporarily closed while heavy equipment is demolishing a building, and cars behind her have effectively trapped her. She considers how she got into this situation and tries to understand exactly what it might mean—a temporary delay, a longer closing, a mess awaiting the intervention of police. However, she is not used to relying very much on her top-brain system to solve this sort of problem, and she does not devise strategies for breaking free, such as asking the person behind her to pull off to the side or trying to organize the cars behind her to back up. Hannah realizes that her problem could inconvenience patrons who want to get into the library, by forcing them to wait for her, and she hopes that she can get to work soon—but she waits patiently for the street to clear up. Her bottom-brain system has led her to realize that she is stuck, and her top-brain system is not prone to devising complicated plans for unraveling Gordian knots. She accepts her situation.
Hannah makes it to work on time, barely. As the library prepares to open, the director finds her at the reference desk. The director is singing a familiar tale of woe—the latest budget cuts have forced him to pink-slip the assistant whose duties included keeping the library blog. Everyone is picking up the slack, the director says, and he’s assigned the blog to Hannah. Hannah listens carefully, nodding her head in understanding. No question, the blog is an important communication tool—but she understands the enormous effort required to maintain it, and she knows that she won’t be paid more. That doesn’t seem fair. The director senses that she is demurring. Hannah says that she will reflect on this over the next several days and perhaps come back with a compromise plan. Maybe the blog can be shared, but (using her bottom-brain system) Hannah will need to ponder more before reaching that, or any other, conclusion.
The afternoon goes smoothly—until 3:30 p.m., a half hour before closing. That’s when Sally, a good friend and neighbor, stops by on the pretext of needing help with an organic diet she’s developing for her nutritionist practice. The library is nearly empty, so there is time to chat. It isn’t long before Hannah, who has been studiously observing her friend’s demeanor, concludes that something is bothering Sally. Rather than immediately prying, she decides to allow Sally time to disclose what it is. Sally doesn’t. The minutes pass in forced conversation and Hannah decides that asking is better than saying nothing.
“You seem unhappy,” Hannah says.
“I am,” her friend replies. “I’ve been diagnosed with mild depression.” Hannah is not surprised: Sally, who usually seems to behave in Mover Mode, recently learned that her elderly mother is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah says. “This has been so hard for you.”
“Depression,” Sally says. “Me, of all people.”
Hannah hugs Sally. She empathizes deeply, having lost her own father last year after a succession of strokes. Sally suggests that they have lunch together next week and Hannah agrees. She will think about her friend this weekend, rereading passages from some helpful books and exploring depression on the Internet. She will call Sally to check in and almost certainly will have comfort and perspective to offer when they get together again. Hannah utilizes her bottom brain very well: Not only can she put Sally’s situation in context, but she is also adept at seeing how to apply her own relevant experiences to the present situation. Her bottom brain effectively activates associated memories and primes her to behave in appropriate ways.
Rick got in his eighteen holes and is already home when Hannah pulls into the driveway. He really wants to attend the play, which everyone at work has been talking about. The reviews Hannah’s read have been universally negative (“Banal is being charitable” is one that sticks in her mind). But Rick, who during weekends frequently slips into Stimulator Mode after a week of lawyerly Mover Mode behavior, is usually a source of ideas of fun things to do. Hannah, who typically does not generate many ideas for leisure activities, is happy to reflect on Rick’s ideas—as wild as some of them sometimes are (this usually only entertains her). When Rick pushes to attend the play, Hannah finds herself wondering, Can any play be that bad? Well, maybe—and if it really is, well, she may be amused. Besides, in the grand scheme of things, two hours with the man she loves is, well . . . two hours with the man she loves. So she goes, uncomplainingly. As it turns out, the play really is terrible, as Rick (somewhat sheepishly) agrees. Driving home, they share some laughs.
Rick falls asleep easily at evening’s end, but Hannah lies in bed awake. Her life mostly satisfies her, but Sally’s mother’s diagnosis has rekindled vague feelings of lack of fulfillment that surfaced toward the sad end of her father’s life. Hannah will be sixty soon and will reach retirement age five years later; her children are young adults, with lives of their own. She has read and reread Eat, Pray, Love, and although her marriage is not an issue, she can relate to the protagonist’s urge to indulge in new passions. Is she stuck in a rut? Is middle age affecting her in ways she never predicted? She has no plans to change anything suddenly. But as sleep comes, she decides to revisit this big question at another time—through reading and conversations with her husband, and with Sally and another dear friend, Maggie, a social worker.
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Thinking in Perceiver Mode has distinct advantages: You can step back and get the big picture, taking your time to understand what’s going on around you. If you excel at operating in this mode in a particular situation, others will soon turn to you for wise advice. If you run into trouble, however, perhaps because you don’t have enough relevant experience that applies to present circumstances, you may simply have little to say.
The Theory of Cognitive Modes leads us to expect that operating in Perceiver Mode may often be personally absorbing and satisfying. You focus on understanding but are not under pressure to do something with your knowledge; you often seek knowledge for its own sake and appreciate the world around you. You sometimes live in the moment, which often is a good place to be.
However, one potential drawback of being in this mode is that it may lead you to be a bit passive. You may spend so much time in reflection that you are effectively lost in thought. This is not a necessary result of relying more on the bottom-brain system than on the top-brain system, but it is a possibility. Nevertheless, you still can use the top-brain system and move ahead—but you will tend not to have very elaborate plans.
In the next chapter we consider a cognitive mode that may underlie very different behavior, but it too has its pluses and minuses.