My Bodily Existence
In an earlier blog post, “Sartre’s Being-for-Others,” I discussed Sartre’s being-for-others and being-for-itself. But as an ontology, are these two modes of being all there is?
Strangely enough, while Sartre attempts an ontology, the two great divisions of the realm of being remain consciousness-based. Both being-for-others and being-for-itself are modes of consciousness; they are not my existence itself.
A third mode that suggests itself, then, is my bodily existence.
Yet for consciousness, bodily existence is a mystery that can never be fully brought to awareness. Sartre’s existential psychoanalysis thus becomes an attempt to bring this unconscious — bodily existence — into consciousness. In the same way, mindfulness is an effort to foster bodily awareness through the mind.
These are attempts to attend to my bodily existence. Paradoxically, however, the more consciousness focuses on the body, the more the body becomes something alien to it.
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I have felt the effectiveness of mindfulness, yet unfortunately I practice it only once or twice a year. I simply cannot make it a habit. The reason it never becomes habitual is that both consciousness and the mind involve too much reasoning.
To become fully my bodily existence, I must bracket consciousness and the mind. A single word is enough: simply say “bodily existence.” Concentrate not on reasoning about what the body feels, but on simply feeling it.
This reminds me of a passage I once read in an elementary-school Japanese textbook. A girl is promised a trip to an amusement park on Sunday, but her father’s work intervenes and the plan falls through. She sits crying in a nearby park when the wind blows, drying her tears and tickling her ears; she notices dandelion seeds drifting by, her mood lifts, and she feels grateful to the wind.
As a child I wondered whether something so slight could really restore anyone’s spirits. It seemed like one of those common stories about repairing parent–child relations in the high-growth era. Yet even though I have completely forgotten the rest of the textbook, that single passage remains in my memory — probably because it conveyed a truth of the senses.
When we set aside unnecessary thoughts and simply attend to the body itself — to the five senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch — ideas that have been clinging to us and holding us captive can sometimes loosen and transform into something else. I believe this shows, in a primitive form, what Deleuze calls “that which is to be sensed.” (sentiendum)
Women may worry about how others see them — about being-for-others. The same is true of men; it cannot be ignored in social life. Yet beneath being-for-others lies bodily existence. How I myself feel precedes how others regard me. Without bodily existence there is no being-for-others.
Simply remaining with the senses is difficult. We constantly associate, remember, and try to fit what we experience into existing concepts. That is what Kant called common sense, or good sense. To remain with the senses is also to abandon good sense.
Listening to music without thinking, looking at a painting, reading a novel, attending to the day’s sensations — none of this is as easy as it sounds. It is a revolution that reduces every preexisting idea to zero. Only from there does the perspective of the Single Individual arise.
