In the first of this series I suggested that the mind’s first job is so important that it overrides even our own happiness. As someone who spends his days (and sometimes the wee hours of the night) dealing with minds that are beating up on their owners, I have come to view minds as learning, worrying machines designed to keep us alive and well. It does plenty of other impressive things too, but it accomplishes nothing if it cannot first keep us safe.
By now, you have probably noticed that I speak of a person and his mind as if they are two separate entities. It may sound odd, and it certainly is untrue – there is no real separation between a person and his mind – but it is a useful way to approach mental health. Everyone experiences thoughts and feelings they never asked for and would not choose. That experience can create the illusion that each mind has a mind of its own. Hence, my unorthodox way of talking about the pesky bugger. Each and every day, my mind gives me a load of goods I never requested.
Those unsummoned messages from the mind don’t simply appear out of thin air. They come from somewhere, and that leads us to the question of the mind’s wiring. Like most complex systems – such as the human body or the ecosystem – the brain has areas of specialization, not all of which we are consciously aware. While we go about our day, the mind’s systems churns away behind the scenes.
What is it accomplishing? It is creating the stuff of desire, motivation, fear, and worry.
We Are Not of One Mind
Since the 1960s, one of the most intensely debated ideas about the mind concerns its modular construction.
Modularity suggests that the mind consists of specialized subsystems that handle specific tasks and information. [1] The alternative view is that the brain is one massive, generalized network that handles every kind of task – think of Napoleon strategizing his next invasion while he polishes the buttons on his men’s uniforms. That type of unspecialized system would be inefficient, its abilities would be more limited than our own [2], and it would require imaginary mechanisms like the subconscious, which probably doesn’t exist in the traditional sense. I’ll come back to that.
Instead of a single, all-purpose network, it is becoming increasingly evident that the mind is made of interconnected systems that trade information. As Steven Pinker (2005) put it, “the mind is a naturally selected system of organs of computation.” He and others make persuasive arguments that evolution shaped the systems of our mind, similar to the way that it shaped the digestive system and the specialized organs that comprise it.
We don’t need to dive into the mind’s “production systems, semantic networks, knowledge representation languages, unification systems,” and so forth. Though fascinating, that wouldn’t serve our purposes. (Besides, others do a far better job than I could.) Here, it is enough to understand that the mind is much more than a singular, massive network. It houses special modules for tasks like vision, spatial reasoning, language, and probably even emotions like empathy and intuition.
Maybe that is why carrying a human mind can feel like living with another entity – someone who jabbers incessantly, sends cryptic messages and even compels us to do things of which we are unaware. [3] A fascinating example of this unseen entity (even though we really shouldn’t call it that) is cortical blindness.
While on one of my hospital rotations during training, I heard of a patient who was completely blind. He saw nothing but darkness. Yet, this man could navigate a crowded hallway while deftly avoiding obstacles and people. When asked how he was able to accomplish that feat, he replied in all honesty, “I don’t know.”
His problem? A head injury damaged the backside of his brain where the visual cortex lives. His eyes were still functioning, but the primary visual system of the brain was not. But even though it is a massive system and vital to vision, the visual cortex is not the only system that has access to visual input.
Before visual information reaches the the visual cortex, it passes through an important way-station (the superior colliculus, if you care) that sends visual information to parts of the brain other than the visual cortex. Those systems can use the visual information to dodge and weave, allow the person to point at lights that they cannot see, and even help them locate objects.
The blind patient who could navigate crowded hallways had only damaged one part of the visual system. Though he had no awareness of any vision, there were functioning parts of his mind that were still using the visual input and directing his actions. This is just one of the innumerable processes that takes place beneath awareness.
It’s enough to make a person question his sense of self. If the blind patient wasn’t making his own decisions, who was? If my mind is a collection of modules, which module is “me?” And how do I draw the distinction between “me” and those parts of my mind that silently try to call the shots?
The traditional answer to that question, dating back to Freud himself, is to divide the mind into the rather arbitrary divisions of “conscious” and “subconscious.” What could be more obvious? We each have a subjective sense of where consciousness ends and the subconscious begins. But when we try to pin it down further, the notions get squishy. My old dictionary of psychological terms defines consciousness as “that which experiences,” and the subconscious as “not clearly conscious but capable of being made so.” That is not very descriptive, nor does it help us identify the silent forces that we might collectively call the primal mind.
The idea of a subconscious is also a bit of a contrivance. I have never seen a subconscious in brain scans or otherwise. There is no evidence that the subconscious really exists. Yet, clearly there is some dividing line between mental events that we experience (like happiness or making a shopping list) and those that we don’t (like the impulses that allow a blind man to navigate a crowded hallway).
Anywhere we draw the line between “me” and “my mind” will be arbitrary. So if we’re going to pick an arbitrary line, let’s make it a useful one, and let’s stick to the confines of biology.
A World of Words
What we typically think of as consciousness is a pretty slim slice of what happens within our brains, and much of what we consider to be consciousness has to do with words.
Our inner worlds are dominated by language. It is the foundation of our connection with others. It links us to the past and the future. It is so pervasive that skills such as memorizing and categorizing seem unlikely without it. It is so enmeshed with our mental activity that it is easy to confuse language with thought itself, as Martin Heidegger may have when he wrote, “Language is the house of Being. In its home man dwells.” Thought-provoking, but overstated.
Being the language-reliant creatures that we are, it is easy to equate thinking with language. I dare say, we even tend to associate consciousness with language. Even Freud, the king of the unseen psyche, relied on language to elevate his patients’ motivations from the subconscious (whatever that is) to the conscious (whatever that is). Once he and his patients attached words to a subconscious thing, like a secret desire expressed in a dream, then that thing was said to have entered the realm of consciousness.
Freud was certainly on to something, but let’s not forget the lessons of modern cognitive science. The mind is modular, with language being a limited set of functions tied to certain specific (and relatively small) areas of the brain. In a modular mind, there is information that has language attached to it, and information that is language-free. [4] That may be as useful a place as any to draw the imaginary line between “me” and “my mind.” What others think of as “conscious” and “subconscious” I tend to think of as “verbal” and “nonverbal.”
The areas of the brain responsible for producing and comprehending language occupy a small portion of the cortex, which itself is only a portion of the brain. Language is not the house of being, it is only the living room. If ever there were an apt application for the cliché about the hidden depths of an iceberg, it might be the depths of mental activity bustling beneath the thin veneer of language.
Those depths seem to be where anxiety lives. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s look at an example of non-verbal thinking in action. We’ll use intuition as an example, since is an easy illustration of a primal mind watching out for our safety.
Sign language
Intuition – gut instinct, vibes, premonition – is an ideal example of the mind speaking to us without words, nudging us in the direction of safety (which is not to say that intuition is always right).
Describing intuition is like describing exhilaration or the hiccups: words fail. That is precisely why intuition has such an uncomfortable aura, and it is why we sometimes disregard it. Human decisions demand logical arguments couched in language (or so we are taught) and intuition feels so… irrational. By definition, intuition arrives without words or carefully constructed arguments. What are these hunches, and where do they come from?
Intuition has no concise definition or explanation, possibly because it takes so many forms:
- The hunch that a problem has a solution, and the general direction to pursue.
- The hunch that something about a situation is wrong or lacking.
- The sudden appearance of an answer after setting aside the problem.
- Uneasy feelings of impending danger.
- Inner knowledge of what is good for oneself.
- The first impression of a person’s trustworthiness.
- Gut feelings regarding a decision.
- Hunches that lead to correct answers.
- Artistic inspiration and creativity (adapted from Welling, 2005).
Those are a lot of processes to lump under the heading “intuition.” The common element is that none of them involve language. While we are busy living our language-driven lives, our minds are hard at work chewing on difficult problems like whether or not to trust someone or why the heck the car won’t start.
Just as there is no concise definition of intuition, there is no concise theory to explain it. But we can look at a couple of the biological features and nonverbal processes that may be involved.
What follows is by no means an explanation of intuition. It’s just a glimpse at some of the mind’s abilities that might contribute to it, starting with a couple of the mind’s contraptions for managing a torrent of incoming information.
Filtering information through the reticular formation: Every waking moment, the brain gathers much more information from the five senses than we are aware of. The reticular formation is a part of the brain stem that has the task of filtering out extraneous information. Think of it as the mind’s coffee filter: it removes chunks of information that might otherwise overwhelm us.
Think about all of the information that is being filtered out as you read this: maybe there is a child in the room, or traffic noise outside, or a smelly dog nearby. Thank your mind for handling those details so you can concentrate on this.
The reticular system doesn’t simply toss away the extra info. It is analyzed and the mind will find a way to let you know if something important is going on. That’s how we are able to converse with one person over the din of a noisy party and still perk up when our name has been uttered in an adjacent conversation. That degree of information processing is no small feat. It is like having a secretary with you at all times, tapping you on the shoulder when it’s time to shift your attention (adapted from Smith, 2003).
Filtering information through the basal ganglia: If the reticular system influences what we perceive, the basal ganglia may influence what we do with information.
Situated between the frontal lobes (responsible for higher functions like problem-solving and language) and the brainstem (where lower functions like breathing and wakefulness reside), the basal ganglia “are in a privileged position in their potential to affect attention, cognition, emotion, and behavior” (Lieberman, 2000). The author gives us an example of the basal ganglia’s typical day on the job:
“Consider playing defense in a game of basketball. Often times the offensive player being guarded will try to fake out the defense by making a set of gestures and movements suggestive of going in one direction while actually going in the opposite direction.… The fake-out sequence is fast and subtle, too fast to be interpreted and responded to [by the frontal lobes], but slowly over time the basal ganglia may form a representation of the sequence…”
With experience, the basal ganglia help the basketball player learn that fast-moving things may not be as they appear. She will become increasingly able to avoid the fake-out and stay on defense. Imagine trying to accomplish that task using language and higher reasoning. The player would be completely immobilized.
This ability to recognize patterns and anticipate outcomes is, I think, one of the mind’s handiest doodads. The process is called temporal pattern completion, in case you’re curious, and it comes into play more than you might imagine. If ever you had a correct intuition that another driver was about to cut you off in traffic, you understand the joys of temporal pattern completion. Say it with me, ‘cuz it’s fun: thanks basal ganglia!
Implicit learning: Think of this as learning without instruction. It’s another job of the basal ganglia (among other players). From day one, we begin learning things of which we are unaware.
Grammar is a perfect example, as long as we are on the topic of language. A child’s earliest, two-word sentences typically consist of a noun and a verb – the basic building blocks of a sentence. The child has no idea how to define “noun” or “verb” but she effortlessly learns how to use them without being explicitly taught. No one explains grammar to a two-year-old. Now, Suzy, you’ll soon be making short sentences. Make mommy proud and always use noun-verb combinations. In English, we put the noun first.
There’s no need for that. While her vocabulary requires explicit instruction (“that’s an apple; this is a banana”), she learns the rules of language on the fly.[5]
The ability to understand relational rules allows people to create new combinations of thought and action. That’s called generativity and it’s a uniquely human ability. This is where implicit learning and intuition may overlap. As one researcher pointed out, “…chess masters often ‘see’ good moves rather than consciously figuring them out or mentally testing possible strategies” (Mathews et al., 2000). Voila. Wordless problem-solving where language would only get in the way..
Emotional associations: If nonverbal processes like temporal pattern completion and generativity are the stuff of intuition, they may also be the stuff of anxiety and other difficulties. Take the amygdala, for example. In fact, take two – they’re small.
The amygdala are a pair of almond-shaped structures deep within the brain. They are part of the limbic system, which some people call the reptilian brain because every critter from lizards to humans possesses these structures.
Let’s take a moment to consider the personality style of a lizard. They are, um… Let’s see… Come to think of it, there isn’t much personality to discuss. They have a limited repertoire that can be summed up in the Four Fs of survival: Feeding, Fighting, Fleeing, and Sex. That fairly well sums up the concerns of the limbic system, of which you and I are owners.
The amygdala have direct access to everything that we see, hear, feel, or smell. And the amygdala are learning machines and they do not hesitate to express their opinions about safety and survival. Being reptilian in nature, they give us crude, nonverbal directives. Eat that! Fight that! Run away from that! You can fill in the fourth F.
The reptilian brain tends to oversimplify. Once something is dangerous – say, a type of person with certain characteristics – then it is always dangerous. If a squat man with a mustache hurt you as a child, then squat, mustachioed men will forevermore be seen as a threat by the amygdala. Each time you encounter someone who fits the description, the amygdala will talk to you in the only language it knows: emotion.
And that, my mind-possessing friend, is one of the downfalls of mind ownership. Sometimes the mind, in its never-ending task of protecting you, will send you messages without explanation. If a mustachioed man boards the bus you are riding, your amygdala may send an alarm via anxiety or fear. Danger! Danger!
If you are insightful enough to verbally make the connection between the man on the bus and the man in your childhood, then you will probably be able to override the insistent message of your amygdala. You will be able to remind yourself that that was then and this is now. If not, you will have no idea why you suddenly feel apprehensive – at least no language-based understanding. That sounds like intuition to me.
Endless Capacity
Please don’t think that I’ve suggested a theory of intuition, or that we have come close to exposing the mind’s nonverbal processes. I don’t have the knowledge to write it, and you probably don’t have the time to read it.
Instead, I’ve listed a few of the processes that might drive intuition, the product of a mostly nonverbal, modular mind. Just like anxiety, depression, and self-defeating behaviors.
Owning a human mind means living with all of its processes, including all its cloudy, nonverbal urgings. Those processes are what I mean when I speak of the primal mind.
Once a mind learns something, it can never be unlearned. History doesn’t go away, and so when we are hurt, admonished, rejected, abused, or abandoned, the mind will forevermore look for signs that history is repeating itself. Most of that searching will occur beneath the level of language. When the primal mind feels it has something to worry about, its warnings can be opaque and even painful.
There is good news. While we cannot escape the mind, we can use the tool of language to exercise free will. When we understand why the mind is giving us feelings like fear or anxiety – when we are able to explain it using language – then we can choose our response to the mind’s insistent messages. With practice, we can learn to ignore what the mind tells us. With effort, we can even influence the way our mind functions.
Let’s make that the topic of the next entry.
-IS
Footnotes
1. For a sample of the debate, see Barrett & Kurzban (2006). Some of the ideas on which experts debate include massive modularity (the idea that modularity extends beyond discrete, peripheral systems like vision to more abstract functions like reasoning, emotion, and decision making); architectural arguments (e.g., what kind of “input” the various modules use, and how they work together to integrate information); and genetic questions (e.g., whether each module requires its own genes, whether they are hardwired from birth, or the extent to which they are influenced by experience).
2. If the mind were a single, unspecialized network, it is unlikely that the mind would be able to simultaneously process information at different levels with such efficiency (for example, see Leiberman’s 2000 paper on intution), and its capabilities would be bound by a single, overriding algorithm rather than diverse abilities that specialized subsystems would offer.
3. Consider one example of the unseen forces behind mate selection. As Shakespeare pointed out, parents and their children frequently disagree about what kind of person the kids should date. Parents are displeased when their little angel brings home someone who looks like Marilyn Manson. On the other hand, most kids will think twice before meeting any prospect who has their parents’ endorsement. A recent study (Buunk et al., 2008) suggests that this age-old conflict may be rooted in something much deeper than generational aesthetics: each party’s respective and differing interest in survival and procreation. The findings suggest that parents tend to want their kids to date someone who will take care of their own children and cooperation with kin. Kids, on the other hand, tend to look for outward signs of good gene quality. Romeo and Juliette may have fared better had a good evolutionary psychologist been on hand to mediate the disagreement.
4. We can also have visual and non-visual knowledge, auditory and non-auditory knowledge, kinesthetic and non-kinesthetic knowledge, various combinations of different knowledge types, and so on. But since our notions of happiness and well-being tend to be steeped in language, that is where we will focus.
5. I know some Chomskyites are going to scold me for ignoring the theoretical grammar mechanism for which the good professor has become famous. It may exist, but I have yet to see evidence of it. Implicit learning and its relation to generative knowledge, on the other hand, have been demonstrated repeatedly and can account for the same behaviors that Chomsky’s doodad supposedly produces. I’m open-minded, though – please come back when you can show me a picture of Chomsky’s little machine.
References
Barrett, H.C. & Kurzban, R. (2006). Modularity in cognition: framing the debate. Psychological Review, 113(3). 628-647.
Buunk, A.P., Park, J.H., & Dubbs, S.L. (2008). Parent-offspring conflict in mate preferences. Review of General Psychology, 12(1), 47-62.
English, H.B. & English, A.C. (1970). A Comprehensive Dictionary of Psychological and Psychoanalytical Terms. New York: David McKay Company.
Lieberman, M. (2000). Intuition: A social cognitive neuroscience approach. Psychological Bulletin, 126(1), 109-137.
Mathews, R.C., Goussel, L.G., Chchran, B.P., et al. (2000). The role of implicit learning in the acquisition of generative knowledge. Journal of Cognitive Systems Research 1(3). 161-174.
Pinker, S. (2005). So how does the mind work? Mind and Language, 20(1). 1-24.
Pinker, S. (1997). How The Mind Works. W. W. Norton & Company.
Welling, H. (2005). The intuitive process: the case of psychotherapy. Journal of Psychotherapy Integration, 15(1). 19-47.