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Brain-Based Transformational Solutions

A Tale of Two Kitties

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Consider the concept of affordance: what exactly is an affordance and why should you care? I think I could write an article on all the different definitions of affordance. In fact, I would be surprised if someone hasn’t already done that. So instead of first defining the word, let’s begin with my cats.

When I adopted Naima (pictured above) in November 2010, she was three months old, and the apartment complex where I live did not require cats to be either leashed or kept inside. My previous cat, Tashi, a California transplant, had decided early in life that she was an indoor/outdoor cat. Her petite size was misleading. Back in California, she acquired a series of formidable panther boyfriends and regularly hung out with the small herd of deer on the hill below.

For one unforgettable 30-day period in 2008 I had to keep her indoors while she recovered from a near-death experience. I barely survived the ordeal. She wouldn’t stop yowling to get out. She even attempted to excavate a tunnel underneath the closed cat door.

I was determined that Naima would be strictly an indoor cat. Given that she was also an only cat—and I was her only person—I endeavored to make the environment cat-friendly and appealing while maintaining certain boundaries.

 

Preparations for her arrival included the purchase of cat basics: carrier, litter/litter box, food/food bowls, lots of toys, and a bed. They also included a 72” tall cat tree for the living room with a perch on top, a shorter but wider cat tree for my bedroom, and a few smaller scratching posts.

Cats and kittens of all sizes, including tigers and lions, like to climb. Tashi climbed trees in the yard and, when inside, the eight-foot-tall bookcase. Naima began using the cat trees right away, although they didn’t immediately stop her from climbing or trying to climb other pieces of furniture. She eventually got the message, but my dresser still bears the scratches from her tiny sharp claws.

Cats also like to play with their prey. Sadly, the only toy I could ever get Tashi interested in were those bouncy foam balls that look like miniature soccer balls. She could play fetch better than some dogs. She preferred to toy with birds and mice outdoors, bringing one in occasionally (either dead or alive: quite exciting for everyone involved). To be fair, she sometimes took one of her balls outside to play with. Also, she tended to munch on them. Naima, on the other hand, loved her toys, especially the roller-ball track and a certain brand of catnip mice. She would hide and then hunt the mice. She also loved to chase the bouncy soccer balls.

A Chair Affords You an Opportunity for Sitting

A bookcase offers me a place to keep my books, of which I have a few, as well as some photos or keepsakes. For my cats, the bookcase offered something to climb in order to see what’s there and get a better vantage point. Maybe find a good spot for a nap.

For Tashi (on the right, looking very focused), trees offered something to climb, as well as a hiding place, a lookout, and a possible source of food. There were no actual trees in Naima’s environment. But the manufactured cat trees offered her everything but a food source.

Another word for “offer” is “afford.” Bookcases, real trees, and cat trees are all affordances. When it comes to climbing, both indoor and outdoor cats have access to a number of affordances in addition to those just mentioned: cabinets and counter tops, refrigerators and other appliances, curtains, walls, fences, screens—they excel at figuring out how to get wherever you don’t want them to be. I once watched live video of a kitten whose eyes hadn’t yet opened successfully climb a wire enclosure meant to keep her safely contained in order to get to her mom on the other side.

The concept of affordance was developed by a psychologist, James J. Gibson, in the 1960s and 70s. Gibson was a proponent of the theory of direct, as opposed to indirect, perception, which is just a non-starter for me. Direct perception is an unscientific idea for which there is no supporting evidence. At this point, we know too much about how the brain works to take this idea seriously. (Meaning doesn’t reside “out there” in the environment or in objects in the environment. The brain has to supply meaning by interpreting the sensory data it receives and processes based on our mental model of the world.)

Nevertheless, I’ve been attracted to the possibilities of this concept, so I’m trying to determine whether or not there is something useful in it within the context of behavior change. One task has been to sift out the direct perception nonsense and see what remains. Another task is to wade through some painful verbiage related to so-called “ecological psychology,” which was also the brainchild of James Gibson.

If I sound dismissive, it’s because I’m frustrated. Affordance is used in many different areas (several branches of psychology, design, communications, AI, etc.) and lots of people have added their own spin to it. That makes it difficult to pin down. Maybe that’s OK, though. This fluidity may be the nature of the beast—better viewed as dynamic rather than static. And, well, I seem to be veering toward doing the same thing: defining—or redefining—affordance as it applies to behavior and behavior change.

My current working definition:

An affordance is an action possibility available to an agent within an environment.

As a definition it seems straightforward, if quite dry. But it just scratches the surface. There are different types of affordances, and understanding those differences is key to applying the concept to behavior change. The possibilities are intriguing and anything but dry. In fact, they’re potentially very juicy. More to come!

Games People Play

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Since I began rereading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, I’ve noticed coincidences of birds and of John Updike. (That’s two, and I’m barely into the book, so I’m starting a mental list.)

Birds haven’t featured prominently in my life or lexicon, other than their presence in the big tree outside my bedroom, which they’re attracted to in part due to my upstairs neighbors’ feeders. That and sometimes they remind me of The Producers.

John Updike features even less prominently, although that was not the case a few decades back. I devoured most of the Rabbit books, the Bech books, Marry Me, The Centaur, and lots of collected short stories (Too Far to Go, The Music School, etc.), among others.

Some of us have a tendency to perceive meaning in coincidences. As for me, I’ve been there, done that, and thankfully survived reading way too much Carl Jung during my formative years. Now I understand that the conscious part of my brain can only process about 40 bits of information at a time, and what it gets to chew on depends on what the unconscious part of my brain thinks might be useful—or will at least keep the conscious part occupied and hopefully out of trouble.

So the unconscious sifts through the 11 million bits it’s taking in at any given moment and … on the fly, so to speak … funnels a minuscule amount to consciousness, which operates as if it has a … bird’s eye view … of what is going on—and, more importantly, knows what it all means.

Of course, the meaning comes from us, not from what is outside of us. So things mean whatever we believe them to mean, based on our brain’s interpretations. We are, as David DiSalvo says in What Makes Your Brain Happy and Why You Should Do the Opposite, meaning makers.

Everything Is an Interpretation

Our experience of reality is a result of our interpretations, and the vast majority of those interpretations come from the unconscious, which is only concerned about meaning insofar as it affects the next action we’re about to take.

However, we treat all of our interpretations as if they are reality, which leads to a very static, literal, and concrete view of the world. And that worldview is affected much less than we might think by looking for and perceiving meaning in symbols, coincidences, objects, and occurrences. Because when we find meaning in those things, we’re operating as if the meaning is fixed within the objects or the occurrences: static, literal, concrete.

It is the unconscious that processes associatively rather than linearly. So it’s the unconscious that links bird with the notion of freedom or hope or anything else. But only if our mental model contains a belief that the appearance of birds means something other than what is apparent. If you’re tempted to consider that the unconscious has some specialized or secret info that it’s accessing, remember that this is the same unconscious that is addicted to pattern recognition (one result of which is stereotyping) and is riddled with cognitive biases (including our all-time favorite, confirmation bias) for the express purpose of being able to quickly jump to conclusions.

Delusional and Disempowering

Ray Grasse wrote a book titled The Waking Dream, which is subtitled Unlocking the Symbolic Language of Our Lives. He quotes Nikos Kazantzakis from Zorba the Greek:

Everything in this world has a hidden meaning. Men, animals, trees, stars, they are hieroglyphics. …When you see them, you do not understand them. You think they are really men, animals, trees, stars.

On the surface, this might be appealing. But there’s so much to unpack in those three sentences, so many assumptions underlying them. At the foundation is the belief that there are specific meanings one can ultimately deduce—again, meanings that are fixed and located within the things of the world. They are there for us to uncover or not.

I take the idea of unlocking the symbolic language of our lives to be another version of the game of finding our life-purpose cheese. There’s no there there.

As it is, life is empty and meaningless and it’s empty and meaningless that life is empty and meaningless. And, hey, we’re making meaning, anyway. We can’t do otherwise. It seems the height (or one height, anyway) of idiocy to fail to recognize that we are the source of the meaning we’re making. It’s somewhat delusional and seriously disempowering.

Neuroscientist Anil Seth reminds us that the color green exists neither in the object we’re viewing, nor in our brain, but in the interaction between the two. In other words, it’s not fixed; it’s an interpretation.

We’re in ongoing interaction with all of the world we inhabit. Both we and the world are in constant motion at all times. Reality is anything but static, literal, or concrete. We’re making it up as we go, and we’re never in the same place twice. A far more interesting series of question to ask is what is my brain bringing to my attention, what meaning am I making of it, and what does this say about who my brain thinks I am?

So what to do with two broken wrists, a bird in my bedroom and the sound of two doors closing? I am a writer, and I keep thinking there must be a connection to make, that these are pieces of a puzzle, that there is some way everything fits together. I’m damned if I know what it is. The more I squirrel around for a meaning, the more reluctant I am to consider the obvious. But the significance of a closing door is not lost on me, and I’ve never felt quite this mortal. It’s a beautiful word, “mortal,” rhyming with “portal,” which sounds optimistic. And really, who wants to live forever? How tedious life would become. Mortality makes everything matter, keeps life interesting. And that’s all I ask. —Abigail Thomas, memoirist

Empathy: What Is It Good For?

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I wish I could have a discussion about empathy with a particular friend who, unfortunately, is no longer here. She was a caring person, generous with time, money, and attention. She was a good friend to me. She likely considered herself to be empathetic, although I don’t recall her making such a claim.

But there were some attitudes she espoused and actions she took that I was perplexed and a little bit horrified by. For example, I remember her telling me she’d gone out of her way to congratulate a woman paying for groceries in a supermarket with the equivalent of food stamps on her good (nutritious?) food choices. My reaction was along the lines of You did what? I could write an entire article on the assumptions underlying that interaction.

And when there was much talk about airport security following the events of 911, she and I discussed the problems posed for people with metal implants going through scanners. Her opinion at the time was that this group of people ought to give up air travel for the sake of making it easier on the rest of us. I (let us say) disagreed. We also strongly disagreed on the subject of undocumented immigrants. However, she later changed her stance on that one.

We were of the same political persuasion, so that wasn’t the basis for our sometimes strong differences of opinion. Those differences never really got in our way, anyway. I enjoy a good argument, and once she figured that out, she was willing to engage.

On the other end of the spectrum, this friend (most definitely a cat person) dropped everything to come to the aid of a neighbor who needed daily assistance with her dog for at least a month after surgery relegated her to a wheelchair. And she seriously considered moving to another state to help out a niece who hadn’t even made a request.

Empathy vs. Compassion

In my ongoing research into the subject of empathy, I’ve encountered numerous takes on what it’s supposed to be, as well as what it’s supposed to be good for. Consistent with my previous research on what it’s supposed to be, there’s no consensus on what it’s supposed to be good for. While many people still claim that empathy is necessary and useful all around, others report that it actually only comes into play in regard to the closest members of our in-group—people we already know and care about and presumably understand to some extent.

Psychologist Paul Bloom wrote a book titled Against Empathy, in which he cites research supporting the idea that empathy doesn’t lead to prosocial action—that people substitute feeling (or thinking they’re feeling) someone else’s pain or distress for doing something to alleviate it. Compassion, on the other hand, which doesn’t necessarily involve relating to other people empathically—which in fact involves having some emotional distance—does lead to prosocial action.

By empathy I mean feeling the feelings of other people. So if you’re in pain and I feel your pain—I am feeling empathy toward you. If you’re being anxious, I pick up your anxiety. If you’re sad and I pick up your sadness, I’m being empathetic. And that’s different from compassion. Compassion means I give your concern weight, I value it. I care about you, but I don’t necessarily pick up your feelings.

A lot of people think this is merely a verbal distinction, that it doesn’t matter that much. But actually there’s a lot of evidence in my book that empathy and compassion activate different parts of the brain. But more importantly, they have different consequences. If I have empathy toward you, it will be painful if you’re suffering. It will be exhausting. It will lead me to avoid you and avoid helping. But if I feel compassion for you, I’ll be invigorated. I’ll be happy and I’ll try to make your life better. —Paul Bloom

Can You Relate?

My friend was financially comfortably well off (not on food stamps), did not have any metal implants, and was born and raised in the U.S. The three examples I gave all involved a reaction to others, people who were not members of her, or my, in-group. I would say she didn’t or couldn’t relate to them. And I think the concept of relating is separate from the concept of empathy. For example, I relate to people who share major personality traits with me. I “get” them in a way that’s both easy and deep. No imagination is required. No effort. No attempt to understand.

When another friend whose son I have spent very little time with during his 20 years on the planet (but who is quite a lot like me) tells me of her interactions with him or his responses and reactions, I can sometimes physically feel what he might be feeling: the feelings that make his resulting response entirely logical. That’s not empathy. If empathy were good for something, it would be assisting us in “getting” people we don’t automatically relate to or resonate with—people in our out-groups—and then lead us to take compassionate action in response. But as much as so many people wish it did do that, it doesn’t and ultimately can’t.

Empathy appears to be an outdated folk belief we really ought to retire.

Know Thyself (or Not)

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Know Thyself is the first of three maxims inscribed at the Greek Temple of Apollo at Delphi and the one everybody remembers. Fairly succinct at just two words, it’s loaded, nonetheless. It’s difficult, impossible even, to pin down who said what when or the specific meaning that was intended by the ancient Greeks. And Pythia, aka the Oracle at Delphi, was known to be cryptic, so no help there.

Looking at know thyself now, I’m reminded again of listening to a philosopher expound on the meaning of the word is for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. Know is similar in that regard.

It can mean, for example, that I fully grasp or understand something; that I am—or more likely, I feel—certain about something; that I have a working acquaintance with some process, thing, concept, etc.; that I’ve memorized something; that I recognize someone or something, or that I can make distinctions—among other things.

Thyself is a similar kettle of fish since it both assumes a sense of self and implies that each of us is a single self—which, in the latter case, is not the case.

So I don’t know what know thyself is supposed to mean or can mean. Once upon a time, I probably thought I knew. But as I’ve been reflecting recently, I understand more and more that I understand less and less. This seems to be a logical outcome of learning.

To know that one does not know is best; not to know but to believe that one knows is a disease. —Lao Tzu

It’s so Meta

Stephen Fleming has written a book titled Know Thyself: The Science of Self-Awareness. From the bits I’ve read, he appears to consider self-awareness and metacognition to be essentially the same thing.

Self-awareness could be defined as having knowledge of one’s own traits, feelings, motivations, behaviors, etc. (This ought to ring some bells.)

Metacognition could be defined as thinking about our own mental processes—or thinking about thinking.

Self-awareness is meta even without the prefix. Both terms describe System 2 (higher order) processes or functions. I haven’t determined whether there’s a significant distinction between them or the extent to which they overlap or converge.

At any rate, Fleming, who is a cognitive neuroscientist and a very good writer, penned a fascinating article on Theory of Mind. In the entire 4,200+ word article, there was not a single reference to the concept of empathy. That’s because he was writing about the possibility that we know our own minds (or don’t know them) in the same manner and to the same extent that we know other minds. And there’s plenty of room for improvement all around.

I Think, Therefore I Am

Rene Descartes thought that we humans have privileged access to information about ourselves and that we can’t be wrong about what we perceive.

I know clearly that there is nothing that can be perceived by me more easily or more clearly than my own mind.

This is still a pretty popular view of things, even though it is obviously incorrect. We most certainly can be wrong about ourselves, and we certainly can and do lack self-knowledge. (If that were not the case, there would be no need for the What Do You Want? course. Everyone would automatically know what they want.)

Another philosopher, Gilbert Ryle, had a different take:

The sorts of things that I can find out about myself are the same as the sorts of things that I can find out about other people, and the methods of finding them out are much the same.

So, from the perspective of what is known as the inferential view, we don’t need one explanation (privileged access) for how we know ourselves and another (Theory of Mind) for how we know others. Furthermore, the methods we employ to know—or not know—ourselves and others are the same methods we employ to know anything about anything else in the world. What are the implications? And what do you think some of those methods might be?

Another Threshold

I would like to be able to say (maybe) that I intended all along to get to this point, but I’ve simply been following the breadcrumb trail, and it has inexorably led to the threshold concept* that happens to be the focus of December’s Monthly Meeting of the Mind (& Brain):

The brain generates a mental model of the world, which determines what we pay attention to, how we interpret what we pay attention to, and the meaning we assign to it.

Our mental models of the world, which circumscribe every aspect of our present experience, as well as what is possible for us to do and be, are not simply abstract concepts; they are encoded in the brain.

More next time on the impact a handful of threshold concepts might have on how we know ourselves or others.

*A threshold concept can be considered as akin to a portal, opening up a new and previously inaccessible way of thinking about something. It represents a transformed way of understanding, or interpreting, or viewing something without which the learner cannot progress. —Jan Meyer and Ray Land, 5/4/03

You Feel Me?

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In my previous post on the subject, I sided with a secondary definition of the word empathy, which is:

the projection of one’s own feelings or thoughts onto something else, such as an object in a work of art or a character in a novel or film [or another person].

As it turns out, that’s much closer to the original meaning of the source of the word for empathy, which is a translation of the German Einfühlung. According to a PubMed article:

The term “Einfühlung” literally means “feeling into” and refers to an act of projecting oneself into another body or environment, i.e. …to an imaginary bodily “displacement” (“Versetzung”) of oneself into another body or environment, which is aimed at understanding how it feels to be in that other body or environment.

Kudos for multiple uses of the words “body” and “environment” in a single sentence.

I was surprised to learn that the translation of Einfühlung into empathy didn’t take place until 1908. And even then the word was related to aesthetics rather than to interpersonal relationships (understanding other people). The meaning and application that it has today didn’t begin to develop until the 1930s. That seems really recent until you consider that Theory of Mind didn’t arrive on the scene until the late 70s.

Given this relatively recent—and, in the case of empathy, revisionist—history of these concepts, the extent to which so many people now take them for granted, and at face value, is a little mind-blowing.

Early Days: Telling Stories

Rosalind Dymond, a psychologist at Cornell University, appears to be the first person to have attempted to measure empathy. In 1946, she used a set of cards “depicting images of archetypal personalities and dramatic scenes” and tasked subjects with telling stories about the characters pictured.

The stories were rated good, fair, or poor. Good stories described the thoughts and feelings of the characters. Fair stories only described the characters’ external characteristics. Poor stories simply named the characters. Those individuals whose stories were rated good were found to also have greater insight into their own relationships—the implication being that the better, more in-depth stories people can tell, the more aware they are of themselves and others.

If you’ve read Jonathan Gottschall’s The Storytelling Animal or have seen his Ted Talk, you won’t find this surprising.

According to Susan Lanzoni, author of Empathy: A History:

[Dymond’s] characterization of empathy as the ability to tell in-depth, imaginative stories of another’s feelings and circumstances was closely tied to empathy’s early aesthetic meaning.

We communicate in stories and understand the world in terms of stories. As poet Muriel Rukeyser said, “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” I think this early take on empathy was probably the most useful. But it didn’t last.

Later Revisions

Dymond went on to redefine empathy as “the ability to accurately predict how another person saw themselves” and ultimately to be “an accurate appraisal of how someone else felt and thought.”

A little later some psychologists at Dartmouth College determined that subjects were pretty terrible at predicting other people’s preferences, meaning they had little “empathic accuracy.” Dartmouth then began offering a course to “increase students’ sensitivity to the attitudes and feelings of others.”

Many psychologists have gone on to lament the lack of empathy and the dearth of studies of empathy, including Dymond (1949), Gordon Allport (1960), and Kenneth B. Clark (1980). Yet there never has been—and still isn’t—a consensus agreement on what this concept or word refers to or means.

Nor is there agreement as to how we, as individuals, become—or fail to become—empathetic. Some researchers seem to believe empathy is straight-up the result of mirror neurons. Others believe we have genetic predispositions to be more or less empathetic. It has been proposed that we have an empathy circuit in the brain, which can “go down.” Individuals may then experience “empathy erosion.”

According to a 2018 article by Fabrizio Mafessoni and Michael Lachmann in Nature:

Contagious yawning, emotional contagion, and empathy are characterized by the activation of similar neurophysiological states or responses in an observed individual and an observer.

That raises an interesting line of inquiry. Maybe another time.

What’s the Point?

Many people claim that empathy is essential for the survival of our species and possibly the planet, too. But for purposes of survival—from the Pleistocene to today, whether on a one-to-one or group basis—we need to be able to predict what other people are likely to do in a particular situation. The part of the brain that excels at predicting is System 1, the unconscious. Animals do it, too. The only difference between us and animals is that we’re not satisfied with the predictions unless we believe we understand what’s behind them. So we tell stories about what we think is going on with other people, the same way we tell stories about what is going on with us.

Of course, as I’ve been saying for years, there’s no such thing as a true story.

to be continued…

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