Conducted by Devin Zuckerman, Post-Doctoral Research Associate at the Contemplative Sciences Center and Guest Editor of JCS Special Issue #03: Contemplative Ecology.
JCS: So the first question I’m going to ask you is just to tell us a little bit about embodied critical thinking, your body of work.
DS: Mm. Yes. It’s always the most difficult question. Let’s get it out of the way, and then we can move on to easier ones. I think what got me started was a phenomenon that wasn’t dealt with satisfactorily in the philosophy of language—this process where you have something to say but don’t yet know how to say it. Sometimes it feels like the more you have to say, the harder it is to articulate! It’s this slow process of finding words, enduring moments of being stuck, and then experiencing breakthroughs where things suddenly become clear and fall into place.
This kind of process was very inspirational in my research. I called it “close talking,” like “close reading,” where you dwell with a text, and meanings gradually arise, open up, and unfold. I was greatly inspired by Eugene Gendlin’s work, particularly his concept of the “felt sense.” In German, we say it does justice to this phenomenon—there’s something there that you can’t yet articulate, something that motivates and constrains you at the same time. It’s intricate, rich, and “languaging” in these processes comes along with a certain kind of challenge.
This phenomenon drove my research, which culminated in the book Close Talking. In German, its subtitle is Erleben zur Sprache bringen, meaning finding a language/finding words for experience. Coincidentally, a philosophical colleague, who was also deeply inspired by Gendlin’s concept of the felt sense, discovered me online. We shared intuitions about the importance of an experiential practice dimension within philosophy, and we both saw the relevance of practices such as Focusing, Thinking at the Edge, and micro-phenomenology, in this light. Together, we recognized their potential for Western traditions of critical thinking, because the body has been ignored in these traditions. That led to a research project we called embodied critical thinking.
Ten years later, the concept of embodied critical thinking continues to evolve. At its core, it gives lived experience more space in thinking. However, this requires skill, practice, and attentive methodologies—this is where contemplation plays a role. The challenge, as mentioned before, is also linguistic because much of our language doesn’t work well for capturing the intricacy, and specificity of lived experience. Gendlin called this “implicit precision.” Embodied critical thinking implies working attentively on a non-reductive language for this dimension of lived experience, as well as learning to integrate logical coherence with experiential precision. That opens up new exciting moves and routes of thinking. I hope that wasn’t too abstract?
JCS: No, that was excellent. Thank you for that answer. I noticed the moment when you mentioned contemplation as part of embodied critical thinking. How do you see this work intersecting with the practice of contemplation?
DS: I would love to revisit the etymology of “contemplation.” Do you have it in mind?
JCS: I can look it up. Let’s see. The Latin root is contemplatio. And the verb form, it looks like, is contemplari, meaning “to gaze attentively” or “to observe.”
DS: Yes, that’s so interesting. The root templum connects it with being present at or with the temple, and the verb form has to do with gazing attentively or dwelling with something. It’s fascinating how this sense of attentiveness carries through. And though I’m sure there are countless definitions and traditions—so many interpretations across different faiths and philosophies that it could fill a library—in a simple way, we can go back to this etymology, which centers on gazing and dwelling. Contemplation as the skill of dwelling with what is present right now.
What is present is so much more than just thoughts, facts, or arguments. It includes an embodied experience of presence—being fully with that experience and everything it contains…
What is present is so much more than just thoughts, facts, or arguments. It includes an embodied experience of presence—being fully with that experience and everything it contains, whether it’s a theoretical problem or something else. The contemplative part, I think, is this ability to dwell with what is there and to open up to the full experiential scope of it.
JCS: I also see connections to your earlier description of embodied critical thinking, particularly how it applies to research. Can you say more about that?
DS: Embodied critical thinking might require different research settings and affordances. When we work with graduate students, we create spaces for them to relate to their experiential backgrounds—their motivations and interests. We teach them to attend to what we call the “felt dimension” of thinking and to the richness of situational knowing.
For example, when students start articulating why a topic is meaningful, they often draw from concrete experiences. By exploring these, they realize that their language can either illuminate or obscure a meaning they have experienced in the concrete situations they draw on. We encourage them to stay attentive to their embodied and experiential responses in what they are trying to articulate—whether something feels cramped or doesn’t resonate by the language they use for it—and to retry, modify, or refine their language accordingly. This process is vital for making research meaningful and grounded.
I wrote about this in an article which is about Thinking at the Edge in the context of research. One example is a researcher doing environmental research. She struggled to articulate her ideas and felt blocked. She was annoyed about this blockage, desperately trying to get past it. When I asked her if it was okay to just “be with the blockage” for a while, to simply acknowledge it, and stay curious about it, the felt stoppage began to evolve, and kind of “talk.” She realized there was a meaning to this blockage, and that the trouble she was having in writing in academic ways about her experience with animals and nature mirrored the muted experiences of the animals she was studying. This insight allowed her to develop bold questions, and a more courageous language that transformed her research.
JCS: That’s such a powerful example. It reminds me of Einstein’s famous observation that he “felt” the theory of relativity long before he could articulate it.
The process of making sense often requires rearranging and forging entirely new structures and formulations to articulate what’s known implicitly.
DS: Yes, exactly. He had to completely reconfigure the conceptual possibilities available at the time to make sense of that feeling. I’m so glad you brought up this example because I also like to bring up these kinds of accounts of scientists and thinkers. They illustrate how the “felt sense” carries profound meaning, even before we have the language to express it. The process of making sense often requires rearranging and forging entirely new structures and formulations to articulate what’s known implicitly.
This phenomenon operates on a huge, paradigmatic scale, as with Einstein. Many great thinkers, from Kant to Michel Montaigne and Heisenberg, have reflected on similar processes. At the same time, it’s fascinating how this also applies to our personal paradigms. We each have these “felt senses,” but articulating them can be challenging because something fundamental in our worldview needs to shift first.
What’s remarkable is that when we finally do articulate it, what we say might seem unsurprising to others. But for us, it represents a profound shift. You could have said the same thing a week earlier, and it would have felt meaningless. Yet, once that internal reconfiguration happens, it makes all the difference.
JCS: How do you see embodied critical thinking and contemplation contributing to our shared future, especially in addressing larger crises like the environmental crisis?
DS: Yes, yes. Well, it’s not a new idea to connect the environmental crisis to a crisis in how we think, but it’s crucial. We’ve objectified the world around us, devaluing our felt relationships with the natural and more-than-human world.
We know this; we’ve been forced to “unlearn” these felt relationships with everything around us. Children, for example, have such an innate sense that everything is alive—you can have a relationship with a tree, but even with something like a plastic straw. Embodied critical thinking points to the fact that we are not isolated subjects; we are deeply entangled in everything. The felt dimension of experience expresses this relationality.
This means we must dwell with it and let it shape our language and realities. Doing so can contribute to a different way of thinking—one that doesn’t sever and use everything as a resource, as we’ve done to create the world we live in today. This contribution may seem small, but it’s part of a much larger picture. Many aspects of society and various systems must work together, but in the humanities, where we always hear, “We need to think differently,” I believe this requires different kinds of practices, not just new theories. We can’t simply swap theories or throw new concepts at each other and hope for change.
The felt dimension of experience expresses this relationality. This means we must dwell with it and let it shape our language and realities. Doing so can contribute to a different way of thinking—one that doesn’t sever and use everything as a resource…
This approach could also address the communication dead ends we see in our culture, which has become so polarized. Sometimes I think if people just had 10 more minutes to actually feel what they mean and get a fairer chance of articulating it, so much misunderstanding could be resolved.
Let me share a small anecdote. One of our students attended a summer school in Ljubljana. She said, “I can’t listen for more than three minutes.” She seemed frustrated—frustrated with herself and her research situation. She had recently gotten a grant but didn’t feel her work made any sense. She didn’t understand what was happening in her lab or why it mattered. She did not really understand why she got the grant; it seemed like her work was a bluff. It was all very fuzzy and somehow meaningless, leaving her afloat and frustrated.
By the third day, I partnered with her and simply listened—really listened—for 40 minutes. I allowed her to pause, to reflect, and to sense. Gradually, she realized how much she did make sense. She suddenly saw clearly what specifically wasn’t working in her lab and why it didn’t align with her own values and insights. She was so surprised to find that her fuzzy sense of discomfort with her lab and her research contained very specific considerations, and she was relieved to find herself able to stand her ground and articulate her thoughts.
Afterward, she said, “No one has ever listened to me for more than three minutes.” It’s fascinating, isn’t it? At first glance, it seems like just a matter of degree—listening a little longer, giving a bit more time. But it’s not just a quantitative difference; it’s a qualitative transformation. Something deeply different happens when we give each other more time to make sense, more time to dwell with what feels unresolved.
At first glance, it seems like just a matter of degree—listening a little longer, giving a bit more time. But it’s not just a quantitative difference; it’s a qualitative transformation. Something deeply different happens when we give each other more time to make sense, more time to dwell with what feels unresolved.
JCS: That’s such a great answer. Thank you. Beyond the book you mentioned, are there other resources—books or otherwise—that you’d recommend?
DS: Yes, definitely. Gendlin’s Experiencing and the Creation of Meaning is a foundational text. It lays out an embodied theory of meaning, showing how meaning arises from the interplay between experiential and symbolic dimensions. It’s written in a way that resonates with analytical philosophers, phenomenologists, and psychotherapists alike. For those who want to delve deeper, his Process Model is also very important for understanding embodied critical thinking.
Other resources include John Dewey’s work on the qualitative dimension of thought and The Embodied Mind by Francisco Varela, Evan Thompson, and Eleanor Rosch. Feminist works like Donna Haraway’s Staying with the Trouble and Karen Barad’s writings are also very relevant. They explore embodiment and relationality in profound ways. And obviously there is much more; we have an extended literature list for our TECTU students.
Finally, the body itself is a resource. The embodied dimension is often seen as a danger zone because it involves vulnerability, but it’s also a tremendous resource. It’s anchoring. The more we pay attention to the bodily dimension, the more it becomes like tending a garden. Thich Nath Hanh uses the beautiful metaphor of the garden. Even when addressing the toughest topics, attending to the embodied resonance coming along brings surprising sources of creativity and renewal.
The garden, the natural world in general, is indeed a wonderful metaphor for this kind of resource. Plants find ways to grow around obstacles and bring forth life in unexpected ways. Similarly, our embodied awareness holds creativity and possibilities for navigating challenges. It reminds us that we’re part of a larger natural process—one that knows how to heal and adapt if we allow it, that is, if we stay attentive and learn to think with it.
