MARGARET  COCHRAN — The Enneagram grew out of the teachings of the great Sufi mystic, G. I. Gurdjieff, whose memoir of early 20th-Century pilgrimages, Meetings with Remarkable Men, became a landmark movie in spiritual cinema. But today we care more about the Enneagram than the movie because it is an amazing tool for developing self-awareness.

The Enneagram helps us to realize what motivates us, and how to better understand the sometimes confusing behavior of our friends, family and co-workers — and possibly the most confusing person of all, yourself!

Have you ever looked at the people you know and work with, and wondered why they behave the way they do? Why one person would give you the shirt off their back if you needed it, and another would argue about the importance of needing to wear a shirt? Why would yet another type of person be chronically over-committed and habitually complaining about it, and yet persist in cramming still more things into their already overflowing calendar? What do these very different kinds of people want, and how can they be reached?

The answer to these questions can be found in the nine points, or personality types, in the Enneagram.

The 9 basic types

1. The Perfectionist
2. The Giver
3. The Achiever
4. The Romantic
5. The Observer
6. The Doubter
7. The Dreamer
8. The Leader
9. The Diplomat

To determine your Enneagram type you simply need to read the descriptions of each one, and select the number that best describes you and your behavioral style. For a quick and easy reference guide to help you get started I refer you to my website.

As you explore this system, know that we each possess all nine types of Enneagram energy within us. However, there is one ‘home’ point in which we spend the majority of our ‘psychological time’.

The Enneagram is traditionally displayed as a diagram that takes the form of a clock face with the number ‘nine’ in the customary twelve o’clock position, the number ‘one’ in the customary one o’clock position and with the numbers two through eight spread out evenly in clockwise order around the circle. There are intersecting lines inside the circle that actually form a nine pointed geometric figure, or an enneagram, hence the name.

Which ‘wing’ are you in the Enneagram?

These lines direct the Enneagram user to the interconnectedness of the various points such as the ‘wings’, which are the numbers on either side of your ‘home’ point. They also indicate the ‘heart point’ and the ‘stress point’, which are the places where people’s energies go when they are cathected in something, or someone, for better or worse.

Let’s profile point ‘One’, The Perfectionist, as an example of the Enneagram matrix at work.

‘Ones’ have extremely high expectations and very specific ideas and ideals about what’s right and what’s not. With such exacting standards they are not at all shy about telling those around them how they are ‘doing it wrong’. ‘Ones’ have a powerful internal critic — and as hard as they can be on ‘us,’ it’s nothing compared to the demands that they make of themselves.

‘Ones’ have ‘wings’ of Nine, The Mediator, and Two, The Giver.

As a result, ‘Ones’ want to help others ‘do it right’ — and at the same time they may find that they have difficulty letting go of unused objects, prioritizing tasks and knowing exactly who ‘they’ are. The ‘heart’ point of ‘One’ is Seven, The Dreamer, so when they interact with someone or something that is important to them they want to have fun!

The ‘stress’ point of a ‘One’ is Four, The Romantic. So when a ‘One’ is unhappy, they are intensely, dramatically and over-the-top unhappy!

Do you know a “One’ in your life?

Why the UN should post posters of the Enneagram

Understanding why people behave as they do goes a long way to averting misunderstandings and promoting compassion. If you can laugh about your disparate ‘habits of attention’ and find ways to productively interact with any psychologically-healthy individual, no matter how different your ‘styles’ of reaction and expression may be, this kind of empathy can seal a business deal, cement a friendship, sensitively shape your parenting style and foment your most intimate relationships.

Margaret Cochran is a transpersonal psychologist and licensed social worker with more than 30 years of clinical experience. She has a joint-practice with her partner, medical doctor David J. Waggoner, MD, at the Saratoga Family Health Center, where she takes a whole-person approach to mental health and wellness.

She is also the host of two radio shows: Wisdom, Love and Magic and A Mental Health Moment. This is her second column for Soul’s Code.

BY AUGUST TURAK – I was 21 years old. And for the first and only time in my life, I was sure I was about to die. I was in the passenger seat of my 1963 day-glo green Ford Econoline van with a bubble-shaped skylight on the roof and a madman behind the wheel – a West Virginia hillbilly who happened to be my Zen Master. We had been on our way out West when he’d gotten news that his son was in trouble back in Wheeling, and now he was barreling home with me in tow to do what he could.

The trip had started out two days before on an almost comical note. On a cold dark morning at 5:30, his usual starting time, I was coming up his front steps to pick him up. My van was parked across the street and according to his careful instructions, was full of enough tools, extra tires, and spare parts to rebuild it on the fly if necessary. And because of the Arab oil embargo that year, it was stocked with fifteen gallons of spare gasoline in three five-gallon cans.

Before I could knock, a shadowy apparition, backlit by the hallway light, burst through the door. He obviously had about five layers of clothes on over his short, stocky body. On his head was one of those ridiculous fur-lined black vinyl hats with a fur-lined bill that fastens to the front. The chin straps, which no one who owns one of those hats ever seems to snap, hung loosely to his shoulders, and in his hands were two rope-handled paper bags with enough turkey drumsticks, hard boiled eggs, and bananas to feed us both for a year. This menu was his way of saving time and avoiding restaurant expenses on the road. But what really caught my attention were his outlandish calf-high boots which I am convinced were one of a kind, and which are beyond my powers to describe.

Sensing the question behind my slack-jawed look, his blue eyes lit up with a twinkle. “Yeah,” he said, “I got my mukluks on and I’m ready. I’ve rid’ these stage coaches before. That van of yours has no heat, no seat belts, and it drives like a greased pig. But I reckon I’m more than a match for it. Give me ten square feet to land on and I’ll bring you home OK.”

Blind faith

I was about to find out if he was as good as his promise. On that black, bitterly cold night we were racing home in white-out conditions down the mountainous section of Interstate 70 just before it reaches Wheeling, West Virginia. There were several inches of icy snow on the road already, and he was going way too fast for me and that rickety old van. He had the little 170-cubic-inch engine (which some engineer had decided belonged under a thin metal cover between the seats) wound up so tight I couldn’t hear myself think. Everywhere I looked I saw only imminent disaster.

The windshield wipers barely worked under normal conditions; if the blades had ever been replaced it hadn’t been by me. All I could see in front of us was the fuzzy red glare of what I guessed were tail lights swirling around even faster than the snow. The wind, gusting continually, was pushing us all over the road. Then with a loud shloomp a huge clump of slushy snow splattered the windshield.

Involuntarily recoiling, I jerked my head toward my passenger-side window and found myself staring straight into the wheel hub of a tractor trailer. It was intent on passing in the right-hand lane and was busily spewing wet snow onto my windshield in the process. The wheel was getting closer and closer. Hypnotized with terror, I just watched it inch up.

With a whoosh the truck’s back draft hit, bucking the unstable van left toward the face of the mountain. Looming huge in the headlights, the mountain seemed to lean over, ready to grab us.

In a panic I ratcheted my head toward my driver. He was desperately working the wheel and trying to turn us out of the slide and into the truck’s draft all at once. I’d purchased the van from the phone company. It had a broken frame, and though I’d had it welded, now the front didn’t quite line up with the back. Worse, the steering linkage was old and tired, leaving the wheel with way too much play in it.

This, combined with the snow, the wind, the truck’s buffeting, the nonexistent visibility, had my Zen Master frantically whirling the wheel first one way and then the other faster and faster, like some cartoon character steering a storm tossed ship. The only thing needed to complete the scene would be the wheel coming off in his hands.

He finally pulled us out of the slide, but was now relying only on the steady push of the truck’s draft to keep us from sliding under its wheels. All I could think was: What the hell are we doing in the passing lane? My God, why doesn’t he just slow down and let the damn truck pass? But slowing down just wasn’t in his nature. I was struck by the bat-out-of hell determination etched into his face. It was a face that had made a habit of staring down life and had gotten to like it. If most of us are like candles, this guy was a laser.

My driver never looked back. At that moment, the expression on his face and his purposeful glow seemed to light up the van. With his seat pulled so far forward that he loomed over the steering wheel, that small man looked large.

After what seemed like an eternity, the truck finally passed, and the vacuum this created literally picked the van up and sucked it toward the cliff on our right. Somehow we didn’t go over but instead reverted to wobbling along at what passed for normal in that crazy van on that crazy night.

Moment of truth

That’s when I snapped. I was scared stiff and an hour or so of this was all I could take. Trying unsuccessfully to catch my breath, I heard a voice in my head screaming, How did I get into this mess? What was I thinking? Who is this guy? This can’t be happening. Then I heard the gasoline sloshing around in the cans behind my seat and decided I had to make my move before the next tractor trailer bore down on us.

“Don’t you think we ought to cool it?” I said, shocked by the contrast between my firm intentions and the plaintive plea squeaking from my constricted throat.

“What?” he shouted over the whining motor.

“Don’t you think we ought to cool it?” I repeated loud enough for him to hear me, then glanced furtively in his direction.

I was about to mention the gasoline, but his face, contorted with effort and concentration, swung around and fixed me with those amazing blue eyes. An instant later, all the tension drained from his face. It moved from amusement to a grin that grew wider and wider until all five layers of clothing, goofy hat and mukluks began shaking with laughter.

“What’s the matter Oogie, scared to die?” He shouted with mock seriousness, unable to stop laughing. “If you are, then ride the roof, my boy, ride the roof! From there you can jump off any time you want. You told me you wanted adventure. Here I am riskin’ my neck to deliver, and you’re busy pumpin’ Hail Marys out one end so you don’t make a mess at the other. I know how it is. This Zen stuff’s fine for a sunny day, but when things get tight, call in the cavalry.” He went off into another fit of laughter.

The little blood I had left in my extremities went rushing to my head. I had been saying Hail Marys, but when I’d started and how many I’d said I couldn’t say. In fact if he hadn’t mentioned it…but how did he know? Had I been praying aloud? But the noise… we were shouting just to be heard, and it was too dark to read lips.

When I recovered a bit, I noticed something had changed. He was still a whirling blur at the wheel, but when he looked over, he had the look of someone genuinely concerned.

“Listen,” he finally said in a voice so soft it was almost feminine. So soft, in fact, that amidst all the noise I wonder to this day if he actually spoke or just projected his thoughts into my head.

“Everything’s all right. Everything’s got a purpose and everyone a destiny. I don’t know exactly how things between me and you are supposed to play out, but I do know this: They ain’t going to play out tonight. You’ll see. We’ll be home soon. Everything is all right.”

It was as if an invisible hand reached out, stroked me gently, and pushed me back into my seat. I took the first real breath in what seemed like days and closed my eyes. I noticed with fascination that my racing pulse returned to normal without my help. In that moment I wouldn’t have traded my seat on that 1963 Ford starship with anyone. The next thing I knew we were pulling up to his house, back in Wheeling, safe and sound.

August Turak is a seeker, writer, and speaker who has dedicated his life to teaching others how to prosper spiritually, professionally, and personally through his philosophy service and selflessness. Winner of the Grand Prize in the John Templeton Foundation’s Power of Purpose Essay Contest for his essay Brother John, he is a frequent contributor for Forbes.com and AdvertisingAge. He is currently working on a book based on his highly acclaimed article Business Secrets of the Trappists that chronicles his fifteen year journey living with the Trappist monks of Mepkin Abbey as a frequent monastic guest.  For more, visit AugustTurak.com, follow him at Forbes.com, or email August@augustturak.com.

Daniel in 1960, a few months before the infamous fight

BY DANIEL D. WOO, 1st of 2 parts — In 1960 when I was in 7th grade, a bunch of kids started the “Boo for Woo” club.  I was furious.

Our family moved to the United States in 1953 when I spoke only Mandarin Chinese and not a word of English.  The Geary Act extended the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act until 1943 when the laws were amended allowing up to 105 Chinese immigrants a year.

We came into the US as political refugees and became citizens in 1963 under a special bill passed in Congress. It wasn’t until The Immigration Act of 1965 that the immigration laws were reformed allowing Chinese and other Asians to come into the United States in large numbers.

Our family wound up in a neighborhood in San Jose where there were almost no other Asians, a small number of blacks, and a few Hispanics.  The majority were predominantly white Protestants, and at my school there were also Catholics and Jews.

I was thin-skinned and got into fights with kids who picked on me, no matter what their size.

In 7th grade, what drove me over the edge was having my best friend Jack (not his real name) joining the “Boo for Woo” club. I then challenged Jack and about six other kids to a fist fight (one at a time) on a Saturday in a grassy bowl-shaped depression at our local Willow Glen Park.  There was one part of this bowl that had a stone wall and we fought near it, with the other boys standing above us on the wall or higher up on the grass.

Jack was Jewish with wonderful parents who had lost many relatives in the Holocaust. I used to enjoy going to Jack’s house and listening to his mom, an English woman, talk.

On that Saturday, my younger brother was my “second.”  We went to the bowl on a hot sunny day.  I remember my brother crying.  Everybody I challenged showed up and a number of other kids from school.

Jack and I fought for some time with bare fists.  I remember having swollen knots on my face, jaw and hands for weeks afterwards.  At some point during the fight, everybody decided that this was no longer fun and the fight ended. The “Boo for Woo” club disbanded.

Jack and I were never close afterwards.  Neither one of us apologized to the other.  My last memory of seeing Jack in person was driving him home one day from the UC Berkeley campus where we both went to undergraduate school.

About three years ago, I woke up and realized that the fight was my fault.  I had lost track of Jack.  A few times I tried to google Jack to locate him but was unsuccessful.  I had heard he had moved to the Pacific Islands or Hawaii.

Then, in February 2009, I received an inquiry from Jack through an email.

“In the summer of 1956 when I was eight years old (obviously, before I had met you), my Mom and my sister and I spent the summer in _______, England.  We stayed at my grandparents’ house.  Across the street was a kid the same age as me, with whom I spent a lot of time that summer.  I haven’t seen him since.  Then, about a month ago, that is, over 40 years later, he tracks me down via e-mail.  For no apparent reason, that I can discern.   Anyway, the reason I brought up this story is to segway [sic] into the reason why I ended up contacting you this morning.  I happened to be reading David Copperfield and something in Chapter 18 reminded me of you.  Take a look at it; the answer is fairly obvious.  Let me know if you figure it out.

Read part two of Daniel’s story.

Daniel D. Woo woke up to an understanding that suffering is not ended until view, intention and action are changed.  He continues learning how little he knows and experiencing how kindness changes the universe.  Dan also practices law in Seattle, Washington.  You can reached him via Facebook or Linkedin.

BY DANIEL D. WOO, 2nd of two parts — I immediately found Chapter 18 and read it; here’s a paragraph:

“It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a select body of our boys; the butcher, by two other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep. The preliminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to face.

In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don’t know where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we are always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon the trodden grass.

Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but confident; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second’s knee; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to discompose him at all.

At last I awake, very queer about the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; from which I augur, justly, that the victory is his.”

After reading this, I emailed Jack. saying in part:

“I am sorry about that infamous fight in Willow Glen Park.  I have not forgotten that fight.   I was too sensitive then about race and also didn’t have enough sense of humor.  When the “Boo for Woo” club started, I was very mad and incorrectly felt that this was Chinese-baiting.

My parents were highly sensitive about being Chinese and constantly impressed on my brother and myself that we had to stand up for the “Woo” clan and then “Chinese” in general.  Today I think this was very screwed-up thinking.  Although I felt it was too much of a burden, I had not yet fully appreciated how off such a view of life was.”

Judaic forgiveness: Jacob and Esau reconciling after decades of distant hostility (Genesis 33:4)

Jack emailed me back the next morning with his telephone number.  He said in part:

I really appreciate your responding to my message.  I’ve done an awful lot of dumb things in my life, but far and away the one that I’m most ashamed of is that incident.  Believe it or not, I think about it a lot.

In Judaism there are four elements to obtaining forgiveness from G-d for a sin, let’s say, for stealing something:  you have to acknowledge in your own heart and mind that you did wrong, promise G-d that you won’t do it again, give back the stolen item, and tell the person you stole from that you’re sorry.  The last one is often the hardest.  If you do all four, we believe G-d will forgive you, even if the person you wronged never does.  Maybe one day we can put it to rest.”

I immediately emailed Jack:

“As the years went by, I didn’t blame you.  I realized a long time ago that I made an unthinking, unmindful response about things that were not really the real problem (which included a great amount of misguided anger growing up in an angry, dysfunctional and sometimes violent household).

I’m glad you contacted me.  I tried to find your name through google a few times the past few years, but I had forgotten how to spell it correctly.  I have a 10 am conference call and will call you afterwards.  I’ve adopted a spiritual practice, part of which involves contemplation, meditation and prayer.  Sometimes I use different spiritual writings for reflection during meditation or prayer.

One of the books that I’ve been going through is by Sylvia Boorstein, a Buddhist and Jew who wrote “That’s Funny, You Don’t Look Buddhist.”  I’m just finishing one by a British Quaker and Buddhist.  I’ll be glad to talk to you soon.”

Later that morning I called Jack, and we spoke for quite some time.  Jack said that he moved back to San Jose and for well over a decade he drove by Willow Glen Park on the way to work and every time he drove by the park, he felt ashamed.

Jack said that he had not done anything else in his life that made him more ashamed. I told him that I had forgiven any part that he had in this fight long ago, and that the amends were mine to make. We talked for about an hour, and the conversation gave him some peace. I also felt some more spaciousness.

Since our conversation, I have reflected on the fact that the anger and fear that surrounded the fight in that grass bowl lived on in Jack for almost 49 years in ways that I had not considered or foreseen.  His words told me that my anger harmed him more than it did me at the time. And I have no means of knowing how much of this may have in ways consciously or unconsciously affected others.

Read part one of this series: A lawyer’s tale of race and reconciliation