Attitude is among the long list of concepts we have explored in this project — concepts used frequently and freely, that most people would struggle to define when asked directly. Attitude has a unique property that sets it apart from the others on this list: most of us, despite not knowing what attitude actually is, can readily and accurately identify a good attitude and a bad attitude when we come across one, in ourselves and in others — we somehow know it when we see it.
Let’s start with a definition: Attitude is the ‘editor’ of the brain’s production of reality.
Attitude operates on incoming data before it reaches conscious awareness, labeling it as positive or negative, attractive or repulsive, relevant or irrelevant.
The editing process unfolds according to predetermined general rules that determine how the raw material is handled. Some of the editing rules are innate, and many are acquired, mostly during the “formative” years. Editing the incoming data according to set rules saves the brain the cost of processing each piece of raw information from scratch, thereby supporting computational efficiency. The bottom line is that the final product — (subjective) reality — is shaped, to a lesser or greater extent, by one’s attitude.
Consider, as an analogy, the role of a movie editor. The editor’s function is critical in defining the final movie, and the quality of the editing greatly impacts the quality of the final product.
The editing rules for a G-rated movie require cutting all sexual and violent material. By adhering to these rules, the editor ensures that the final product will work well as a children’s movie. However, if the same editor applies the same rules to their next project — an X-rated film — the production will fail. A good editor must be familiar with the editing rules, understand the production’s aims, and apply the rules accordingly. A good attitude meets the same criteria.
Attitude and mood are easily conflated because both influence the shape of subjective reality, but they are distinct brain functions serving different purposes. Mood, the nonverbal summary of one’s present emotional tone and intensity, functions as a rapid broadcast (to one’s own brain and to others) of the perceived quality of the moment. Attitude is a function of the brain’s cognitive system, which, as just mentioned, applies defined rules to edit the information on its way toward consciousness. Mood can impact the cognitive assessment of reality (i.e., a good mood can lead one to overestimate the quality of a moment; a bad mood, the reverse) (Bower, 1981) and thus the shape of the final product, but that is a byproduct, not the mood’s function. Attitude’s primary function is to shape the final product through its editing.
The product of a good attitude is a (subjective) reality in which one operates optimally in pursuing one’s aspirations; a bad attitude produces one that hinders them. That explains why we can identify the workings of attitude even if we don’t know what it is — we can detect the quality of the product even if we can’t see the producer.
The effect of the editing rules is that data about reality arrives in consciousness already interpreted and labeled. No deliberation is required; no ‘figuring out’ takes place. For example, if one’s attitude about strangers is such that they are suspicious and potentially dangerous, when a stranger shows up in the screen of consciousness, they automatically register as suspicious and potentially dangerous — as a matter of fact. The attitudinal editing renders the data meaningful before awareness begins, and that meaning is experienced as a feature of reality itself — not as an interpretation of it. The product of the attitude is treated as a discovery, not as the add-on that it is. This is what makes attitude so efficient — and so consequential. The interpretation is invisible to the operator; the edited reality seems a representation of the way things simply are.
The fact that attitude shapes reality before awareness of that reality sets in has far-reaching implications: If we have no volitional say in its workings — no influence over the editing rules — then freedom of choice is nonexistent. Even if we can make choices about the material that appears in consciousness, if this material has been shaped by an editing process that is completely outside our influence, these choices would be stylistic rather than substantive — a selection among predetermined offerings. For freedom of choice to be real, it must begin at the editorial level.
This is not to say that we can fully determine our attitude. We cannot — as mentioned, some of the editing rules are innate, hardwired, and in general, attitude operates automatically. But, if we don’t inhabit a deterministic universe in which every experience of choosing is an illusion, we must have some volitional influence over the workings of our attitude.
Moreover, the argument works in both directions: if freedom of choice cannot exist without volitional influence over one’s attitude, then wherever freedom of choice does exist, it must extend to the attitudinal level. Since freedom of choice is one of the three foundational axioms of this work (as discussed in the Axioms chapter), it follows that human beings can exercise some degree of choice over their attitude. This chapter aims to identify where and how that influence can be exercised.
The Editing Rules
Some of our attitudinal editing rules are hardwired — their effects are universal and present at birth (or very shortly thereafter). For example, newborn brains edit maternal smell and touch as desirable and appealing, and the smell of rotten meat as repulsive. These innate editing rules serve survival and require no learning. Other rules are acquired — learned from others or gained through experience; for the most part, this happens during the formative years (arguably, the main “thing” that forms in the formative years is one’s attitude), though the process of acquiring new editing rules continues throughout life.
Consider, as an example, a person who, as a child, was bitten by a dog. The experience can lead to an acquired attitudinal editing rule: dogs equal danger. If, as an adult, this person rarely encounters dogs in their daily life, the rule — dysfunctional though it may be — has negligible impact on their choices. However, if they fall in love with a dog breeder, someone who raises dogs for a living, the same editing rule becomes acutely consequential. To avoid a broken heart, our imaginary lover would do well to update this attitudinal editing rule. In other words, acquired editing rules can be dysfunctional without causing a problem, depending on one’s life circumstances. When circumstances change, rules that were irrelevant can become central and consequential.
The key point here is that acquired editing rules can be updated. This is not easy — the rules were installed by experience, often early and emotionally intense, and they resist revision. But with sustained effort and repetition, they can be modified. An updated rule may not “stick” at first, but with deliberate repetition — i.e., with practice — it will become easier to apply and gradually, over time, it can become the new default. This updatability is at the foundation of the practices of mindfulness and psychotherapy. If attitudinal editing rules were fixed, awareness of them would be intellectually interesting but practically useless. Because they can be changed, awareness becomes actionable.
The most fundamental attitudinal questions — those governing the perception of time (i.e., past, present, and future) and the basic categories of consciousness (i.e., Self, Other, and Process) — are the ones whose optimal settings in the context of the pursuit of happiness can be identified and deliberately cultivated. All other editing rules may well be context-dependent and fluid.
At this point, I am compelled to digress (briefly, I promise) with the offering of a bird’s-eye view of consciousness, to provide context for the following discussion: All the material that can appear in consciousness — everything one can be aware of — maps onto three axes. The first is Content, which has three categories: Self (data pertaining to the operator), Other (data pertaining to everything that is not the operator), and Process (data pertaining to the change the Self, the Other, and their relationship undergo). The second axis is Time, which has three compartments: Past, Present, and Future. The third is Quality, which has two poles: positive and negative.
The Quality axis is primarily governed by feelings rather than by the attitudinal editing function. If something feels good, it receives a positive rating; if it feels bad, a negative one. The more intense the feeling, the higher the rating in either direction (attitude may influence quality indirectly, but the assignment of positive or negative valence is, at its core, a sensory-affective process — attitude and the felt quality of experience operate in parallel — because reality must register fast enough to allow real-time functioning, feelings determine perceived quality directly, (as discussed in the Mood and the Pursuit of Happiness chapter) faster than attitudinal editing can). Attitude primarily impacts the Content and the Time axes, and in so doing, it arguably shapes subjective reality more profoundly than any other factor within one’s influence.
[Sidebar: Every human thought can be pinpointed using this three-axis system: During wakefulness, every thought you ever had focused on one of three areas: yourself, someone (or something) else, or the process of change (affecting the self, the other, or their relative position). Similarly, every thought you ever had was anchored to a time frame so that it was either recalling the past, engaging with the present, or imagining the future (the surreal nature of dreams, and possibly of psychotic/psychedelic experiences, is partly produced by severing the link to time frames). Lastly, every thought you had (with the exception of fleeting thoughts that disappear before they register consciously) had a valency, a positive or negative charge, determined by the quality of your feelings about it.]
Attitude and Time
(This is an important topic. It is dealt with relatively briefly here because all its key points are reviewed in detail elsewhere.) The optimal attitude toward time (i.e., the time-frame editing rules most conducive to the pursuit of happiness) is encapsulated in the following triad: forgiveness of the past, acceptance of the present, and hope for the future. In other words, the explicit editing rules could be stated as follows: treat all recalled data (i.e., data from the past) with forgiveness, treat all present data with acceptance, and all data pertaining to the future with hope. Each of these capacities has been discussed in detail in its own chapter; here, the point is their integration as a unified attitudinal orientation toward time.
When the brain edits data stored in the Past compartment with forgiveness, data in the Future compartment with hope, and data in the Present compartment with acceptance, the result is a general attitudinal orientation optimally aligned with the effective pursuit of happiness. Without these editing rules, the orientation is at risk of shifting — toward rumination about the past, dread of the future, or combative resistance of the present. These shifts are likely to result in an overarching attitude of attachment or detachment, rather than one of commitment — the optimal option in the pursuit of happiness (as discussed in the Attachment and Commitment chapter).
Caring (i.e., passion) is a prerequisite for the effective pursuit of happiness. Caring combined with non-attachment manifests as commitment — the (operationally) optimal relationship between a consciousness and its aspiration(s). The relationship between the triad (forgiveness, acceptance, and hope) and caring is bidirectional. In one direction, forgiveness, acceptance, and hope are irrelevant without caring — one does not struggle to forgive what one doesn’t care about, does not wrestle with accepting what one is indifferent to, and hope is irrelevant when dealing with a future one doesn’t care about. In the other direction, the triad makes caring (which inherently raises the risk of suffering) safe — forgiveness makes caring about the past safe, acceptance makes it safe to care about the present, and hope protects caring about the future.
[Sidebar: As discussed in the Depression chapter, cultivating compassion is cultivating the right attitude toward time. The point is worth revisiting here because the attitudinal editing framework reveals the mechanism behind it. Acceptance is the centerpiece of compassion (by its definition — the capacity to accept someone exactly as they are). Acceptance is meaningful only when supported by forgiveness of the past and hope for the future (without forgiveness, acceptance is conditional and on shaky grounds; without hope, acceptance becomes surrender). These are precisely the editing rules that define the optimal attitude toward time.
This raises an intriguing possibility: the extraordinary emphasis that every major human spiritual tradition places on compassion may not be primarily designed to promote interpersonal smoothness. The value so broadly associated with compassion seems to extend beyond the value of being nice to one another — which is not a bad policy, but less central to the human condition than the pursuit of happiness. Cultivating compassion may actually be cultivating the optimal attitudinal editing rules for relating to time — a much bigger deal than its interpersonal benefits alone would suggest. (For detailed relevant discussions, see the Happiness, Forgiveness, Acceptance, and Hope chapters in the Theory section.)]
Attitude and Content
The attitude toward the content in consciousness is founded on three binary choices, corresponding to the three categories of content in consciousness: Self, Other, and Process.
Each of these choices is captured in a question with two possible answers; imagine them as three mental switches that must be set to one of two positions. In other words, the choices are always made — selecting the switch positions is a required part of routine mental operations.
The setting of the switches (i.e., one’s choices) can change from one minute to the next, with or without one’s awareness. However, conscious awareness is required in order to select the switches’ positions deliberately, which, arguably, is the most rudimentary expression of free will. That is, the earliest manifestation of freedom of choice may be the positioning of these switches. If one cannot exercise free will here — if the switch settings are predetermined — then, even if choices are available later in the processing chain, the path has been set. Without volitional influence at this level, subsequent choices amount to decorating a room with paintings chosen by someone else. One may have the freedom to choose how to deal with the material that reaches consciousness, but the material itself has already been shaped without allowance of volitional influence.
The two options associated with each fundamental attitudinal question are radically different but equally valid. Neither can be proven right or wrong by evidence or logic. This is precisely what invites freedom of choice into the mix: if one answer were demonstrably correct, selecting it would be recognition, not expression of free will. However, the two positions are not equally functional. One configuration — what we will call the optimal setting — produces a subjective reality more conducive to the pursuit of happiness (i.e., optimal, here, means functionally superior — not closer to objective truth, but more conducive to making good choices in the context of the pursuit of happiness).
The first question pertains to human nature: Is human nature inherently harmless — is it not in human nature to cause harm deliberately — or is the capacity for deliberate harm part of what humans are? Or, in other words, in one position, the point of view is that human nature is 100% devoid of evil. The alternative switch setting permits some degree of evil as an inborn natural human trait — it may only be a minimal, “trace amount” of evil and, in the extreme, afflicting only a single person in the history of humanity, but, if it is possible at all, evil could be an inherent feature of every person, to any degree.
These two opposite views of human nature are equally valid. The point of view from which it is in human nature to inflict harm deliberately hardly needs to be argued — it is the culturally dominant position, and the evidence appears overwhelming. History is, in no small part, a record of deliberate cruelty, from individual acts of violence to industrialized genocide. The conclusion follows naturally: humans, for example, Hitler, are capable of monstrous behavior because something monstrous resides in human nature.
The alternative position holds that human nature is inherently harmless. That is, that every thought and act of cruelty, every expression of deliberate harm ever produced by a human being, is not an expression of human nature but rather a manifestation of how easily a person can be derailed from their true nature. From this point of view, what removes us from our true harmless nature is suffering — disease, ignorance, intoxication, trauma. From this position, Hitler’s actions were monstrous; his nature was not. As a human being, his nature could not have incorporated evil. He was suffering.
Neither position can be proven. Both are equally defensible. The choice between them is an exercise of free will.
The subjective realities generated by the two positions differ significantly. The first position places one in a universe populated by potential monsters — an environment in which any human could, to some degree, harbor a dangerous nature, without showing it in any detectable way. Operating in such a universe requires constant vigilance against the threat that others may pose. The second position places one in a universe devoid of human-looking monsters. In this universe, one still needs to be alert and vigilant — but the vigilance is directed at recognizing suffering (and, for everyone’s sake, working to minimize it).
In the first universe, encountering someone who causes harm confirms the darkness of human nature and invites self-protective withdrawal or retaliation. In the second universe, encountering someone who causes harm calls for the recognition of their suffering (and, by extension, compassion — which, as just discussed, supports the optimal attitude toward time). The first universe is governed by suspicion and reactivity; the second, by the possibility of understanding and activity. The two universes are equally reasonable, but one is more conducive to the pursuit of happiness.
The second question pertains to what arguably is the most consequential aspect of the Other category — the relative value of human life: Is it a singularity, such that the value of every human life is exactly the same as that of any other, or could the lives of different individuals have different values, creating a value hierarchy?
The singular-value position holds that every human life — one’s own child, the Dalai Lama, Hitler, the homeless person on the street corner — possesses the same value as every other. This does not mean that the actions of different people have the same value, or that one should care equally about all people.
Of course, we may care more about one person (e.g., one’s child) than we care about another (e.g., the stranger on the street corner). But caring — the intensity of one’s emotional response — is not a marker of value. Furthermore, the actions of one person (e.g., a person who finds a cure for cancer) may appear to matter more than the actions of another (e.g., a fully disabled, bedridden person). But neither of these assessments reflects the value of the lives involved.
[Sidebar: The distinction between caring, matterness, and significance (discussed in detail in the Caring, Matterness, and Significance chapter) is operative here: caring and matterness can and do vary between individuals. But significance — the objective value of a life — is, by definition, unknowable.]
These two positions, like the first pair, are neither provable nor disprovable. Neither can be proved nor disproved, and both produce internally consistent yet radically different subjective realities. The hierarchical point of view generates a competitive reality: If there is more than a single value to human lives, there can be an infinite number of values, which calls for constant monitoring to ensure one’s own life is not unjustifiably devalued; it also raises concern about being exposed as unjustly overvalued (often referred to as ‘imposter syndrome’). In this universe, comparison of status and rank potentially permeates every interpersonal interaction.
The singular-value position generates a universe in which such concerns are irrelevant. The relative attribution of more or less value to any human life is simply mistaken — there is only one value. Since we express the recognition of value by showing respect, in this universe, one’s self, the Dalai Lama, and the homeless person on the street automatically garner the same respect.
Again, the two universes are equally reasonable, but one is more conducive to the pursuit of happiness.
The third question pertains to the nature of reality itself: Is reality perfect, or could it harbor even a single flaw? Is all that exists flawless, or could there be a flaw in it? (Note that allowing even a single flaw in reality since its onset allows infinite flaws.)
The position that reality is flawed is, once again, the culturally dominant one. Suffering, injustice, disease, natural and man-made catastrophes — these appear to be self-evident flaws in the fabric of existence. The conclusion often seems too obvious to examine: bad things happen because something is wrong with reality.
The alternative — and equally defensible — position holds that reality is flawless. From this point of view, all that appears to be a flaw is, in every case, an unmet preference.
Let me illustrate this point: I think it is safe to say that the preference for health over illness is universal — e.g., people prefer not to have a cardiac infarction, i.e., a heart attack, over having one. Suffering a heart attack readily registers as encountering a flaw in reality (trust me on this, I speak from experience). However, the occurrence of a heart attack (regardless of the owner of said heart) is not evidence of a flaw in the universe. A heart attack results from an oxygen supply-and-demand mismatch (i.e., the heart muscle’s demand for oxygen exceeds the supply). It is not a flaw or a breakdown — it’s the opposite, as it manifests complete adherence to the relevant physical, chemical, and physiological rules. (If a heart didn’t get the oxygen it needs and did not infarct, that would be a flaw — a violation of the laws of nature.)
A heart attack is experienced as a flaw only in a universe that permits flaws. If the third-question switch is set to flawless, no event — even an extremely painful one — can register as evidence of a broken universe. Rationally, in a flawless universe, the sense of a flaw that normally accompanies painful, undesired events must be recognized as the brain’s response when its preferences are not fulfilled or frustrated.
The obvious objection deserves to be named directly: isn’t “unmet preference” just a semantic exercise? When a child dies of cancer, does it matter whether one calls it a flaw or a frustrated preference? The answer is functional, not metaphysical. Both framings are equally defensible. But the one that does not posit a broken universe leaves one in a fundamentally better position to accept reality and act from that acceptance. The notion of a flaw invites a fight with reality, invariably a futile undertaking. (This point is discussed in greater detail in the Acceptance and Depression chapters.)
The question of perfection follows the same pattern: its two possible answers are equally valid and equally unprovable. The subjective realities they produce, however, are starkly different. In a flaw-permitting universe, suffering is evidence that something is wrong with reality — that things could and should have been different. In the flawless universe, suffering is evidence of a frustrated preference — painful, but not a malfunction. Acceptance is profoundly easier in the second universe. Once again, both universes are equally reasonable, but one is more conducive to the pursuit of happiness.
Cultivating Right Attitude
The attitude that results from setting all three switches to the optimal position (i.e., harmless nature, singular value, flawless process) shapes subjective reality in a way that renders it more “user-friendly.” It cannot be argued that this subjective reality is closer to “The Truth” or that it is provably more accurate than any of the alternatives (although it may be). The argument here is that it is more conducive to making mindful choices in the pursuit of happiness. For example, the point of view from which a person who causes harm deliberately is suffering automatically invites compassion (which, as discussed, integrates forgiveness, acceptance, and hope). The point of view that holds there is only a single value to human life promotes humility and collaboration, as it negates arrogance (a source of intoxication) and separatism. The perception of reality as flawless, as discussed, eases acceptance (particularly when reality is difficult to accept) and helps reject the perception of oneself as a victim of circumstances. The claim here is not that this attitude is more righteous; it is that it is more effective — it works better.
It is important to understand what “setting a switch” means in practice. When an attitudinal switch is set to a given position, the editing it produces is automatic. Data about reality passes through the attitudinal editor and arrives in consciousness already shaped by the switch’s position. This is not a cognitive strategy — one does not encounter a piece of reality and then consciously decide how to interpret it. The interpretation is delivered with the data.
For example, when the “human-nature switch” is set to the position that humans are inherently harmless, any instance in which a person appears to cause harm deliberately shows up in consciousness as evidence of how suffering can cause people to depart from their natural tendencies. When the switch is in the opposite position, the same event shows up as evidence of the capacity for evil inherent in human nature. When the “value switch” is set to singular, interactions with others proceed without an implicit comparison of relative worth. In the hierarchical position, such comparison is automatic — it accompanies the encounter uninvited. When the “perfection switch” is set to flawless, a painful experience triggers an automatic search for the frustrated preference behind it. In the flawed position, the same experience registers as evidence of reality’s imperfections; moreover, even neutral or pleasant experiences can become suspect, since in a flaw-permitting universe, any apparently flawless piece of reality may harbor a flaw not yet recognized.
The same automaticity applies to the attitude toward time. When the time switches are set to the optimal positions, material from the past shows up in consciousness as forgivable, thoughts about the future arrive accompanied by hope, and the present registers as fundamentally acceptable. When they are not, recalling the past readily triggers grievances, contemplating the future readily triggers dread, and dealing with the present readily invites futile resistance.
As noted earlier, the switch positions are not fixed; on the contrary, setting them is a part of the brain’s routine operations. Their positions shift readily, often from one minute to the next, typically without conscious awareness: At 8 AM, over morning coffee, one may be operating from the position that human nature is harmless, that all lives have the same value, and that reality is flawless. By 8:30, running late to an important meeting, stuck in rush-hour traffic surrounded by cluelessly aggressive drivers, one or more of the switches may flip. As the switch positions change, the universe one inhabits is transformed into a world inhabited by evil monsters (who look like regular humans), most of whom are completely worthless (and therefore shouldn’t be allowed to use the public roads, like worthy individuals, not to mention given the right of way); of course, this world is riddled with flaws — being stuck in traffic is a present example; losing one’s job (because they missed an important meeting, even though they were not responsible — it happened because of a terrible traffic jam) is a future, pending example.
This happens constantly, and I suspect there is no way to set the switches permanently in the optimal positions. But that is not our problem. The problem is that we flip them without knowing we are doing it. With awareness, we have a chance to set them deliberately.
Cultivating this awareness constitutes a practice in itself — one that can be exercised at any moment one chooses. It comes down to pausing one’s stream of thoughts — deliberately stepping away from one’s thought process to reflect on it. The exploration that follows (in the context of cultivating the right attitude) begins with the question: “What is the time frame of the thought I am entertaining?” If the answer is the past (i.e., the captured thought is a memory or a recollection), the next step is to check the “forgiveness switch” setting with a question such as: “Is my mind ready to forgive whatever the trip down memory lane may expose?” If yes — no intervention is needed; the attitude setting (on this point) ensures it is safe to carry on. If not, (i.e., one discovers that their attitude at that moment is incompatible with offering blanket forgiveness for all that is in the past), the practice splits into two optional paths: One can choose to practice resetting the “forgiveness switch” to ‘on’ (which amounts to practicing cultivating forgiveness and is reviewed in the same titled chapter in the Practice section), or one can practice redirecting attention away from the past material, until it is safe to return to it (as discussed in the First Order of Business chapter in the Practice section).
A parallel sequence follows the discovery that the mind is processing future material (i.e., the captured thought is a plan or a speculation, a product of one’s imagination). In this case, the next step is to check the “hope switch” setting by asking: “Is my mind operating with the conviction that the future has the potential to be better than the present?” If so, it is safe to proceed. If not, (i.e., one discovers that their attitude at that moment is incompatible with sustaining hope for everything the future holds), the practice splits into two optional paths: One can choose to practice resetting the “hope switch” to ‘on’ (which amounts to practicing cultivating hope and is reviewed in the same titled chapter in the Practice section), or one can practice redirecting attention away from processing future material until it is safe to return to it (as discussed in the First Order of Business chapter in the Practice section).
When the introspection reveals that the mind is processing the present, the situation is somewhat different. The stakes are higher (i.e., the potential damage that can result from dealing with the present without accepting it is greater), and it is more difficult to stop thinking about something that is happening right now, as it is happening, than to stop processing material from one’s memory bank or imagination.
It is not impossible to redirect one’s attention away from the present — but it is harder, and when the present demands a response, redirection may not be a viable option. Consequently, the awareness that one is dealing with the present calls for ensuring that the “acceptance switch” is set to ‘on’ with extra urgency.
This is where the framework presented in the Acceptance chapter becomes directly practical: The challenge of acceptance is never really about accepting the facts — that, as discussed, normally happens automatically. The challenge is to accept how the facts make one feel. Hence, focusing on the facts is unlikely to help. Focusing on one’s tolerance in that moment, i.e., the willingness to experience the emotional discomfort without reacting to it, is where the real work of acceptance begins. In addition, since acceptance is supported by gratitude, the practice of cultivating gratitude (as discussed in the relevant chapter) can be quite effective at this point. Lastly, the specific emotion that is proving difficult to accept can itself be examined mindfully — identifying and accurately labeling the difficult-to-accept feeling (e.g., misery, grief, injustice, self-doubt, etc.), then engaging with it on its own terms typically opens pathways to acceptance that a generalized effort to “just accept it” cannot.
The same introspective pause can be applied to the three content “switches.” If reflection reveals that one is operating from the point of view that humans are inherently capable of evil, or that some lives are worth more than others, or that reality is flawed, one must recruit logic — as presented earlier in this chapter (and elsewhere in this project) in support of repositioning the switch.
Relying on reason in the negotiations with difficult emotions is not easy. The motivation to stay on the rational course is enhanced by clarity of how these views contribute to the formation of a subjective reality that hinders rather than supports one’s pursuits.
A mental experiment useful for promoting this insight might be called “the dual-screen experiment”: Imagine a person (yourself or an imaginary person) displayed on two screens simultaneously. Everything is 100% identical on both screens — the same actors, the same starting circumstances, the same reality. The only difference is that one of the switches is in one position on one screen and the opposite position on the other (for example, on one screen the leading actor operates with the conviction that humans can be inherently evil; the same actor on other screen operates with the conviction that people can become deliberately harmful under the influence of suffering; everything else on the two screens is exactly the same). Hit play on both and let your imagination take you through what is likely to transpire. Before long, a divergence between the two screens will emerge, which can gradually become striking. Practicing this mental experiment can make the functional impact of the “switch positions” viscerally apparent in a way that abstract reasoning alone may fail to accomplish.
The three “attitudinal switches” can also prove useful as a diagnostic tool, applicable not only to one’s own attitude but also to the attitudes one encounters in others. Consider, for example, going to a restaurant where the server projects a bad attitude. Rather than simply reacting to it, one can pause and reflect on what is derailing the server’s attitude. Does he seem to operate as if I am inherently a source of danger to him — a potential monster to be managed? Does he seem to operate as if his life has more value than mine (and therefore he shouldn’t be serving me), or as if my life isn’t valuable enough to qualify for good service? Does he project a sense that there is a flaw in the situation — that either he or I shouldn’t be there at all?
In addition to offering a chance to understand another person’s conduct correctly — and thus address them more effectively — this exercise can illustrate another important point: Since most diners leave a smaller tip to a server who projects a bad attitude than to a server who projects a positive one, and since the waiter is there to earn a living (waiting tables is hardly a hobby), by projecting a bad attitude, the waiter gets in his own way. A bad attitude is not just unpleasant to encounter. It is self-defeating.
The concept of attitude as an editing function that can be improved through a mental practice overlaps with central ideas in Buddhist psychology — particularly Right View (sammā-diṭṭhi), the first factor of the Eightfold Path, and cetanā (volition), one of the universal mental factors in the Abhidharma tradition. Both are understood in Buddhism as trainable, and both are considered foundational to the reduction of suffering (Bhikkhu Bodhi, 2000a, 2000b).
Attitude is among the most consequential functions in the human psychological repertoire — it is a central factor shaping (subjective) reality. The rules of its operation are partially innate, partially acquired, and — critically — within our volitional influence, albeit to a limited extent. The three questions at its core don’t have right or wrong answers. Their answers should be evaluated against an operational backdrop, i.e., it’s not which answer is right, but which answer works better to support the pursuit of happiness. The practice of scrutinizing one’s “attitudinal switches” is not a one-time philosophical exercise. It is an ongoing calibration linked to the actual, ever-changing conditions of one’s life. The act of selecting one’s “switch settings” may be the first and most fundamental exercise of freedom of choice. Everything that follows — every choice one makes in the pursuit of happiness — unfolds in a universe whose character has already been shaped by these foundational settings.
REFERENCES
Bhikkhu Bodhi (Trans.). (2000a). A comprehensive manual of Abhidhamma: The Abhidhammattha Sangaha of Ācariya Anuruddha. Pariyatti Publishing.
Bhikkhu Bodhi (Trans.). (2000b). The connected discourses of the Buddha: A translation of the Saṃyutta Nikāya. Wisdom Publications.
Bower, G. H. (1981). Mood and memory. American Psychologist, 36(2), 129–148. https://doi.org/10.1037/0003-066X.36.2.129