Styles of Personhood: Which One Is Yours?

Readers familiar with my blog know that many posts focus on the “pathways of experience,” that is, on the fundamental ways in which people encounter the world. Those pathways I’ve identified as work, play, ritual, and communion.

To be specific, “work” refers to behaviors where we turn the world to our own, often long-range purposes. Those goals — perhaps curing an illness, meeting a sales quota, or just receiving a paycheck — are what matters. Our behaviors are merely instruments for achieving them.

“Play” signifies another kind of confrontation. When we play, we voluntarily undertake challenges that test and, ideally, expand our capabilities. Ultimately, the activity itself — and our experience of it — is critical. In that spirit, we fly a kite, build a sandcastle, or play a game of cards with friends.

Differently again, “ritual” refers to our attempts to find and use stable frameworks for thought, feeling, and behavior. Rituals — from simple personal habits to social courtesies to sublime religious practices — are acknowledgments that the forms and forces of the world can become guides to living. They anchor us and free our minds for creative endeavors.

Finally, “communion” describes our attempts to bond with otherness and, in so doing, to feel the blessings of relationships. In that sense, we cherish happy times with friends and family; we enjoy festivals and concerts; we stand awestruck before the beauties of nature. Occasions like these remind us we are not alone in the universe.

Each pathway provides certain life lessons. Each has its limitations. That is why we should incorporate all four strategies into our daily behaviors. A life missing any of them is a life impoverished.

Styles of personhood

I think most of us would say we do incorporate these different commitments into our life practices. However, it is also the case that we have preferred, or even dominant, styles of being. In other words, we feel more comfortable behaving in some ways than in others. That behavior style becomes the primary way we relate to the people we care about. It identifies us as a person of a certain sort. Indeed, we may think of ourselves as a worker, player, ritualist, or communalist.

I’ll note that some of the strategies we employ don’t feel like “preferences.” They are patterns that have been forced on us by necessities of living. Perhaps we’ve adopted this style to complement the quite different approach of a spouse or partner. Maybe it’s the result of a family style we’ve come to accept. Pointedly, we may not enjoy being the people we are. And dominant styles may change as we move through the life cycle.

With those qualifications, I want to expand the four styles here. After all, the point is to see if we can recognize ourselves in any of the patterns. And if that’s the case, do we see any reason to change?

The worker

Workers are committed to change. They have goals to meet, procedures to implement. Effectiveness is important, so is efficiency. There are, in this view of things, better — and worse — ways of doing a job. The worker’s challenge is to discover those superior strategies and implement them. That’s the way to get things done.

When we think about work, typically we focus on paid employment. However, that’s a small portion of our working lives. Major parts of every day are spent preparing and cleaning up after meals, taking the kids to school, and so forth. We may not enjoy these activities, but we see them as necessities, ways of establishing and maintaining our existence.

I’ve written elsewhere about what I call the “productivity compulsion.” Some of us feel strongly that we should stay busy. A day in which we don’t “accomplish anything” is a day wasted. For us, the ideal life means checking off items on a things-to-do list. Work of this sort features satisfactions more than joys. Turning in at night, we say to our partner, “I can’t believe all the things we did today.”

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There is much to be said for this style of life, as it centers on solid outcomes — for the self and others — rather than transitory pleasure. Still, what compulsive worker hasn’t asked themself if their dogged pursuit was really worth it? Forty years and a framed certificate later, they wonder if life got away from them.

The player

Folklore and literature are filled with examples of players who set aside the responsibilities of adulthood for childlike escapades. Think of Aesop’s grasshoppers, Peter Pan, or even poor Pinocchio. Typically, these are cautionary tales, warnings to the children of duty-oriented societies.

However, play in its less indulgent forms is one of the mainstays of personal well-being. When we play, we explore the boundaries of our lives. We learn what the world can do to us and what we can do to it in return. We establish goals, set restrictions, and try out strategies. Pondering both our successes and failures — and the emotions pertinent to these — we start another turn, round, or hand. So understood, play is our chance to expand the range of our own possibilities, away from the enduring consequences of routine existence.

Some of us want to be “players,” if that means being adventurous, sexy, and unpredictable. We like traveling to new places and trying new things. Although we enjoy creating, we don’t mind destroying what we create. After all, life is about the shifting tides of self-awareness; and we should play active roles in those movements.

I admire the playful spirit, but too much play intrudes on the steadiness — jobs, relationships, and moral responsibilities — that life also requires. A childlike spirit remains important for adults of every age, but there are also times to be sober, self-effacing, and resolute.

The ritualist

Modern societies like ours don’t put much stock in rituals, if that means retracing the footsteps of our ancestors. To be sure, we celebrate the big moments of our lives — weddings, births, and funerals — but even those occasions get our “personal” touches. For us, progress seems more glamorous than tradition; secular matters displace sacred ones.

Be clear, though, that we need rituals — of every level and sort — to make our lives work. We have a morning routine to get ourselves going; we expect people to respond to us in familiar ways; we want our “things” (like our desk at work or favorite chair at home) to be in their assigned places. No one can control the comings-and-goings of the world, but we can try to make it a reasonably secure and “knowable” place.

Some people exaggerate this commitment. Orderliness — and frequently cleanliness — are fundamental. Clothes have their appointed places in the closet; dinner is always at six; the family vacations at the same place every year.

Many a novelist has disparaged this overly managed existence. However, we should acknowledge that all of us need ways to manage the anxieties that can devour us. The world can be a terrible place. Who doesn’t try to barricade themselves against some of those incursions? The ritualist does this by finding and maintaining “zones” where people operate in orderly, humane ways.

Again, this commitment can be overdone. To tune out life’s irregularities is to block the possibilities of personal growth. Our best selves accommodate both stability and change.

The communalist

The final style of personhood describes those who emphasize relationships as the key feature of their lives. A mother may “live” for her dependent children; a soldier is willing to die for his comrades. What matters is the sense of togetherness, the feeling that one is contributing to something greater than themselves.

Again, Western individualistic societies are ambivalent about this theme. But most of us recognize its importance. The relationship of two lovers is something special; so is the bonding of a group of long-time friends. Fundamentally, what we desire is to be in one another’s company, to feel the power of mutual affirmation. Involvement in bigger collectives — like the crowds at sporting events and rock concerts — is an extension of this.

Being attentive to the feelings of others is a wonderful thing. At some level, however, deep engagement in relationships threatens self-expression. Like mothers who gave up everything for their children, we mourn our unrealized ambitions. Others in our group have moved on to new phases of their lives; we’ve been left behind. “Hanging out” becomes “hanging on.”

In that light, the best communities — like the best interpersonal relationships — are those that embrace freedom as well as commitment. We need others to remind us of who we have been. But that shouldn’t keep us from becoming even better versions of ourselves.