My First Encounter with the Enneagram
Elizabeth Wagele
I remember the first time I heard the word.
It was after a meeting I’d attended. We were putting on our jackets to leave.
With a sparkle in her eye, Kate said, “you know that “nine” thing?” I assume someone in the group said, “You mean the Enneagram?” but I didn’t remember the word until I had heard it about 40 more times.
“The what?” I said. (Doesn’t everyone the first time?)
“The Enneagram. It’s this ancient spiritual system that says there are 9 different kinds of people. I’m a Six. Ann over there is a Two.”
I was mesmerized by Kate’s enthusiasm and the sound of the number nine. The words from the Beatles’ song, “number nine, number nine, number nine” started bouncing around in my head.
“How can I find out more about it?” I asked.
Isn’t that how everyone encounters the Enneagram the very first time? Something like that?
* * *
Jumping ahead, I had read some Enneagram books and made notes in the margins, identifying, or thinking I had identified, the numbers of a lot of people I knew. But my own type wasn’t clear to me yet.
I also got some unhelpful advice. Several people told me (without being asked) that I was a Four because I liked music. Sheesh.
A few months after that, during an Enneagram class, I heard an exemplar talking about riding his motorcycle through a toll plaza. I’ve never had a motorcycle, and I wouldn’t weave in and out of traffic the way he described if I did. But the whimsical way he told the story, and the thoughts he described having had, hit me on the head with the fact that I was what he was: a Five.
I was relieved to learn what my type was, not ashamed as many are. To know I belonged in this category made me feel legitimate and known instead of out of place half the time. I liked the other Fives I met—their senses of humor, curiosity, and rich inner lives—and this enabled me to appreciate myself more. Also, I liked their detachment and objectivity.
Perhaps a year after I first heard the word, Enneagram, I attended a series of classes the Five exemplar gave at his house for Fives, Sevens, and Eights. I related to all the other Fives there, including the one who never opened her mouth. I got up the nerve to talk quite a bit, more than usual. Maybe knowing there was someone quieter than I was gave me strength. I’d never been in a group limited to comrade observers and cousin Sevens and Eights before. It was a fascinating experience.
The teacher lived in a little, overgrown, invisible house up a hundred stairs. It was decorated with fascinating one-of-a-kind items and cozy. He was a self-preservation, “my home is my castle” subtype, I realized later. Just like me.
The first night, he shooed us out promptly when the time was up, but after the second class he offered us tea and urged us to stay and chat. Weeks of classes went by after that in which he never repeated the offer or the sociable attitude. He was rather cold, actually. This man had many good insights, but would lose me in his longwinded ultra-intellectual theories. He also began dismissing us five minutes early. I figured this was the time he needed to get his home back in order so his life could resume exactly on the hour.
At the end of the last class I asked him a question I thought I knew the answer to. I was curious to see how he’d respond. “Why did you invite us for tea once and then no more?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was stingy, so I made tea,” he replied. “But I didn’t like giving up my time. I had proved my point and once was enough. To tell the truth, I don’t like having people in my house.”
“You had me fooled,” I lied, as I rolled my eyes and exchanged knowing glances with some of the other students.
__________ Enneagram Monthly, Issue 45, December 1998
It was after a meeting I’d attended. We were putting on our jackets to leave.
With a sparkle in her eye, Kate said, “you know that “nine” thing?” I assume someone in the group said, “You mean the Enneagram?” but I didn’t remember the word until I had heard it about 40 more times.
“The what?” I said. (Doesn’t everyone the first time?)
“The Enneagram. It’s this ancient spiritual system that says there are 9 different kinds of people. I’m a Six. Ann over there is a Two.”
I was mesmerized by Kate’s enthusiasm and the sound of the number nine. The words from the Beatles’ song, “number nine, number nine, number nine” started bouncing around in my head.
“How can I find out more about it?” I asked.
Isn’t that how everyone encounters the Enneagram the very first time? Something like that?
* * *
Jumping ahead, I had read some Enneagram books and made notes in the margins, identifying, or thinking I had identified, the numbers of a lot of people I knew. But my own type wasn’t clear to me yet.
I also got some unhelpful advice. Several people told me (without being asked) that I was a Four because I liked music. Sheesh.
A few months after that, during an Enneagram class, I heard an exemplar talking about riding his motorcycle through a toll plaza. I’ve never had a motorcycle, and I wouldn’t weave in and out of traffic the way he described if I did. But the whimsical way he told the story, and the thoughts he described having had, hit me on the head with the fact that I was what he was: a Five.
I was relieved to learn what my type was, not ashamed as many are. To know I belonged in this category made me feel legitimate and known instead of out of place half the time. I liked the other Fives I met—their senses of humor, curiosity, and rich inner lives—and this enabled me to appreciate myself more. Also, I liked their detachment and objectivity.
Perhaps a year after I first heard the word, Enneagram, I attended a series of classes the Five exemplar gave at his house for Fives, Sevens, and Eights. I related to all the other Fives there, including the one who never opened her mouth. I got up the nerve to talk quite a bit, more than usual. Maybe knowing there was someone quieter than I was gave me strength. I’d never been in a group limited to comrade observers and cousin Sevens and Eights before. It was a fascinating experience.
The teacher lived in a little, overgrown, invisible house up a hundred stairs. It was decorated with fascinating one-of-a-kind items and cozy. He was a self-preservation, “my home is my castle” subtype, I realized later. Just like me.
The first night, he shooed us out promptly when the time was up, but after the second class he offered us tea and urged us to stay and chat. Weeks of classes went by after that in which he never repeated the offer or the sociable attitude. He was rather cold, actually. This man had many good insights, but would lose me in his longwinded ultra-intellectual theories. He also began dismissing us five minutes early. I figured this was the time he needed to get his home back in order so his life could resume exactly on the hour.
At the end of the last class I asked him a question I thought I knew the answer to. I was curious to see how he’d respond. “Why did you invite us for tea once and then no more?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was stingy, so I made tea,” he replied. “But I didn’t like giving up my time. I had proved my point and once was enough. To tell the truth, I don’t like having people in my house.”
“You had me fooled,” I lied, as I rolled my eyes and exchanged knowing glances with some of the other students.
__________ Enneagram Monthly, Issue 45, December 1998