Saturday, January 25, 2014

The Perennial Philosophy



(Transcript of a Sunday talk I delivered at the UU Church, Tallahassee, in 2005.)

One way by which to determine if you’ve found a church that is appropriate for you, is the extent to which you are free from the need to translate what the speaker is saying. You know what I mean by translating: Every time the speaker says, “God, Our Father, He…” you switch genders in your head—“Goddess, Our Mother, She…” or you render the phrase into non-theistic terms—“Our Cosmic Condition, It…” or humanistic terms—“Our human intellect, our communal efforts, we…” Without such translations, the words don’t ring true to your personal sensibility and philosophy.

I wonder what it would take for me to speak in your language—with perfect compatibility—so that you aren’t obliged to constantly translate my message?

Is there an Esperanto of spiritual experience to which we can all relate?

It seems highly unlikely—no, it seems impossible. Perhaps we can all relate to our animal experience—talking and joking about bodily functions—but we seem to have nothing in common above the navel. According to the triune model of the human brain, one could say that we share the reptilian and mammalian functions of the brain stem and limbic system—the crocodile that lives down in the basement and the ape that inhabits the ground floor—but once we rise to the human domain (the attic of the neo-cortex), we are no longer experiencing the same worldview. And to whatever degree our worldview diverges, to that degree we are not living in the same world.
Human beings are not clones; not even identical twins are identical subjectively. Many different human temperaments and constitutions exist; and within each psycho-physical category one can find people at very different stages of development: physical, psychological and spiritual. Therefore, spiritual practices that may be helpful for one person may be useless or even harmful for another person of a wholly different temperament or at a lower or higher stage of development.

Do “All roads lead to Rome”? Maybe so—but only if it is Rome, and not Amsterdam or Tokyo, the wayfarer wants to reach.

And yet we do call ourselves universalists; you, in your official church documents, and I, too, in my self-description. What does universalist mean?
If you know your church’s history, you’ll recall the word “universalist” originally referred to a theological doctrine in which everyone—even the worst sinner—is saved; there is no eternal damnation, all souls are embraced by the divine. That original definition of Universalism identified this church for a couple hundred years. Today, Universalist has come to mean a wide-open, liberal, rational, skeptical religion in which all are welcome—even those few who may actually believe in souls and heaven.

Now what do I mean when I say that I am a universalist? Allow me to explain in a roundabout way.
All of the following words have two related meanings in their respective languages; they each mean both “spirit” and “breath”.

  • Spirutus (Latin)
  • Pneuma (Greek)
  • Ruach (Hebrew)
  • Ruh (Arabic)
  • Prana (Sanskrit)
  • Chi (Chinese)
  • Ki (Japanese)
  • Ka (Egyptian)

Spirit and breath: It is no accident that these words are synonyms. Not only among the eight languages and their corresponding cultures just mentioned; one encounters this twin meaning again and again—from the Inuit of the Arctic Circle to the natives of Tierra del Fuego; from the Lakota Sioux of the American Plains, to the Dogon tribespeople of Africa. Spirit and breath. Spirit as breath.
            To breathe in is to inspire; just as we feel inspired by beauty and the movement of the spirit. To breathe out is to expire; just as when the animating spirit is withdrawn, the body dies.
Living Spirit, greater than the material bodily processes (and even the total cosmic process), is living us, breathing us—breathing all the worlds. In the Hindu scriptures, an epithet for this Living Energy is “Breath of the Eternal.”
This intimate kinship of transcendent spirit and bodily breath is a universal mystical experience—found throughout spiritual traditions diverging in place and time, culture and language.
Such congruent experiences have led some religious philosophers to propose that there exists a set of universal truths at the core of the world’s wisdom traditions. In the 1700s, Leibniz coined a title for this set of ever-recurring themes: Philosophia Perrenis or “Perennial Philosophy.”
That is the sense in which I am a universalist; I subscribe to the Perennial Philosophy, which has also been called Hagia Sophia (meaning “Sacred Wisdom”), Lex Aeternus (“Eternal Law”), Din al-Haqq (“Religion of Reality”), Sanatana Dharma (“The Eternal Way’), among other names.
Important thinkers have promoted the idea of such a universal religion: Emerson, Rene Guenon, Frithjof Schuon, Mircea Eliade, Aldous Huxley, Joseph Campbell, Alan Watts, and Lex Hixon are among its more recent champions.
The most famous living advocates of this universal wisdom are Huston Smith and Ken Wilber. Smith, the author of The World's Religions—first published in 1958 and to this day the best textbook on comparative religion—is a practicing Christian in his nineties. Smith is a lens through which delicious light shines; I say “delicious,” because the spiritual brilliance he brings into focus has nourished many.
Ken Wilber is a middle-aged guy living in Boulder, Colorado, who happens to be one of the philosophical giants of the ages. His opus magnum, Sex, Ecology, Spirituality: The Spirit of Evolution, is a masterpiece of what he calls “integral philosophy.”
That said; the talk that follows owes its biggest debt to Aldous Huxley, who compiled an excellent anthology titled The Perennial Philosophy. Incidentally, it’s safe to listen to this presentation with an open mind. Be assured that if you do not agree with the Perennial Philosophy, you will not be dragged out to a ditch and shot in the back of the head. (If you balk at the much abused word “God,” try replacing it in your mind with “Totality of Life” or whatever can name for you that which transcends the limits of the encapsulated ego.)

* * *

About 30 centuries have passed since the spoken tradition of the Perennial Philosophy was first frozen in writing. Over the millennia it has sung hymns to itself in nearly every language of the world and has fitted to itself the garbs and modes of every world religion. But beneath this Babel of tongues and tomes, of parochial histories and narrow doctrines, there can be analyzed a Highest Common Factor, which is the Perennial Philosophy in what Huxley calls its “chemically pure state.” This purity can never, of course, be expressed in mere words—no matter how un-dogmatic or deliberately syncretistic such a statement may strive to be. Only those who practice a contemplative way of life that ultimately transcends words and even personality can actually grok the Perennial Philosophy. Yet the words left by those sages who have understood this profound way, whether Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, point to the same essential structure of consciousness or reality.

At the core of the Perennial Philosophy we can discern at least six fundamentals:

·        First: A self-existing, self-luminous Divine Identity, Intelligence and Power is the Source or Ground within which all appearances have their moment, and apart from which they could not arise, change and pass away. (In shorthand, this first perennial truth could be summed: God IS.)

·        Second: The phenomenal world of matter and of individualized consciousness—the cosmos of galaxies, stars and planets; and the earth of mountains, rivers, trees, people, buildings, cars and flat-screen TVs—is the ongoing revelation, manifestation and evolution of the Divine Identity. (God LIVES.)

·        Third: There is directionality or purpose to the entire process of Kosmos. The great and total event is evolutionary: matter becomes life, life becomes mind, mind becomes self-aware mind, and self-aware mind awakens to its condition and identity in and of and as the Divine. In some views, such as that of Jewish mysticism, God is working out some evolutionary purpose through the ordeal of God’s own Self-submission to the phenomena of space-time-energy-matter. (God EVOLVES.)

·        Fourth: Human beings are capable not merely of inferring about the Divine Ground; they can actually realize its existence by direct intuition, superior to discursive reasoning (or the thinking-talking faculty of awareness). This immediate knowledge dissolves the knower into that which is known. Such annihilating union is the root and path and goal of the perennial philosophy—and the defining emblem of all mysticism. (In Sanskrit: Ayam Atman Brahman: “This self IS God.”)

·        Fifth: Human beings possess a double nature, a temporal and mortal ego—the born personality—and a transcendental and timeless spirit. It is possible for each of us, through devotion and trust and insight, to identify with our eternal spirit which is of the same (or like) nature as the Divine Identity. (Love God, become God.)

·        Sixth: To identify with our eternal spirit and so to actualize unitive knowledge of the Divine is the very point of our lives on earth. (This is IT; this is as God as it gets.)

In the Bhagavad Gita of Hinduism, perhaps more clearly than in any other scripture, these doctrines are stated explicitly. The Divine Identity is Brahman—the inconceivable mystery at the Ground of cosmic power. This creative, sustaining and transforming power is manifested as the so-called Hindu Trinity. A hierarchy of manifestations links inanimate matter with plants, animals, humans, godlings, High Gods, and the undifferentiated Godhead beyond.
Similarly, in Mahayana Buddhism, the Divine Identity is called the Clear Light of Space, and the place of the High Gods of Hinduism is taken by the Dhyani Buddhas. A remarkably similar theology was set forth by Plotinus and later by Ralph Waldo Emerson and the American Transcendentalists, in which the High God is replaced by the World Soul (or Oversoul) and beyond that is the irreducible mystery of “The Alone.” Plotinus described the spiritual path as the “journey of the alone to the Alone.”
Similar conceptions are compatible with Jewish, Christian and Islamic mysticism. Thus, in Kabbalah, Ein Sof is the Divine Mystery/Ground underlying the personal aspects of Adonai. In Christian mysticism the absolute singularity of Godhead underlies the Trinity. Within the Islamic Sufi tradition, there is Al-Haqq, “the Real” (also called the “Abode of Essence”), which transcends Al-Haay, “the Living” (or “Abode of Power”), which is the active, personal aspect of Allah. In Black Elk’s Lakota Sioux religion, Wakan Tonka is the Great Mystery and below that is the Great Mother and below her are the divine children of the Earth and the Moon and the Sun.
I could go on for the next hour drawing connections between the worldviews of mystics from all the wisdom traditions. The congruency of their reports is evidence that these seers have gained direct insight into the same reality: God IS and God LIVES.

The third doctrine of the Perennial Philosophy is called, in Greek, telos—or “directionality”—the idea that there is directional growth toward a wonderful destiny, not just for individuals, but for cultures, for all of humankind, even for all of the biosphere and all the planets and the Cosmos itself. Indeed, according to the Kabbalistic view, God is evolving!—co-evolving, in unqualified relationship with us!

The fourth doctrine—that it is only possible to know the Divine Ground via a trans-rational intuition that is deeper than logic—is proclaimed in every mystical tradition. One who is content merely to know about the ultimate Reality—theoretically and by hearsay—is compared by Muhammad to an ass bearing a load of books. Christian, Hindu and Taoist teachers wrote no less emphatically about the pretensions of mere book learning and analytic reasoning.
True gnosis is not discursive, but of the heart: an implicit, tacit and timeless apperception. It has been described as “Knowledge through Identity.” Or, in the words of the Tantraloka from Kashmir: “Only Shiva can realize Shiva.” (It takes one to know one!) The Zen tradition describes such mystical awakening as directly transmitted, “outside the scriptures,” from Buddha-mind to Buddha-mind.

The fourth recurring doctrine of the Perennial Philosophy affirms the multi-dimensional nature of human beings. The unitive knowledge of the Divine Ground has, as its prerequisite, self-transcending surrender and what is variously called compassion or loving-kindness or charity. By means of profound surrender and kindness we can cut through the narcissistic folly of mistaking the bodily personality to be our ultimate nature and self. We can discover that our identity is actually an Irreducible Totality—which includes the ever-evolving whole pattern of relationships best described as unqualified mutuality: Everything is everything!
Nisargadatta Maharaj, a great mystic of modern India, put it this way: “Love says, ‘I am everything.’ Wisdom says, ‘I am nothing.’ Between these two, my whole life flows.”
Incidentally, the Bhakti Yoga of Hinduism—the path of union with the Divine through devotional love—offers a full range of relational moods in which to love God, including the disposition of loving God as Parent to Child and the mood of loving God as lover to lover. Erotic union with the divine is not really so scandalous; it exists in Western spirituality, as well—in the so-called bridal mysticism of Jews and Christians, and in the emotion of aishq (longing for union) celebrated by the Sufi poets. Their religious poems and songs gave birth to the troubadour and courtly-love tradition of the Renaissance in Spain, Italy and France.

The fifth doctrine of the perennial philosophy states that the fulfillment of our lives is to bring awareness of the Divine into everyday relationships; or as the Lakota Sioux would put it, to walk in a sacred manner. The mystics of India, China, classical Greece, Moorish Spain, and Christian Europe, regarded this as an obvious tenet of their respective faiths—not public, weekend worship of a god beyond the sky, but living the vision of divine communion here on Earth, in this moment, with this breath—and now, with this breath.

This set of doctrines constitutes the Perennial Philosophy in its minimal form. Some mystics ask for nothing more; these working hypotheses are enough for their intensely personal investigation and practice. They are the Soul-Magellans ready to set sail on voyages of exploration upon the inner seas. But people who can begin their spiritual practice at the very core of mysticism are exceedingly rare. It is very difficult at the outset to probe these truths, and just about impossible to live them daily. That is why religious paths have been institutionalized around the teachings of one or more human realizers (some would say “incarnations”) of the Divine Ground. By their mediation (some would say “grace”) the lover of the divine is prepared and helped to achieve her goal—unitive gnosis of the Godhead, which is eternal life and beatitude. Such “incarnations” or enlightened sages are simply human beings who are awake to their own nature and condition—they understand WHAT they are—and can therefore effectively remind us of what we have allowed ourselves to forget: namely, that we too are always, already united with the Divine Ground.

Because the Perennial Philosophy constitutes a Highest Common Factor, present in all the major religions of the world, it is possible for people to remain good Jews, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, or Moslems and yet to fully agree on the basic doctrines of the Perennial Philosophy. Humanity would take a giant stride toward world peace if religious practitioners could understand and confess that, at heart, the major religions are not at war. Mutual religious tolerance, respect and cooperation would go a long way toward increasing the safety of the world.

I know that some of you would argue that the best project for bringing peace and improving human destiny would be to do away with religions altogether—mystics and mysticism included. As John Lennon sang, “Imagine no religions.” But aside from the fact that it is impossible to abolish religions (Karen Armstrong names our species homo religiosis), I would add that if we did away with mystical personalities, we would have to erase Buddha and Lao Tzu, Bach and Brahms, Bohr and Einstein, Thoreau and Emerson, Whitman and Rumi, and most of the shining stars of our species!

        Niels Bohr                             Ramana Maharshi 
                              
Then where would we be? Stuck with the idolatries of scientific materialism, which cannot see past the limits of stuff; with logical positivism, which cannot get over the limits of language; with humanism, which cannot feel beyond the limits of the grave; and with the flattened landscape of post-modernism, which is so discomfited by hierarchies and absolutes that it insists on placing the word “reality” within quotes!
In short, we would be sealed in a coffin with seven billion other Earthlings, without a view that opens onto what is prior to and greater than each human lifetime. At best, we might spend our days studying psychology, biology, physics, and the glories and terrors of Nature, while “progressing” toward a techno-utopia—but we would not be consciously participating in communion with our Inexhaustibly Living Source, and thus, we would have closed the only doorway to self-transcendence.
(Jean Paul Sartre said, “Hell is other people.” But I must confess, “Hell is my lonely, limited self, when alienated from the Wholeness that includes and transcends me.”)

In any case, given that we are NOT going to do away with religions in this or any proximate century, a worldwide political groundswell of folks having a working understanding of the Perennial Philosophy might make a pleasant alternative to a bloody, planet-wide clash of religious fanatics. I invite you to join me in considering the ancient perennial wisdom at the tap root of the branching tree of the world’s religions.

Friday, January 24, 2014

Cancel My Subscription to the Ressurection

Eternal life is defined as LIFE WITHOUT END. Let’s take a moment to consider what it might be like to live without cessation.
First, I need to introduce a mathematical term, the “googol,” the biggest number mathematicians have bothered to name. A googol is 10 to the exponent 100 (or 1 followed by 100 zeroes). It looks like this: 10,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000,­000. 

Okay, now we're ready to inspect the concept of living forever in the best place of all, Heaven. If you lived in Heaven for a googol of years, how much closer to the end of your eternal life have you progressed? Are you now a tenth of the way to its end? Well, obviously the question is bogus, because ETERNAL LIFE HAS NO END; you cannot ever get closer to the end of your unending life.

Is that what you want?

Let's see. You’re living in paradise, daily praising God with the angels. You know—what you already do now, every minute of every day—when you aren’t watching football or Game of Thrones, noshing, napping, drinking beer, having sex, and so forth. (Do they have TV in Heaven?) 

In Heaven, you get to live all your tomorrows, without threat of annihilation. You will live a googol of tomorrows, times a googol of tomorrows, times.... you get the idea: ETERNAL LIFE. And you will always live the day AFTER all your tomorrows, and the year and the millennium and the eon after that—ad infinitum.

In the eternal life of your resurrected body, will you be the same race and gender and age as you are now? Is this the form you would you like to keep FOREVER AND EVER?

Well, it is paradise, so let’s presume it will be the best of all possible worlds. It's all "spiritual," so presumably you can be a male spirit for a few zillion years and then switch to living as a female spirit. Try being a stallion, a dolphin. Expand your imagination galactically: What’s it like to be an orchid-squid from the planet Zoo? Play through all possible forms. Yet won’t you eventually get bored with a life that CANNOT end? Years which go on and on to the exponent of a zillion, zillion googols with no exit, only an infinitude of eons dawning over the horizon.

Is that what you WANT?

It seems to me that life in ANY form or endless menagerie of forms—no matter how beautiful, exalted and super-powerful—would begin to feel claustrophobic given enough time. I know that I would feel packaged, trapped, boxed-in, by eternal life. I would eventually yearn for release from all possible bodies and minds, from the perpetual motion machine of experience.

Thanks for the offer, but please "Cancel my subscription to the resurrection."

Friday, January 10, 2014

Be Calm, No Nicknames

On my way to the gym I stop at a red light on Main and Centerville, and I hear loud moans. A man’s lying on his side under the entrance to Wells Fargo, and he’s moaning in pain. I’m thinking: Homeless man who fell down drunk?

I weave through two lanes of traffic and pull into the parking lot, and I see that the guy is Hispanic—big dude, dressed in T-shirt, jeans and work boots—and he’s moaning in agony.

He’s having a heart attack? So I’m trying to remember CPR—oh hell, Step One, Step Two—how’s that’s go? I jump out of my car and then I see the hole in the ceiling of the entranceway. This poor guy has plummeted about 20 feet onto concrete. I start to dial 911 when his coworker shows up and tells me an ambulance is already on the way. He says something to the groaning man in Spanish and then he just disappears. So I’m left alone with the injured guy and my taxi-cab-level Spanish.

I kneel beside him and put my hand on his back. “Lo siento mucho, mi amigo,” I say. “I’m so sorry, my friend.” He clutches my knee, and it makes me feel humble to realize how much my touch really matters. So I take his hand that’s gripping my knee and I hold it. And he squeezes it. “Tranquillo,” I say, “no motes”—which is supposed to mean, “Easy, don’t move,” but I’m wondering if it means, “Easy, you’re not a motor,” so I quit saying that. (I just Googled it, and it means, “Be calm, no nicknames.”)

So I’m holding hands with this big guy—he’s built like a heavyweight wrestler—and I’m feeling grateful that I’m able to lend him some comfort, although he’s still moaning. I want to tell him, “The ambulance is on the way.” But I can’t conjugate the future tense, and if I tell him the ambulance was on its way, it might give him a heart attack for real. So I just keep saying, “La ambulancia, mi amigo” in the most soothing tone I can manage—as if it’s a mantra: La ambulancia, la ambulancia, shanti, shanti, shanti. And I figure he’s Catholic, so I throw in, “Dios está contigo”—“God is with you”—because I care more about comforting him than insisting that I’m an atheist.

So I’m slowly caressing his back, and talking broken Spanish like a horse whisperer, when a white-haired lady appears. “I’ve got a clean towel in my car he can use as a pillow,” I tell her, and without another word, she takes my place, rubbing his back while I go grab a bath towel and roll it up and place it under his head. He’s still groaning in agony and then we all hear the sweet sound of the siren.

An EMT hops out and asks the man to wiggle his toes, and he does, which makes me realize the big dude understands English. The white-haired lady and I wait there till the ambulance goes. Before we get into our cars, she smiles kindly and says, “Thank you.”

So I missed yoga class, but I actually was able to help that man. O, the power of human touch! I want to go around today rubbing everybody’s back and telling them, “Please be calm. No nicknames.”

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

My Awakening to the Obvious




I was nineteen, I was blessed with a wonderful mystical vision: I experienced the light of God. That is, I experienced what Tibetan Buddhists call Osel (or “Primordial Clear Light”), and Hindu yogis describe as Sahasradala Padma (“Thousand-Petal Lotus of Light”). Chinese Taoists call it Ming (“Transcendent Luminosity”). Sioux Indians name it Wakan Tonka (“Great Spirit”). Muslims refer to it as Noor (“Divine Resplendence”). It is also Kavod (“Eternal Flame”) that shines at the altar of Judaism; the same radiance of which Jesus said, “If your eye is single, your whole body will be filled with light.”

The word light is not used here as a figure of speech (symbolizing a brighter, sunnier, higher aspect of ourselves and the cosmos). All these names and images refer to actual light: self-luminous, all-pervading energy. It is the living force—radiant consciousness­­—ablaze with bliss. Communion with this holy light, absorption in it is unspeakably pleasurable. Yet in my case, the event of drowning in the ocean of brightness left a great disturbance in its wake that took decades to resolve.

Let me tell you my story.

In 1972 I was a sophomore at Boston University, a teen-age son of 20th-century America, who listened to Led Zeppelin cranked up loud enough to vibrate my teeth. I was not exactly preparing body and mind for a direct encounter with the divine. My Jewish religious training had consisted of attending Sabbath services and Sunday school as a boy, which felt like sitting for several hours a week in front of an unplugged radio. Until the age of about nine, I had believed in and prayed to the Judeo-Christian Deity, but by the time I was ten or so, I began to aggressively disbelieve in an anthropomorphic Father-God. Natural science and science fiction became far more inspiring, meaningful and beautiful to me than conventional religious dogma. At age eleven, I had quit attending the synagogue.

Even so, there was a mystical streak in me that I had noticed from my earliest memories. It showed itself as a keenly felt sense of the mystery of the natural world and human life. This feeling of wonder or awe would sometimes rise in me as a bodily thrill until I had to laugh or shout.

As a college freshman I took a world religions course because I intuited something fundamental to the religious urge in people, something prior to arguing over the different notions of God, something primitive, below the abstract verbal mind that has created all the historical schisms of exoteric beliefs. I wanted to find this most basic truth at the root of all faiths. I longed to be like a lover—a naked beginner in the embrace of Living Nature. I personally wanted to know “It”—the real God—for I somehow understood “It” to be the depth and ground of my own heart. Thus, I sought contact with my deepest heart, from which I was seemingly in exile.

The next year, as a sophomore, I took an excellent class on Eastern philosophy. We read the Heart Sutra of Buddha and essays on Zen by D.T. Suzuki; Psychotherapy East and West, by Alan Watts and Modern Man in Search of a Soul, by Carl Jung; the principal Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita of the Hindus; the Tao Teh Ching of Lao Tzu; the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. I began to have grand insights into my own condition, though I understood only a fraction of what I read.

Then some classmates invited me to their apartment for a dinner discussion of the profound teachings we were studying. Steve had been a Theravada Buddhist monk in Thailand for two years, meditating seventeen hours a day; John was an avid student of yoga and Vedanta; and Sean had deserted the French Army and walked through India for three years, meeting holy persons. In contrast, I had neither meditated, nor done yoga, nor spent time in the company of anyone who was especially wise and free.

After dinner, riding the crest of the moment, everyone but Sean took LSD together. It was my sixth psychedelic trip. We took turns reading aloud from the Old Testament’s Genesis and from Be Here Now, a primer on Hindu mysticism. After a while, Steve read to us from The Psychedelic Experience, a “trip manual” by Timothy Leary and Ralph Metzner, based on the Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation (also called Tibetan Book of the Dead).

Early on in the six-hour LSD high, I began to feel the same deep awe that I’d enjoyed as a boy, only stronger now than ever. The emotion seemed to expand and fill body, mind and room as a tangible presence: a sphere of invincible energy and happiness. I was sitting on a ratty carpet on the living room floor of a cheap apartment in Cambridge, immersed in a force field of great joy. I looked at Steve with drunken love and said, “The Holy Spirit is upon us.”

But I began to notice an apparent limit to the spirit, like a knot or cramp within the otherwise boundless force and presence. It gradually became obvious that the knot was “me”—or everything I held onto as “myself”. I saw that the whole melodrama of “me” (as a separated or independent and limited identity) was based on this unconscious habit of withholding (contracting, recoiling from whole and infinite being). “Me” was only a construct, not ultimately real (not a real entity or identity), but merely an act (like a fictional stage character) within Free and Total Being. And mistakenly (ridiculously!), the sense of identity had been bound to this mere role, this temporary personality, this psycho-physical ego (as if Life and Consciousness were an isolated self that is born to change and die). Such phony (separate) identity was the cause of all fear—the refusal to love and shine completely; the resistance to change and death, and thus, to all of life and relationship.

Within Consciousness, the dream of “me” was suddenly released. In that instant, came the deep heart of understanding: The totality of conscious being is the real and living “Person”, the all-inclusive Identity of everyone and everything. As the sages have put it, “There is only God.”

I fell onto my back in tears with the overwhelming relief of this realization of transcendental (unlimited) life. I surrendered utterly to my felt-intuition of the Great One. Rapidly, a marvelous change occurred. Layers of subtler self-holding fell away and I melted into the heart of God. I did not just watch this self-transcendence occur, as if from the bleachers. Ego-“I” dissolved in the all-effacing light of Existence-Consciousness-Bliss.

To the extent the experience can be described, it was something like this: In the first few seconds of self-surrender, a glorious golden light filled mind and body and all of space. Mind (or attention) was captured by the light and drawn inward and upward toward an infinite locus above. Outer awareness disappeared as attention, body and world were resolved into the unity of the light-source—like an iris blossom refolding and returning to its bud. Just at the brink of ego-death there was an instant of fear, but I knew there was no turning back, no stopping this expansion beyond all limit. And I knew that whatever this sacrifice led to, it simply was Reality.

Therefore, I silently prayed, “Have mercy on me,” and in the next instant the light became so supremely attractive it absorbed the fear along with everything else into its dazzling singularity. As the last bit of self-hold evaporated, the golden light increased to “white,” or rather, it became perfectly clear, pure, unqualified, original. There was no more expansion, no more ascent; indeed there was no more “up” or “down,” “in” or “out,” but all of existence was radically equal and whole—the same absolutely bright fullness (or emptiness).

I was conscious as limitless radiant being, identical with the Self or Source of the universe. I don’t know how long I remained consumed in that domain of ecstasy, but it was utterly familiar, not new or shocking. It was Home, eternally. That Which IS (or the One I AM).

Of course, I came down. With a splat!

Crashed, as they say; and back again from the ego-centered point of view of a white, middle-class American kid who had grasped only a fraction of what he had read from the Oriental mystics, the experience of the light was not only incomprehensible, it was terrifying. By the following afternoon, I felt so upset, I was pale and shaky. After all, what was so attractive about the dissolution of ego, the death of “me”? I had developed a painful case of psychic indigestion.

At first I tried to resist the revelation of the light, the divine intrusion on my independent, private life. I wanted to say, “Go away, I’m not ready for this. I just want to be me. I want to stay me.”

Lost and scared, I compulsively tried to secure the threatened ego, reinforce its boundaries and make it solid, immune to change. It didn’t work. There is no way to go on as an isolated self once you’ve tumbled into the heart of infinite life, even if only for a timeless instant. (As the Muslim poet Kabir said, “I saw that for thirty seconds, and it has made me a devotee all my life.”)

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, READ THE DIRECTIONS.

I did.

I began to study the teachings of the Eastern and Western mystics in earnest. (It is noteworthy that all of them warn not to delve into mystical experience without proper preparation and a guide who knows the territory.)

It took time, more than a decade, but gradually my anxiety and confusion waned and was replaced by a growing understanding. Along the way I discovered scores of historical sources in which ego-loss in the radiant, transcendental being is described. Classical yoga provides a Sanskrit term for the experience: nirvikalpa samadhi. [1]Many teachers quickened my awakening; not the least among them my wife and our two sons.

This does not mean I fitted the revelation of the divine to my everyday life—like pocketing a shiny new coin and then continuing on my private way. No. The divine is senior to self and world and will not be owned. Therefore, I did the reverse: I submitted my life to the divine; I became a devotee of God. Not the Almighty Absent Parent who never speaks through the dead radio, but the same wonderful, living Source and starry Process that a naturalist can love with awe.

Also, I began to meditate. I practiced a simple technique of focusing on the in and out of my breath while sitting quietly. After fifteen years of this simple practice, I experienced a “return” to the light. While deeply in tune with the breath, my attention spontaneously became focused in the mid-brain, between and behind the eyes. Thus my “eye” became “single.” My whole body was filled with light, as Jesus promised. I sat in a swoon and received the golden light into all my parts. At the time, I wrote an essay proclaiming: “Holy light is not a metaphor. Dazzlingly alive is the eternal spirit.”

But I was still afraid.

I was afraid of madness—the utter sacrifice of self and all limit. No knowing. No controlling. No “me.” I was afraid of drowning in infinity.

Six years later, in February 1993, a turning point arrived. I stood on my balcony in a contemplative mood, feeling into life, and I recalled a line a friend had told me years before about “meeting God halfway.” That notion now seemed absurd, as I saw that God Is Here, already all the way present. Nothing is hidden or withheld. I said aloud a motto that summed this up: “The gift is always given.” It was a beautiful, religious sense of being lived and loved and breathed by God.

Suddenly, a tremendous Force pressed down from above my head, through my brain and nervous system, with such mighty light and bliss that I fell to my knees and was pinned, overwhelmed bodily by the tangible brightness, as one might be overwhelmed by a terribly powerful orgasm. I gasped and sobbed from the potency of the joy. The God-pleasure—the saturating fullness and Touch of the light—became so intense I felt my bones might crack.

When I stood up, I had changed physically.

And my meditations changed. For several years, I’d been aware of powerful, “electrical” surges in my nervous system during meditation. I had focused on the breath and ignored these stirrings of the kundalini.[2] But now my meditation sessions became sheer energy work-outs. Even so simple a practice as following the breath now felt like contrived self-effort. My method of meditation had been rendered obsolete. Instead, I would sit and the kundalini would flame through my head and eyes and spine and toss me around like a mad dancer. I laughed and cried. I growled. I shouted. I made spontaneous chant-like intonations. I saw archetypal visions.[3]

It was painful and blissful—indescribable. I was suffering, but unable to budge a finger; afraid, but unable to make a single response. I was being meditated.

I became constantly aware of the tension around my heart, the tension of “me”—of holding on to myself. The presence of spirit had become a great current and my misery was my resistance to it. But I was reluctant to sacrifice “my life” completely.

Eight months later, in October 1993, I had grown so exhausted with the effort of preventing my own death, that I lay down on my bed and said, Okay, I give up. Take me insanity, or take me God, or take me whatever you are, mighty river. Sweep me to my destiny.

Abruptly, I began to lose “face.” Panic came on strong. I cramped up in a ball like a fetus. I became an electric buzzing cloud and then everything dissolved and I entered the light and bliss and freedom of ego-death; beyond the golden light into the clear light of void. No self. No thing. No bounds. The rapture only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to see that all was okay. I had allowed death to occur, and it was not annihilation. It was only the loss of an imaginary limit—a phony identity.

The next day, I spontaneously entered nirvikalpa samadhi again, while soaking in the bathtub. The episode lasted several minutes and was completely free of fear from the beginning. The bright pleasure simply increased until the separate “I”-sense was overwhelmed in light.

From October on, each time I sat to meditate, I entered the shining void (at times remaining in samadhi for an hour or more). It is like entering deep sleep while remaining wide awake. It is luminous clarity: dreamless awakeness—pure consciousness without content other than its own uncreated bliss.

After a couple months of this, I dreamed one dawn in January 1994 that I was on a stage before an audience. A coffin was displayed on a stand and I was lying in it, facedown and naked. An emcee was on stage, and it was clear that I was to perform a Houdini-like escape act: I was supposed to free myself and emerge from the coffin.

I began to chuckle. What was the big deal? I was already free. The coffin lid was open, and I had no chains or shackles on me in the first place. I simply stood up.

Next, I was holding beautiful blue pearls in my hand, and the emcee told me to string them together as fast as I could. I started slipping the blue pearls onto a string, as a timer with TV-game show music ticked in the background. The emcee shouted, “Hurry, get as many beads on the string as you can!” For a few seconds I rapidly strung pearls, but then I stopped and looked across at the emcee. Why do I need to do this? I thought. This is your game, not mine. I gazed at the audience and all eyes were upon me. I smiled at the people as I stepped off the stage and began handing out the blue pearls, one to each person.

Then I woke up. It was a sunny winter morning in Tallahassee, Florida. I went downstairs and sat to meditate . . . and . . .

There was nowhere to go.

I strolled outdoors into the woods around my home. I saw no dilemma at all, within or without. No thing to seek. No experience to shed. No limit. I was not a something that could travel to someplace. I could not go deeper or higher through any means.

I burst out laughing from down in my belly. THIS IS IT. What a punch line! I thought the moment of satori would never end. But by the afternoon, when I went to pick up my sons from elementary school, I realized that satori, too, is only a state. It comes and goes. Nothing lasts.

And guess what? I don’t care in the least. I am not dismayed when ego appears, or when it disappears. I am no longer at war with ego or void. They are twin aspects of consciousness itself. I don’t take sides at all.

Reality is not samadhi, the extinguishing of all forms. Reality is not even satori, the natural mode of egolessness. Reality is no special state at all; no special condition. Reality is the IS of all possible states, their origin and unqualified basis, perfectly open and unbounded; pure capacity. Fundamentally, nothing has changed or ever will, and what I’ve come to understand was already only so: Just this.

From a certain perspective it can seem a big deal: I’ve grokked my own essence, and it is reality (or Buddha-nature). Or, as the Persian poet, Omar Khayam, put it: “I am myself, Heaven and Hell.”

But on the other hand, Buddha-nature and a buck will buy me a buck’s worth of groceries. No big deal. No special status. Nothing special at all.

These days, I sometimes meditate for pleasure and refreshment, like drinking a delicious tea. And I occasionally enter spontaneous mystic states during meditation. Even so, not any of it is necessary; and none of it is greater than simple happiness. Samadhi or no samadhi, satori or no satori, ego or no ego—there is no limit, already. No dilemma.

Nothing is more than wonderful. This moment is wonderful. Nothing is more than whole. This moment is complete. THIS is as God as it gets.

Truth (or joy) is not exclusive, not hidden, not vague or abstract, not elsewhere, not different than the stream of life. Birth and change and death are aspects of a single process, the only event: the activity of (or within) Reality. Nothing exists but Bright Mystery, which forever flows as all the possibilities of life in all the worlds. As Lao Tzu put it: “The Way that can be deviated from is not the Great Way.”

It is not that I am now at every moment floating along in a mood of blissful clarity, or that my neuroses have utterly evaporated. “After enlightenment,” I still at times feel frustrated, angry, and so forth. I also feel saddened by the intense sufferings of our human world family. But I do not resist any of it. Whether pleasure or pain is arising, I understand the empty and inherently free nature of the stream of endless changes, and I see there is no escape, nowhere else to go. I can only be whole (without alternative), abiding as the Heart.[4]

It took twenty-two years of spiritual searching from the moment I first encountered the “clear light mind” to finally accept the wholeness that I am, the same totality that is true of everyone.

Friend, hear what I say: The Divine you seek is your own identity, before all ego-dilemma. Therefore, be already at ease. Relax into your own life-process. Trust in happiness, luminous and clear. Reality is Wholly Spirit, the Light that, while transcending every personality, also shines as all our life stories. In the midst of experience we are fundamentally free, beyond words and beyond worlds.





[1] Translation: sam (“total”) adhi (“total absorption”) nir (“without”) vikalpa (“mental formations”). It describes the trance state of complete absorption in consciousness itself, without the appearance of any sensory or mental object.

[2] Kundalini and Kundalini Shakti are Sanskrit terms for the primordial life-force or universal energy as it functions in the human body-mind. The closest Western term would be Holy Spirit. The arousal and release of this latent power in the course of meditation or devotional prayer, etc., is what Western mystics call “spiritual baptism.”

[3] An oft-recurring vision was of the hexangular “Star of David” of Judaism, which is also a common symbol in Hindu and Buddhist Tantra. The upward- and downward-pointing interpenetrating triangles, formed of brilliant light, stood in space before my inner eye, with my seated form (in lotus-posture) fitting inside the mandala star. I understood bodily that this archetype expresses the harmonized fullness of the ascending and descending currents of the life-force (kundalini shakti).
[4] Following the tradition of Indian sages of non-dual wisdom (Advaita), I often use the term “Heart” (Hridayam) to refer to unqualified consciousness or uncreated (inherent) intelligence.

Merry Christmas!








Get Together (The Youngbloods)


If you hear the song I sing,
You must understand
You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command
C'mon people now,
Smile on your brother
Ev'rybody get together
Try and love one another right now
Right now
Right now!



Monday, December 2, 2013

Blessing of the Animals



I want to be blessed like the animals.
Not by a priest; not from anywhere beyond the sky.
But blessed right here, by the earth.
And the rain.
Fragrance of earth just after the rain.

I want to be blessed like the animals.
Not blessed at my crown; animals don’t wear hats.
Bless me at the belly.
Bless me where I breathe.
Feed me an apple.

Women, love me the way you love animals.
Dog lovers, cat lovers, horse lovers!
Unleash me and let me romp.
Stroke my fur till I purr.
Post with your thighs.

An animal wrote this, so don’t judge.
I’m not evil and I’m not good.
I’m hairy.
I think by sense of smell.

I want to be blessed like the animals.