(2)
I have begun to experiment recently with a rather different approach
to meditation, an approach which I suppose I might best describe as
being "active" rather than "passive" in form
– i.e. it's one in which I attempt to bend my will to a specific
purpose. In the past, I've used meditation mainly to develop an
awareness with regard the processes of consciousness, as they are revealed
to me in their subtler forms, for the purpose of submitting them to a
later analysis. Now I am affecting to close down, by force, all
that is extraneous to a state of pure consciousness; which is to say,
I am attempting to unveil my experiential core.
Generally speaking, I define consciousness as that state which exists
when I am experiencing some form of mental activity, whether that
activity be daydream, analytic thought, emotional cognition, or
sensate awareness. But mental activity contains within it a
curious dynamic, a dynamic which is rooted in the self-reflective
capacities of the human species. As the act of self-reflection
occurs, that part of consciousness which daydreams, formulates
thought-words and/or is occupied by the awareness of an emotion or
physical sensation, finds itself counterpointed by an aspect of
consciousness which has the character of a void or vacuum. I
have previously described the action of this dynamic in terms of an
animal hunting prey: that part of consciousness which is
empty of content (and hence assumes the character of a vacuum or
void) seems to be attracted by or pulled towards the contents of
awareness (daydreams, analytic thought, etc.) in such a way as to
formulate a kind of mental hunger. It's as if that which
we define as "consciousness" is in fact an experience of
the self being split in two, this split resulting in a sense of a
dislocation within a greater known unity. This sense of
being dislocated is what causes the "empty" part of
consciousness to be attracted to (and thus to pursue, via the
manifestation of desire) that aspect which is in a state of mental
activity. Consciousness appears to be striving always to
fulfill itself by means of the unification of its dislocated parts.
I confess, I am not entirely sure what to make of this. On the
one hand, it would seem that consciousness thus defined is
descriptive of a state of anxiety. On the other hand, one might
say that it is by means of this dislocation that "self" gains the
ability to become aware of its own existence. I suppose I might
also be describing a fundamental difference between Eastern and
Western approaches to the underlying purpose of consciousness:
in the West, there is a tendency to believe that it is by filling
the "empty" aspect of consciousness with the contents of
mental activity that we have the best chance to arrive at a state of
fulfillment; in the East, there is a tendency to believe that it's
the "empty" aspect of consciousness that is the more worthy
of realization.
I've also said before that there never exists any but the
experiencing self. In a sense, of course, the validity of this
statement is so obvious as to require no further comment; but what I
want to call into question here is, which aspect of the bifurcated
consciousness ought one to designate as the experiencing self?
Is it the presence of "emptiness" which provides the
fundamental basis for experientialism, or is this role fulfilled
by that aspect of consciousness involved in mental
activity? Or does there exist, perhaps, some third defining
aspect of consciousness which unifies, or contains, the other
two? The problem is, of course, that the more one tries to
grasp the experiencing self by intellectual methods, the further it
recedes. This is only natural, as the experiencing self cannot
be other than experienced; that is to say, it is not
subject to the state of dislocation that normally defines what we
call consciousness. Still, the problem remains:
How to pierce through the split occurring in consciousness and
thus realize it in its purest, least self-conflicted state?
Feeling that I had exhausted all that could be discovered through my
examination and analysis of the processes of self-awareness, I
began, during meditation, to forcibly halt all analytic thought, all
daydreams, all emotional distractions and physical sensations.
Whenever any of these occurred, I simply broke off the attention I
would otherwise have given them, in this way attempting to force
myself to recede further and further into the realm of pure experientialism.
After forcing myself to not be distracted by my intellect, and
doing my best as well to diminish all physical and emotional
awareness, I came eventually to the point at which the subconscious
mind began to manifest itself. Pictures arose before me,
apparitions of such a kind as appear in the realm of dreams.
One night, having grown sleepy while meditating in this way, I lay
down in bed and actually fell asleep while still fixated on the
process of halting all distractions to the experiencing of a purified
state of consciousness. I then entered into that peculiar fugue
state which exists between wakefulness and sleep, during which
out-of-body projections sometimes occur. And indeed, I did
begin to "project" – that is, I felt a body of a more
ethereal, highly energized substance than the physical begin to
disassociate itself from my body. Specifically, I felt the legs
of this more highly energized, subtle body lifting up and out of my
physical legs. I was not able to complete the process of
disassociation however, perhaps because I did not have sufficient
energy to accomplish the task. After several minutes of
experiencing partial disassociation (it's impossible to say just how
many minutes, my sense of time being distorted under these
conditions), I found myself, quite suddenly, "awake" in the
normal sense of the word. Out-of-body experiences always end
this way for me – quite abruptly: one moment I am
"out," a split-second later I am completely and fully in a
state of waking consciousness.
I am not quite sure at this point what the phenomena of partial
projection tells me. I've experienced it before, always while
undergoing periods of relatively intense mental stress. Is the
experience of partial disassociation then to be seen as symptomatic
of the dislocations experienced by consciousness – a kind of
"realization" of my lack of realization?
Unfortunately, I do not know enough about out-of-body projection at
this point to say.
A day or two later, while out walking, I again attempted to narrow my
attention to a state of pure, undistracted, experiential
consciousness. And indeed, I was actually able to achieve this
for a period of some time – perhaps a half hour or so all told.
The character of this state was rather surprising though:
my mind was not unadulterated by thoughts, daydreams, etc, at each
and every moment; rather, it was simply no longer distracted
by this activity. I narrowed my attention to a pinpoint of
focused awareness; now the "empty" aspect of my
consciousness was not being constantly pulled after the contents of
analytic thought and daydreams, etc. Words formed in my mind; I
let them float away. Snatches of music played in my head and,
while I made no attempt to stop them, neither did I allow my
concentration to be swayed. Daydreams arose and, without the
energy of my attention to feed them, faded into oblivion. I was
not, however, forcing my mind not to focus on these things;
rather, I found I was simply able to rest within a state of
pure, focused consciousness. The best way I can think of to
describe it is to say that my consciousness was in a state of suspension.
It was an extension of the meditative state, of course; only now,
the object of my meditation was not the examination of my own
psychology, but simply that of consciousness, in and of itself. And
yet I mean more than even this: for I was not meditating on
a state of pure consciousness (this implying a continuing sense of
dislocation within myself), but was able at last to close that gap;
and thus existed, for however brief a time, in a state of pure "beingness."
The world as experienced in this way was a very vivid place.
Everything about me looked, not so much "important" as
entirely present to my eyes. I felt buoyant,
enthusiastic, euphoric, as if I was, for the first time in my life
perhaps, truly "awake." I wandered the streets in a
state of sheer delight: This, I felt, is what
it means to be happy.
The experience did not last, of course. I did not expect it
to. Though I felt, while it was occurring, that I existed for a
time in an entirely fulfilled state of existence, and though it may
be that this time was expressive (though probably not to its greatest
degree) of how one may learn to live always, I have not tried since
to reattain the experience. I may attempt to do so at some
future point; I cannot at present say. Curiously, I do not mind
that this is so. I no longer mind that the path I travel cannot
be "seen," or rationally understood; that I am, in a sense,
"blind" to it. Perhaps, as the physically blind are
compensated by a greater acuity of their other senses, I too have
been compensated by a certain inner sense or sensibility which
I can now trust to guide me correctly. I need only be, simply,
myself. At the same time, of course, I must recognize that I am (quite literally)
Nothing; I am Emptiness. Thus it is that "I" come to realize
that "I" do not exist! Only Existence exists.
Only the path exists – and I ("I") and the path
are one. I will not now wax sentimental and claim that
Existence is a "beautiful" thing – for often it is
not. I will not pretend more knowledge than I have and say that
I now understand the path I take, for it's not a matter of
understanding so much as experiencing, of "being." I
will not say that I am now at peace, for there is much still in life
that pains me, and I am often aggravated by the the presence of that
pain. But I will say that I feel myself to be a little
more "at rest" now.
Who knows? Perhaps all I should really say is that I have come
one step closer to death.
The days have grown cool enough now, what with the fall weather
starting, so that I can begin walking regularly to the cemetery.
I've gone there several times this past week to sit under my tree,
back propped against its rough trunk, legs stretched out before
me. I feel very relaxed and contented as I sit there, looking
at the trees (still green, but beginning to drop a few leaves now),
and at the animal and insect life around me. I sit there and
think my thoughts – or rather, I let thought flow through me,
for I no longer seem to want to pay such close attention to the
workings of my own psyche. I can "distort" my psyche
more or less at will these days, now turning off my analytic mind and
concentrating on my sensory perceptions, now observing my sensory
perceptions with complete detachment (so that a sound, for instance,
seems like a scratch made upon the air, or my perception of color
grows more intense, or my tactile sensations more acute), now
observing how my thoughts or sensory observations affect my physical
being and my emotions. Or I may wonder to what degree my sense
of "I" might be defined as the reactive invention of my
environment, and to what degree it is causative of that environment's existence:
I may wonder all sorts of things. But I no longer feel that
anything much hangs on it. Perhaps I'm wrong – but if so, I
presume that eventually I'll take note of it. It's not that my
psychological self no longer interests me, precisely; it's simply
that I no longer identify myself wholly and completely with it.
Now it's like a voice whispering in my ear: I listen to
my mind as if it were a sort of disembodied spirit speaking to
me. It's my friend – but I know it plays tricks on me sometimes, too!
I look at the trees. I watch the autumn breeze making the grass
shiver. Chipmunks are everywhere to be seen, busily collecting
seeds and nuts for the winter. Birds chase each other about,
enjoying a few days' respite between the chores of raising their
young and the migratory flight they will soon make south.
Cabbage butterflies too, fluttering like the petals of flowers that
blossom mid-air, seem to be everywhere, as are those curious, tiny
brown moths that fly up in front of you as you walk through the
grass. Mushrooms and toadstools, I notice, are flourishing . . .
I sit under my tree and look and look. Sometimes my thoughts
turn towards the dead, buried all around me; when I think of them I
feel a sort of trembling deep underground. There they lay,
stretched out flat beneath their stones, withered hands folded
demurely over shriveled chests. Ants crawl over me as I
sit. They crawl over my pant-legs and under my shirt and along
my arms, tickling. I blow them off, gently; or put my arm down
against the ground so that they can crawl back onto the grass again.
Then, suddenly, down between my fingers where the skin is tender – a
big black one bites me.
*
*
*
WHERE YOU ARE)
|
Make your mind grow bigger than
yourself.
Make your mind grow bigger than your
own head.
Use your imagination to do this.
Also use your eyes:
move them about so that
you are looking at the world around you
as if you could see
your imaginary mind
out there!
Do this at least once a day
for seven days.
(This will help you to figure out |
|