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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)