Welcome! It’s so graceful to share the journey. We’ve been on this journey a long time together. We’ve gone through a lot of stages. And just as in any journey, some people have dropped along the way, have had enough for this round. Others have been waiting for us to catch up. The journey passes through the seven valleys, the seven kingdoms, the chakras, the planes of consciousness, the degrees of faith. Often we only know we’ve been in a certain place when we pass beyond it, because when we’re in it, we don’t have the perspective to know, because we’re only being. But as the journey progresses, less and less do you need to know. When the faith is strong enough, it is sufficient just to be. It’s a journey toward simplicity, toward quietness, toward a kind of joy that is not in time. It’s a journey out of time, leaving behind every model we have had of who we think we are. It involves a transformation of our being so that our thinking mind becomes our servant rather than our master. It’s a journey that takes us from primary identification with our body, through identification with our psyche, on to an identification with our soul, then to an identification with God, and ultimately beyond identification.
Because many of us have traversed this path without maps, thinking that it was unique to us because of the peculiar way in which we were traveling, often there has been a lot of confusion. We have imagined that the end was reached when it was merely the first mountain peak—which yet hid all of the higher mountains in the distance. Many of us got enamored because these experiences along the way were so intense that we couldn’t imagine anything beyond them. Isn’t it a wonderful journey that at every stage we can’t imagine anything beyond it? Every point we reach is so much beyond anything up until then that our perception is full and we can’t see anything else but the experience itself.
For the first few stages, we really think that we planned the trip, packed the provisions, set out ourselves, and are the master of our domain. Only after traversing a few valleys and mountains along the way do we begin to realize that there are silent guides, that what has seemed random and chaotic might actually have a pattern. It’s very hard for a being who is totally attached and identified with his intellect to imagine that the universe could be so perfectly designed that every act, every experience is perfectly within the lawful harmony of the universe—including all of the paradoxes. The statement, “Not a leaf turns but that God is behind it,” is just too far out to think about. But eventually we begin to recognize that the journey may be stretching out for a longer span than we thought it was going to.
We come out of a philosophical materialistic framework in which we are totally identified with our bodies and the material plane of existence—when you’re dead, you’re dead—so get it while it’s hot. And more is better and now is best, because we don’t know when the curtain will come down and it will all be over. And better not to think about that curtain because it’s too frightening. Where along the journey do we begin to suspect that that model of how it is, is just another model? And that this lifetime is but another part of a long, long journey? In the Buddhist teachings, there is an analogy of how long we’ve been doing this. The image is that of a solid granite mountain six miles long, six miles wide, six miles high. Every hundred years a bird flies by the mountain with a silk scarf in its beak and runs the scarf over the mountain. In the length of time it takes for the silk scarf to wear away the mountain, that’s how long we’ve been doing it. Round after round after round. It puts a different time perspective on this one life, doesn’t it? Not all of those rounds are on this plane; not all of those rounds are in human form. But all of those rounds are a part of a journey that has direction.
Sooner or later the realization comes that nothing we can think of is going to do it. Nothing we experience is it—because our minds think of things, and we and the things are separate, and there is a little veil, like a trillionth of a second that exists between us and the thing we’re thinking of. And when we sense something or collect an experience, there’s the distinction between the experience and the experiencer, and that’s a very thin veil. It doesn’t matter how thin it is—it’s like steel. It always separates us from where it’s happening.
When at last the despair is deep enough, we cry out. We cry inwardly or outwardly, “Get me out of this! I want to get out! I give up. I don’t know. I surrender.” At that moment, when the despair is genuine enough, the veil separates a bit. I’m not talking about wanting to want to give up. I’m not even talking about wanting to give up. I’m talking about actually giving up. The problem is, most of us say, “I don’t think my thoughts are going to do it, so I’m now open to new possibilities. I’ll read Ram Dass’s book, but I’m going to sit and judge it.” Forget it—because the judge has designed the game so that the judge won’t have to change, and says, “Anything that doesn’t fit in with the way I thought it was, I reject.” We have categories for that—it’s “weird” or it’s “occult” or it’s “far out” or whatever we want to call it. It’s a way of putting it somewhere else so it doesn’t blow our scene up. That’s what the judge’s function is, so the scene doesn’t get blown up.
When, as the Third Chinese Patriarch of zen suggests, we set aside opinion and judgment because we see they’re just digging us deeper into our hole, we surrender our own knowing. Now, that’s really hard, because the whole culture is based on the worship of the golden calf of the rational mind while other levels of knowing, like what we call intuition, have practically become dirty words in our culture. It’s sort of sloppy, it’s not tight, logical, analytic, clean. You don’t sit in scientific meetings and say, “I intuit that . . .” You say, “Out of inductive reasoning, I hypothesize that we will be able to disprove the null hypothesis.” That’s saying the same thing, but we’ve made believe that we’re doing it analytically and logically. Some of us, I am sure, recognize that game. When Einstein said, “I did not arrive at my understanding of the fundamental laws of the universe through my rational mind,” many of his colleagues thought him quite eccentric—because the rational mind has been the high priest of the society. Realize that it’s merely a tiny system and that there are meta-systems and meta-meta-systems, in which only when we transcend our logical analytic mind can we even enter the gate.
I remember as a social scientist, I studied what was studiable. What was studiable had nothing to do with what was happening to me, but it was studiable. The analogy is the drunk looking for the watch under the streetlight. Someone comes to help him look, but there’s no watch under the streetlight, and finally the passerby asks, “Well, exactly where did you lose it?” And the drunk says, “I lost it up in the dark alley, but there is more light out here.” It is the light of the analytic mind we were using to try to find what had been lost in the distant alley.
Well, a long time ago we were enamored of our prehensile capabilities, the fact that our thumb and index finger could do intricate stuff that no other species could. That was pretty far out; we got a lot of power. But that was nothing like all the anticipatory stuff and the remembering and all this stuff we could do with our cerebral cortex. And to think that wasn’t to be the end-all. It even sent people to the moon. Isn’t that the ultimate? It doesn’t seem to be, does it? It’s interesting that people were burned at the stake for suggesting that the anthropomorphic view of the universe wasn’t the final one. We all have been caught again and again in embracing the view that the physical universe is the center of it all, when in fact it turns out that the physical universe is just another universe. Not even necessarily the most interesting one. Isn’t that damaging to our ego?
And the moment when there is that little bit of giving up, whether we’re blown out of our rational mind by whatever techniques we have available, or some traumatic experience happens that shakes us out of it, or we have just lived long enough that we’ve despaired of ever getting it the way we thought we were going to—whatever the genesis of it, at that moment we experience the presence of another set of possibilities of who we are and what it’s all about. It is like that moment depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel when the hands of God and man are just about to touch. It’s just at the moment when the despair is greatest, when we reach up, that the grace descends, and we experience the knowledge or the insight or the remembrance that it all isn’t in fact the way we thought it was. If it happens too violently, we decide we’ve gone insane.
And there are people who are all too willing to reassure us that we have, and there are places for that. In hunting tribes, mystics are treated as insane—they’re an inconvenience because the tribe has to be kept mobile, and old people and crazy people have to be put away somewhere. But if we’re in a certain position at the moment of seeing through, if the view has been gentle or if we’re with somebody else who knows, or if we had intellectually known but didn’t believe, all of which is a karmic matter, if we had some kind of structure or support system, we say, “Even though everybody else thinks I’m mad, I’m not.”
It’s like when I was being thrown out of Harvard. There was a press conference, and all the reporters and photographers were interviewing me because I was the first professor to be fired from Harvard in a very long time. They all were looking at me as the fighter who had just lost the big fight. Here I was, a good boy who had built his career and finally reached Harvard and now was obviously going to disappear into ignominy. The major teaching institution had dismissed me in disgrace. They had that look on their faces you have when you’re around a loser. And here I was every few days taking acid with my partner, Timothy, and my friends were going into these realms beyond realms beyond realms, and I was looking at the reporters and photographers as “those poor fellows.” And I looked around and saw that everybody believed in only one reality to this situation except me; and I remembered, since I’m a clinical psychologist, that that was a definition of insanity. One of me was saying, “Boy, are you crazy.” And the other was saying, “Go, go, go, you’re right on!”
The moment at which we look up, the moment at which we look in, starts the journey back. The journey has gone from the One into the incredible paranoid multiplicity of this high technological materialistic structure. Then, when the despair is great enough, there is the turnaround, and we start to go back to the One. And at that moment, who we are starts to change—because up until then, we have been worshipping our individual differences—“I’m more beautiful, I’m younger, I’m smarter, or I wish I were”—or totally preoccupied with getting an individual difference that we could accentuate, because that’s where the payoff was.
So we dress in silver sequins with golden blups, and that makes us special, and everybody says, “You’re special.” But then when we look around, and we get a sense of another reality, an awareness of presence—a place within us starts to draw us as inevitably and irrevocably as a flame draws a moth. For a long time, maybe many, many lifetimes, we’ll keep soaring in close and getting our wings singed.
Now, whether our wings are being singed, whether the fire purifies us or destroys us, depends on who we think we are, because the fire can only burn our stash of clinging. The fire doesn’t burn itself. And in truth, we are the fire.
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