Category Archives: Contemplative practice

Be still

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“Be still and know that I am God.”

–Psalm 46

Be still and feel what is most subtle, most intimate.

Be still, empty yourself, and discover the ungraspable openness that you are.

In silence and stillness, we may come in touch with an energetic reality that feels spacious, open, boundless, limitless, vast, uncontained, shapeless, empty, ineffable and immensely alive. It has been called formless presence, pure consciousness, primordial awareness, groundlessness, no-thing-ness, but no words can capture it.

Out of this germinal no-thing-ness, the apparently formed world appears, a gift from the formless, a perfume of formless energy or spirit, a waving of the great formless ocean. Go deep into any form—a sound, something seen, a tactile or somatic sensation, a taste, a fragrance—and you find this aliveness, this radiant no-thing-ness. If you see deeply enough, you may find the whole universe in each breath, each sound, each sensation, each momentary appearance, just as if you go deep into any wave, you find the entire ocean and nothing you can grasp…

God, as I mean it, is not some gendered deity up in the sky directing the show, punishing and rewarding us. God is not a thing at all. God is this presence that is infinitely subtle, closer than close, and yet also infinite and boundless—that sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere. God is the light of awareness, beholding everything with unconditional love…

God is a way of seeing, seeing the sacred everywhere, seeing the light in everything, beholding it all from love, from wholeness rather than fragmentation. To awaken is to dissolve into God. When I open to God, immediately there is no me and no God; there is no body in any sense, there is only this ungraspable openness, in which there is no inside or outside.

Joan Tollifson, the ungraspable openness of being

Sometimes, Joan has a way of nailing precisely what I would wish to say. Like me, she occasionally finds herself unable to refuse the necessities of language; a thing poets encounter all the time. TS Eliot seems sometimes unable to help himself:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting…

(East Coker)

It is so simple really – all there is is sitting still, and the beautiful isness opens of itself in the stillness. And the heart opens, and cries out in silence, without words. But not to tell of this would be more than bearable. And sometimes only ancient words carry sufficient weight, sufficient links to the old, old mind we all share, back for generations to the days of Julian of Norwich (whom Joan quotes later in this essay), the days of Meister Eckhart and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing – back to Scripture itself, which after all was only written by people trying to find words for what is beyond words.

Sometimes I think being human consists as much in the ancient community of words as it does in our genome. Used rightly, words can draw us in, being us closer on what is after all a path walked alone. They can, at their best, open our eyes to what we had been missing, startle us and heal us – bring us home too what actually is, and is beyond all words, being here, now, always –

A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well…

(TS Eliot, Little Gidding)

You do not have to go anywhere

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It seems to me that the most insidious difficulty facing our practice is complexity. Ritual, elaboration of any kind, stages and visualisations, devotions and liturgies are at best distractions from what is at root a most perfectly simple thing: returning to what we essentially are.

Andrew Harvey:

The Direct Path is the Path to God without dogma or priests or gurus, the Path of direct self-empowerment and self-awakening in and under God in the heart of life. You do not have to go anywhere or take a new name or sign up for expensive intensives to begin it; whether you yet know it or not, you have been on this path since the day you were born.

When you discover for yourself how real the Direct Path is and how it can transform you faster, and more completely and integratedly than any other, your whole life will change and you will discover with wonder and delight why you are here and what you are here for. You will start to become free from all the political, social, and religious systems that constrain you, with the freedom that is yours by right of being a child of God, the freedom of your divine nature and your divine truth, and this freedom and this truth will make you increasingly an empowered agent of change in every arena in the world.

The Direct Path, p.12

Caryll Houselander saw this too:

Christ is everywhere; in Him every kind of life has a meaning and has an influence on every other kind of life. It is not the foolish sinner like myself, running about the world with reprobates and feeling magnanimous, who comes closest to them and brings them healing; it is the contemplative in her cell who has never set eyes on them, but in whom Christ fasts and prays for them—or it may be a charwoman in whom Christ makes Himself a servant again, or a king whose crown of gold hides a crown of thorns. Realization of our oneness in Christ is the only cure for human loneliness. For me, too, it is the only ultimate meaning of life, the only thing that gives meaning and purpose to every life.

Caryll Houselander (quoted in Richard Rohr’s The Universal Christ)

We do not need continually to be seeking things: all that we are, all that is, is right here in this present moment, as itself. Meister Eckhart’s Istigkeit, the open ground itself, is here, within each breath, within each phrase of birdsong from the open window. All we need is to be entirely present to what is here, now, always. “…[F]or only what is actually loved and known can be seen sub specie aeternitatis“ (David Jones)

Peter Russell:

In asking the question “Who am I?” we tacitly assume an individual self does indeed exist. As such, the question can mislead us, setting us up to look in the wrong direction — looking for ways to define ourselves. It can be more insightful to drop the “Who” from the question, and ask simply, “Am I?” The answer nearly always comes as a simple “Yes, I am.” Not “I am this or that.” Just pure “I am.” “I am” is the first-person form of the verb “to be.” It is our direct personal knowing of being. Not to be anything or anyone; simply to be, to exist — that sense of presence at the heart of every experience.

How to Meditate Without Even Trying, pp.95-96

Just noticing (edited and republished)

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I had intended to write a post here this evening when it occurred to me that I had already written, very nearly two years ago, almost the exact article I’d been planning. So here it is (somewhat edited):

Freedom is found in the choiceless awareness of our daily existence and activity…

You know, unless you hesitate, you can’t inquire. Inquiry means hesitating, finding out for yourself, discovering step by step; and when you do that, then you need not follow anybody, you need not ask for correction or for confirmation of your discovery.

Jiddu Krishnamurti

Sitting quietly – just noticing whatever appears in the field of consciousness, without having to label it or evaluate it, without having to either focus one’s attention on it or wrench one’s attention away from it – is perhaps the freshest, most peaceful thing one can do. There is no technique to adhere to, no doctrine to conform to: what is, is, and there’s nothing that needs to be done about it.

There is always a risk, of course, in talking like this. People who like things cut and dried are often suspicious of what appears to them to be an impractical vagueness; those from a background of religious orthodoxy will wonder if there’s a heresy lurking in there somewhere. Words, when it comes to spiritual things, are signs only in the sense we mean when we speak of hints and premonitions as “signs”, not in the sense of street signs, or signs on office doors in a hospital. They are not, by their very nature, precise and prescriptive; it is their very vagueness that allows them to be used at all, for they can do no more than offer us a glimpse into someone else’s experience – a window, if you like, into that which it is to be them.

Robert C Solomon writes:

Spirituality is a human phenomenon. It is part and parcel of human existence, perhaps even of human nature. This is not to deny that some animals might have something like spiritual experiences. But spirituality requires not only feeling but thought, and thought requires concepts. Thus spirituality and intelligence go hand in hand. This is not to say that intelligent people are more spiritual, but neither is it to buy into a long tradition of equating spirituality with innocence misconstrued as ignorance or even as stupidity.

Spirituality for the Skeptic: the Thoughtful Love of Life

The practice of choiceless awareness (in Krishnamurti’s phrase) that I have been describing is not a kind of daydream, or an unusual state of consciousness even: it is a quiet but exceptionally alert quality of mind, without straining after attention either. Toni Bernhard suggests that,

[i]n this technique, we begin by paying attention to the sensation of the breath (this settles the mind and body), but then the instruction is to let our attention rest on whatever is most prominent in our field of awareness… awakening by engaging the whole of our experience fully, however it presents itself…  As a meditation practice, choiceless awareness is similar to the Zen meditation technique known as shikantaza, which roughly translates as just sitting. I love the idea of just sitting, although for me, just lying down will do—which takes me to my number one rule regarding meditation: be flexible.

Toni Bernhard, How to Wake Up

This quality of stillness, of just noticing, is such a simple thing that it would be easy to dismiss it as inconsequential. It is not. It seems important, somehow – and here I hesitate, as Krishnamurti suggested – that someone is prepared to do this.

We are brought up, certainly here in the West, to see life as intrinsically bound up in progress, or at least development, and that isn’t necessarily so in the spiritual life, despite our continual use of terms like “path” and “practice”. We use them in the unspoken assumption that the path leads somewhere, that we are practising for a performance, or an examination. Even in religious contexts it is often seen as wasteful self-indulgence to sit still when we could be up and out feeding the poor or preaching the good news, or making some other kind of progress in our “walk of faith”. But maybe the point is being missed somewhere.

Contentment has become something of a dirty word, yet a life without it is too often at risk of shallowness and politicisation. Febrile activism and polemical discourse without contemplative roots are no more likely to bring peace to the human heart, or to the human community, than war. We need to sit still. We need those whose path has petered out under the quiet trees, whose practice is no more than an open and wondering heart. There was good sense in the Taoist tradition of the sage who, their public life over, left for a hut on a mountain somewhere. There are good things to be seen sometimes from a mountain hut.

Strange days

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Today, however, we’re in the midst of a spiritual renaissance that differs markedly from those of the past. No longer confined to the faiths of our own cultures, we have access to many traditions, from the dawn of recorded history to the present day. Moreover, the insights of contemporary teachers are readily available in books, recordings, videos, and online, none of which was possible before.

Whereas past spiritual revivals were often led by a single teacher, today many are contributing to this growing rediscovery of the timeless wisdom. Instead of the truth becoming increasingly diluted as it is passed on, our discoveries are reinforcing one another. As the cultural overlays are stripped away, the core message not only becomes increasingly clear but gets simpler and simpler. And the path becomes easier and easier…

None of this would have been possible were I not alive in this epochal time — a time of ever-increasing change and opportunity, a time of proliferating crises and potential catastrophes, and a time of unprecedented spiritual renaissance. Two hundred years ago, my only counsel in this area might have been from a local priest, who, most likely, would have known little of the topics I’ve been exploring here. Or perhaps, should I have been so fortunate, from a local sage. Today, I’ve been privileged to travel the world, sit at the feet of various masters, study teachings from across the ages, listen to and watch numerous recordings, and learn from many companions on their own journeys of awakening. To all these various teachers, I give thanks.

Peter Russell, How to Meditate Without Even Trying, pp.109,114

Caught between solastalgia and the BBC news, we can be forgiven for thinking, as so many have throughout recorded history, that we live in times of quite unprecedented strife and difficulty. But it’s more complicated than that.

In the almost 34 years since the world wide web went live, access to information, and, with AI, the ability to process it, has grown beyond anyone’s imagining – and, of course, since we are human, so has access to misinformation – a fact that underlies much of the grief that feeds the dystopian embroideries of the news media. But there is another side to all this, as Peter Russell points out.

It may perhaps be, if we manage to hang on as a viable species long enough, that these years at the beginning of the 21st century will not be remembered for their paranoia, misogyny and bone-headed despotism so much as for their glorious renaissance of the spiritual life. Blogs like this one are not merely lone voices squeaking in the midst of chaos; we are part of something much bigger and more hopeful than any of us. And yet, as Caryll Houselander once wrote, it is only the silence of each individual contemplative that shows us the open ground of being beneath us all.

Go your own way

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One of the most interesting sections of Krishna’s exposition in the Gita comes at the very end, in chapter 18, verse 63, and I mention it here because it has relevance regarding methods of awakening in the perennial philosophy. After Krishna has outlined the three yogas, Arjuna is curious to know which method works best and which he should choose; however, Krishna ends with a very telling comment: “Thus to you has been expounded the knowledge that is more secret than the secret; after considering it fully, you should act as you think best.” At the end of the discourse, Krishna’s answer is basically, “That’s for you to decide.” And here Krishna is recognizing that different pathways appeal to different personality types. Karma yoga, the yoga of “action,” is not best suited for those who enjoy contemplation, and quiet meditation is unappealing to those who like to keep busy. Growth toward spiritual maturity is intensely personal, given that no matter how many mystics have woken up throughout history, this will be the first time you have woken up; consequently, personal choice, based on one’s own nature, is deeply important when it comes to choosing a path.

Dana Sawyer, The Perennial Philosophy Reloaded: A Guide for the Mystically Inclined, p.74

I am coming to see that this is another of those places where organised religion regularly fails the contemplative in finding their path. Rarely if ever do religions – even avowedly contemplative religions like Buddhism – offer the freedom of growth and practice Sawyer outlines here. (The individual’s path is generally seen in terms of obedience and conformity to a known pattern of practice and intent: for instance, in a Christian monastic setting one’s obedience is to one’s superior; in a Zen context to the practice leaders, or to the community’s Master himself.)

The freedom to follow the heart is another matter entirely. As I have often remarked on this blog, a contemplative without a religious framework is called to a kind of solitude,  The inwardly eremitic life doesn’t have necessarily to involve physical isolation or any experiment in extreme living: it is a solitude of the heart, a calling to a necessary quiet.

We are used by now to the way people may be broadly divided into introverts and extroverts, more precisely perhaps into the 16 personalities of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. We may even have stumbled across Elaine Aron and her concept of the highly sensitive person. I think perhaps it is time we recognise the Einzelgänger or Einzelgängerin as a distinct personality type in themselves: contemplatives who find that they are temperamentally unsuited either for formal membership of some church or meeting, or for the particular relationship of personal discipleship.

It would be too easy, perhaps, to dismiss the path of the “independent contemplative” as an easy way, a variety of the cafeteria religion so enthusiastically despised by some of the more orthodox followers of one religion or another. But it is far from being a soft option, followed seriously.

Karen Karper Fredette and Paul Fredette write, in Consider the Ravens: On Contemporary Hermit Life (p.213):

Anyone taking the eremitic vocation seriously is bound to feel helpless, quite impotent, in fact. Hermits are determined to help, to make a positive difference, but how? What can one person do, hidden and alone? Sometimes, solitaries may feel blameworthy because they live lives which shelter them from much of the suffering that so harshly mars the existence of their brothers and sisters. Love and compassion well up in them … but is it enough? What should one do and how? This is where passionate intercessory prayer and supplication spontaneously arises.

The challenge is to live a life given over to praying for others while accepting that one will seldom, if ever, see any results. No one will be able to ascertain how, or even if, their devoted prayers are efficacious for others. It is a terrible kind of poverty—to live dedicated to helping others, yet never know what good one may be doing. All that hermits can hope is that they are doing no harm. Believers leave all results to the mercy of their God. Others rely on their convictions about the interconnection of all humanity, trusting that what affects one, touches all. This is a form of intercession expressed less by words than by a way of life. A Camaldolese monk once wrote: “Prayer is not only speaking to God on behalf of humanity, it is also ‘paying’ for humanity.” Suffering is part of the hermit’s vocation. One of the most acute forms is to never know whether one’s chosen lifestyle is worthwhile or has any value for others. Hermits enter into the darkness, the dusky cloud of unknowing, and walk without any light beyond that which is in their own hearts. Often, unbeknownst even to themselves, they have become beacons for others.

What is trust?

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I’m aware that yesterday’s post perhaps raised more questions that it answered. That’s not a bad thing in itself, perhaps, but it’s not always kind to one’s readers. Richard Rohr reminds us:

Unfortunately, the notion of faith that emerged in the West was much more a rational assent to the truth of certain mental beliefs, rather than a calm and hopeful trust that God is inherent in all things, and that this whole thing is going somewhere good. Predictably, we soon separated intellectual belief (which tends to differentiate and limit) from love and hope (which unite and thus eternalize). As Paul says in his great hymn to love, “There are only three things that last, faith, hope and love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). All else passes. Faith, hope, and love are the very nature of God, and thus the nature of all Being. Such goodness cannot die. (Which is what we mean when we say “heaven.”) … Christ is a good and simple metaphor for absolute wholeness, complete incarnation, and the integrity of creation.

The Universal Christ, p.22

Now I know that using the word “Christ” in this context may bring some readers up short, but bear with me here: there is more to New Testament Christology than often meets the eye. The apostle Paul says of Christ (Colossians 1:16-17 NIV):  “For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” (This of course is the source of the concept of coinherence so beloved of Charles Williams.)

Using the word Christ in this context is far closer to Meister Eckhart’s Istigkeit, Spinoza’s Deus sive Natura, the Original Ground of Dzogchen, or the Ground of Being in Paul Tillich’s writings, than it is to the “Jesus’ surname” usage common to some thoughtless conventional Christian preaching.

One difficulty we often run into on the far side of deconstruction, it seems to me, is finding words adequate to just this deeply experiential aspect of the contemplative life. It is all very well scraping terminology from neuroscience (or astrophysics, or academic philosophy) and often this can serve us well if we are trying to conceptualise spiritual realities. But our practice, and our awakened lives, ask more of us than conceptualising spiritual experience. Perhaps it is worth taking the risk, with Rohr and Williams and Tillich, of using the language of direct contemplative experience within our own culture. The contemplative life is a life of the heart, after all, and much of our practice depends upon casting a cold eye on the chatter of discursive thought! We cannot trust a bare idea as we can the direct faith that all things rest in Christ, in presence, in the open ground of isness itself – waves of the one ocean, if you will – and that to that presence they will return.

What we really are

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We pay attention to our own true nature and by becoming fully conscious of the union of our nature with Christ, we become fully ourselves. 

John Main, Word into Silence, p.18

The idea of time has many expressions, from chronological to biological, emotional to cosmic. We sometimes feel we have lived a lifetime in a moment. We can feel time as a crucifixion or as a resurrection. The vast figures measuring cosmic time in an expanding universe can seem overwhelming but the few years of a human life can seem more significant and precious. Time and mortality live out the drama of birth and death and the painful mystery of separation. In the light of faith we come by stages to see the all-pervading mystery of union…

This consummation of union, whether it is called nirvana, liberation from rebirth, enlightenment, moksha or heaven is part of the common ground of all religious wisdom when we understand religion in its mystical dimension. It refers to the experience of oneness, the transcendence of the ego’s centre of consciousness, the transformation of the dualistic mind, the movement from the mind’s self-mirroring complexities into the simplicity and pure vision of the heart, the non-duality of the spirit. With a silent passion deeper than their words and differences, all religions point to this. If they do indeed teach this way and not just pay lip service to it, religion offers our often sad and battered humanity a reasonable and empowering hope.

We both lose and find ourselves in the otherness of ultimate reality. This is easy to say but it is a hard paradox to wrestle with. It demands a deepening faith commitment. When the master class of life has taught us enough, commitment meets detachment and solitude, the recognition and acceptance of our uniqueness becomes more attractive and even easier. We gradually withdraw from unnecessary activity and distraction. We become freer from compulsions and addictions.

Laurence Freeman, First Sight: The Experience of Faith, p.76-77

What we really are is this. We are not what we think we are, frail isolated intelligences trapped in a zero-sum game of mere survival, creatures of allegiances and enmities, just barely hanging on. We belong. We are part of it all, wavelets on a limitless ocean of grace.

We must… make a clear distinction between belief and faith, because, in general practice, belief has come to mean a state of mind which is almost the opposite of faith. Belief, as I use the word here, is the insistence that the truth is what one would “lief” or wish it to be. The believer will open his mind to the truth on the condition that it fits in with his preconceived ideas and wishes. Faith, on the other hand, is an unreserved opening of the mind to the truth, whatever it may turn out to be. Faith has no preconceptions; it is a plunge into the unknown. Belief clings, but faith lets go. In this sense of the word, faith is the essential virtue of science, and likewise of any religion that is not self-deception.

Alan Watts, The Wisdom of Insecurity p.24

Faith is no more, perhaps, than this radical open-heartedness, this helpless surrender to what is, in David Jones’ words, “actually loved and known”. All our practice, all our patience and all our prayers come down to this simple oneness. What we used to be is dispersed, patched and rotted through with light. None of the old certainties can hold. They don’t need to: this trackless brightness beyond the memory of shorelines is the waking heart itself, nothing more.

Getting nowhere

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Wakefulness has been real and accessible for all human beings at all times and in all cultures. People from all cultures have been able to touch into it and explore its rich and radiant experiential landscape. They have simply interpreted and conceptualized it in slightly different ways, due to the different beliefs and conventions of their cultures. In Buddhism, perhaps because of Indian culture’s belief in rebirth, wakefulness is partly conceived as a state in which a person no longer generates karma and no longer needs to be reborn. But when expressed through the more dynamic and world-embracing attitudes of early Chinese culture, wakefulness is partly conceived as a process of becoming attuned to the Dao and living in harmony with it. On the other hand, people who live in monotheistic cultures — Jewish, Sufi, and Christian cultures — see wakefulness in more transcendent terms. To them, it’s natural to interpret the all-pervading spirit-force (which the Chinese conceive as the Dao and the Indians as brahman) in terms of God. They see it as divine energy, the being of God, and they conceive the goal of their development to be union with God.

In some respects, modern-day spiritual seekers are in a better position. In our secular culture we’re less obliged to interpret wakefulness through the prism of religious or metaphysical frameworks. It’s naive to think that there’s such a thing as pure experience — some degree of interpretation will always take place. No phenomenon exists outside the culture in which it develops, and no phenomenon is free from cultural influence. But there are degrees of interpretation. When we look at wakefulness outside spiritual traditions, we’re surely looking at it in a purer form, before added layers of interpretation. You could say that we’re looking at the raw materials, before they go through the filtering and manufacturing processes of spiritual and religious traditions.

Steve Taylor, The Leap: The Psychology of Spiritual Awakening, pp.235-236

It is impossible, it seems to me, to write – or even to speak – about the contemplative life without to some extent interpreting and conceptualising it according to the conventions of our own culture. Even the language of radical nonduality – the writings of Tony Parsons or Darryl Bailey , for instance – borrows not only from Zen Buddhism and Advaita Vedanta, but from our contemporary scientific understanding of the neuroscience of consciousness, from philosophy more generally. I do myself, continually.

Yet we can to a large extent evade the worst of “the filtering and manufacturing processes of spiritual and religious traditions”. We may in many ways live in difficult times, yet most of us do have the freedom to think, even to speak and write, outside tradition. We can explore – and to a great extent we have the internet to thank for this – widely and deeply among contemplative thinkers and practitioners, and we can find encouragement to think for ourselves and to develop our own contemplative path,

No amount of reading, though, will open for us the door of what Steve Taylor refers to as wakefulness. Nor, I can’t resist saying, will making retreats, training for Zen ordination or attending Centering Prayer sessions at our local Catholic church. Wakefulness arrives of itself, in its own time. In Centering Prayer it would simply be referred to as grace, the gift of God. We cannot make wakefulness happen: it is not an achievement, a goal we could work towards. It is not something else, something different from where we are now, or what we are now. Wakefulness appears – it was never absent – when we stop trying to name and control what is.

The radical nondualists are in a sense right: practice cannot create wakefulness, and wakefulness can appear without a settled practice at all. No words can give it to us, unless perhaps we are on the brink of it ourselves anyway.

I’m often reminded of my frustration when first reading Jiddu Krishnamurti in my twenties: his words were wonderful, hinting at the very opening I’d been longing for, but there was no practice, no method, not even the suggestion of a pill one might take.

What Krishnamurti was writing about was what he called choiceless awareness, the quality of openness to what is, just as it is, in the instant that it is perceived. Taylor’s wakefulness. Wes Nisker:

Choiceless awareness allows the meditator to see how our experience creates itself; how sense impressions, thoughts, and feelings arise without our willing them; how they interact and influence each other. By engaging the quality of choiceless awareness, we can extract ourselves from the contents of what we think and feel and start to explore how we think and feel.

Choiceless awareness, wakefulness: the state appears when the mind ceases grasping after things, even spiritual things. And practice, while not the only way to refrain from grasping after spiritual goals and achievements, is for me at least the most reliable way.

That’s why I think shikantaza, or its near Christian relative Centering Prayer, is such a good practice. Nearly free from ritual and tradition in its native Zen form, shikantaza at least can be practiced without religious assumptions.

Just sitting, there is nothing to do, nothing for the mind to cling onto. There is only now: the sensation of breathing, the feel of whatever we are sitting on, the sounds from outside the room; nothing more. Even thoughts are no more than the flicker of shadows across a curtain in the sun. This condition is in itself perfectly free. It can’t be a means to anything. It is itself what all this is about; nothing more.

Wakefulness and illumination

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[W]akefulness as it’s expressed in monotheistic religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam takes people beyond those religions. When people wake up, they lose the sense of being identified with — and the need to belong to — a particular religious tradition. They begin to feel an all-embracing empathy and compassion that takes them beyond the divisions of religious or ethnic groups. As a result, such awakened individuals, even when they are affiliated with one particular religion, are usually ecumenical and open to other faiths. They see all religious and spiritual traditions simply as different paths to the same destination, or different views of the same landscape. Unlike conventionally religious people, they don’t see their tradition’s beliefs as “the truth” and try to defend them against opposing views.

Partly because of this, awakened individuals throughout history have had an uneasy relationship with the religious traditions they were affiliated with. Conventional religious leaders struggled to make sense of mystics’ awakened interpretations of religious teachings and often viewed them as blasphemous. Whereas conventionally religious people conceive of God as a personal being who oversees the world from another dimension of reality, religious mystics see God as an immensely powerful and radiant energy that pervades the whole world. And most radically, religious mystics don’t see this God as separate from themselves. God is the essence of their own being so that, in a sense, they are also God…

When a person becomes awakened, their experience effects the whole of humanity, in the same way that when a light is turned on it illuminates the space all around it.

Steve Taylor, The Leap: The Psychology of Spiritual Awakening, pp.42-43, 45

For so much of my life I have struggled to make sense of my own instinct for the contemplative life; to accept that my own cumulative experiences of illumination might in fact amount to a kind of awakening; and crucially, that that wakefulness might have significance beyond my own narrow self and its concerns. Perhaps this, more than anything, has been the reason I expended so much effort trying to find a home for myself within organised religion, and why the attempt always proved fruitless in the end, either through my own self-sabotage or through the misunderstandings of others.

I say this, I think, not so much to justify my own somewhat chequered history as to, hopefully, provide a crumb of reassurance to anyone reading this who might find themselves in similar straits.

A couple of chapters later (ibid., p.74) Steve Taylor writes:

When wakefulness occurs in the context of spiritual or religious traditions, a person has a readily available framework (together with the guidance of others who have experienced wakefulness) to help them understand their state. Without such support, naturally wakeful people may experience some confusion and doubt. They may feel threatened by their spiritual impulses and try to repress them. It may take them several years to understand and accept their innate wakefulness fully.

Naturally awakened people who live in cultures that don’t support a spiritual understanding of the world are in particular danger of this difficulty. The values of their culture may clash with their awakened impulses. We all absorb cultural influences as we grow up, and it may take several years for naturally wakeful people to work off their cultural conditioning so that they can begin to live authentically. They may feel a powerful impulse to live a different kind of life — to turn away from materialism and hedonism, to simplify their lives and spend more time in solitude, for example — but it may be a number of years before they feel confident and autonomous enough to follow the impulse. Until then, they may feel an intense sense of frustration because their innate wakefulness can’t express itself.

For me at least, the process seems to have taken most of a lifetime; and yet, hesitant at it has been, its progress has been curiously inexorable. Awakening does have its own momentum; even my own persistently bombu foolishness has not proved equal to the task of impeding it.

It may be that not only has this impulse towards awakening been present in the lives of individual women and men throughout history, but that there is an evolutionary impulse in humanity itself. In which case, the crazy reverses seen so often in the ongoing processes of civilisation may somehow parallel the ones seen in the lives of so many of us contemplatives. Humanity may yet get there; and yet there is no there to get, is there? There are no objects or objectives, no destination: there are only swirls within the eddies in the stream of coming-to-be. The light glints on the bright water, flickers and is gone – no, there it is again, and gone. The only constant is change; and yet there is no changing from, nor changing to. No thing; only change, becoming; every thing and every self is no more than an appearance, fleeting and lovely, nothing more.

Mysteries and metaphors

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It seems that everything we can say about the contemplative life is metaphor. Indeed, it might not be stretching it to suggest that what we can say about pretty much anything is actually metaphor. However attached we are to the idea of plain speaking, even the most direct words applied to the most straightforward objects or circumstances are picture language, mere scratchings after what is in itself ineffable.

Elaine Aron:

Why the word path? Life path, spiritual path—we use path so much in this way that it has almost ceased to be a metaphor. Life, like a path, has ups and downs, detours, roadblocks, and so forth. The metaphor works for me…

But paths are more than maps of passive journeys. They involve choices, or at least noticeable changes in direction…

The beginning of a life often looks more like a moving sidewalk. You were born. No choice there. And you started to move along, to grow from a child’s body into an adult’s. Biology sees to that. Your society, through your family, saw that you received an education (you are reading this), so that you would be useful in some way, able to support yourself and contribute to the larger good. Depending how far along you are, biology and culture has supported your interest in finding a mate and having children, working at a job, and then retiring and maybe helping raise grandchildren. That’s the moving sidewalk, and of course we all add our unique touches to the trip, but maybe you made some larger choices… Maybe you decided not to have children or never to retire. Maybe you took up sailing and sailed around the world, or you raised parakeets and even made a living at it.

Time is what a path and a moving sidewalk have in common. Time has been taking you forward toward the end point.

(Spirituality through a Highly Sensitive Lens, pp.51-52)

To speak of a spiritual path has become as much a cliché as a metaphor, smelling of patchouli oil and self improvement. And yet it is hard to find another expression for whatever it is. But perhaps there is more to the threadbare phrase that even Aron suggests here. Her “moving pavement” reminds me of Martin Heidegger’s Geworfenheit – “thrownness” – the unique set of limitations of birth and time and society which each of us has inherited. Our choices are real, perhaps, but they are far more constrained than most of us would admit. Our spiritual path is what it is because of who we are; all the yearning we can yearn will not allow us to walk another’s.

It may be that our truest compass is merely to acknowledge this fact. “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.'” (Isaiah 30:21 NIV) And the voice is that of our own authentic self, “who we are” at our barest essence: who we are in silence, in the stillness of our practice. The way is not another’s map, and the directions are not another’s doctrines. All we can do is to step out onto the mountain in the night wind, and listen.