Tag Archives: Steve Taylor

Part of the mystery

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The solitary is the bearer of the future, of that which is not yet born, of the mystery which lies beyond the circle of lamplight or the edge of the known world. There are some who make raids into this unknown world of mystery and who come back bearing artefacts. These are the creative artists, the poets who offer us their vision of the mystery… But there are also those who make solitude their home, who travel further into the inner desert, from which they bring back few artefacts. These are the contemplatives, those who are drawn into the heart of the mystery. Contemplatives have no function and no ministry. They are in [that] world as a fish is in the sea, to use Catherine of Siena’s phrase, as part of the mystery. That they are necessary is proved by the fact that they exist in all religious traditions. Contemplatives are not as a rule called to activity, they are useless people and therefore little understood in a world that measures everything by utility and cash value. Unlike the poet they do not return bearing artefacts, but remain in the desert, pointing to the mystery, drawing others in.

Eve Baker, Paths in Solitude, pp.10-11

As Steve Taylor writes: “However, awakened people travel lightly and transition easily. They perceive their existence as part of a vast network of being that will continue to flourish without them. They feel that they share their identity with the whole of the network, that something inside them is part of everything else.” The contemplative life is not a one-way relationship, as so often imagined by religious dogma. Sitting still, we find ourselves part of the unknowable ground as waves are part of the ocean: not other, and yet not exactly one with.

To live as part of the mystery, fully aware of our partial and temporary nature, might seem from an observer’s point of view a kind of death. In fact it is in truth a kind of death. The notion of ourselves as finite, detachable entities cannot live long in the desert. That is why we go there, into the desert of the heart. As Eve Baker puts it (ibid.), “The desert to which the solitary is called is not a place, but something that must be there below the surface of ordinary human existence. It is nowhere, a place of thirst…”

So much of this life is apophatic: we find ourselves in a trackless land, unknowing; what we are is no thing: in that we are part of the ground itself, nothing more. What else could we long for?

Presence again

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Human beings are probably the most inappropriately named species on our planet. Most of us spend very little time being. It would be more accurate to call us human doings, human thinkings, or perhaps human wantings – with being somewhere near the bottom of the list.

Most of us find it very difficult to be – to be inactive, or to do nothing – and so spend most of our time doing, filling every moment with activities and distractions. When we have nothing to focus our attention on, we usually feel uneasy and immediately reach for some means of occupying our minds…

Presence, or being, is an essential quality of wakefulness. Awakened people are centered in the present. Since they don’t experience inner discord, they don’t feel the impulse to escape the present and so spend much less time in a state of absence. Rather than finding presence a burden, they relish it. To awakened people, simply to be – to take in the reality of their surroundings and their experiences in the Now – is one of life’s greatest delights.

This is why awakened people savor solitude and inactivity, which allow them to be present and to experience the simple joy of being.

Steve Taylor, The Adventure: A Practical Guide to Spiritual Awakening. pp.59-61

Continual attention to presence, whether through formal practice or through moment by moment mindfulness, not only frees us from inner distraction and disharmony, it allows us to become aware of our own attitudes and assumptions, our unthought reactions and ways of seeing. This isn’t always pleasant: we find we can’t avoid seeing how we all too easily fall into characteristic patterns of relating to the world around us, and to its creatures, human and otherwise.

To observe our own predeliction for commodifying our fellow creatures, for reacting to imaginary slights and misunderstood communications, for looking away from each other’s distress, is deeply damaging to our comfortable self-conceit.

But presence is essential freedom; freedom not only from abstraction and distraction, but freedom from self-deception, and from self-absorption altogether. Practiced thoroughly. persistently, it becomes a delight and a refuge – somehow a homecoming after a long and broken time away. All that we thought were falls away. All that is left is what is.

Gratitude and presence

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Perhaps the most notable overall change [in the awakening mind], though, is a general sense of well-being. In the same way that the taking for granted syndrome inevitably leads to frustration and dissatisfaction, ongoing gratitude leads to contentment and fulfillment. You will no longer crave things you don’t have or need, since you’re now able to appreciate what you do have. You’ll be free of the constant niggling need to add more to your life or to change your life situation, like an addict who is finally free of the craving for drugs.

You will also feel an enhanced sense of presence. In chapter 1, I mentioned that many qualities of wakefulness are interdependent, and this is particularly true of presence and gratitude. Gratitude brings us into presence, and presence creates gratitude. Our blessings are always in the present, whereas the taking for granted syndrome takes us out of the present, into imaginary future scenarios.

You might wonder: Is it actually possible to live in an all-encompassing state of gratitude, continually aware of the myriad blessings in our lives? But we don’t have to extend our gratitude so widely all the time… Gratitude should be a constant, underlying trait that arises organically in relation to our experience. And when we do have free moments of contemplation, we will naturally find ourselves extending our gratitude more widely, to encompass all of life itself and the Earth.

We should also remember that, as suggested in chapter 1, it’s unrealistic – and even unnecessary – to live in a perpetual state of spiritual ecstasy. Of course, we often have to focus our attention on practical tasks, such as driving or cooking or earning a living. In those practical moments, our sense of gratitude may recede from our awareness. But it will always be in the background, naturally arising when we relax our attention. This applies to all the other qualities of wakefulness… in general.

Steve Taylor, The Adventure: A Practical Guide to Spiritual Awakening. pp.51-52

Steve Taylor’s point about presence and gratitude is an important one. In sitting still, there is nothing, apart from the continual drift of thoughts, to distract us from the fact of our sitting, the weight of our body, the scatter of sounds in the background, the blessed pattern of our breathing. What we are is here, now, in this place and instant – and that is not other than the open ground itself, present before and beneath the space and time in which we live and die.

As Eckhart Tolle frequently points out, presence is in some way analogous to waiting: to wait with full alertness is to be fully present, fully attentive to what is. “Beyond the beauty of the external forms, there is more here: something that cannot be named, something ineffable, some deep, inner, holy essence.” (The Power of Now, p.96)

To be fully present is to be finally free from the constant burden of the little self – defensive, grasping, threatened – that keeps us from our own life, from the gratitude that is our true relationship with what actually is. To sit still in the silence of our heart is to be present at last, in the “ineffable… holy essence” that is our home.

Perennial

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It’s significant that the major characteristics of wakefulness I’ve identified through my research are essentially the same… as the main themes of wakefulness as described in the world’s spiritual traditions. (…[T]hese included union, inner stillness or inner emptiness, self-sufficiency, compassion and altruism, relinquishing personal agency, heightened awareness, and well-being.) This synchronicity validates the insights of spiritual traditions and shows that wakefulness can exist outside spiritual traditions and is more fundamental than the traditions themselves. It suggests that wakefulness exists as a psychological or ontological state in itself. It may be interpreted in terms of spiritual traditions, but it doesn’t have to be.

Theologians and transpersonal psychologists have long debated the existence of a “perennial philosophy,” a common core to the world’s religions and spiritual traditions. According to the perennial view, the same basic truths lie behind all spiritual teachings but they’re expressed in slightly different ways. They’re simply different paths leading toward the peak of the same mountain, though there are some superficial differences between them, of course.

On the other hand, some people dispute the existence of a perennial philosophy, believing instead that spiritual and mystical traditions are independent. There isn’t a common mountain — all the paths are heading in different directions toward different peaks. Any similarities between different traditions are the result of contact or influence…

This seems highly implausible to me. For one thing, even if there was a chain of influence in the way this argument suggests, surely the original teachings would have been altered beyond recognition over centuries of dissipation (similar to a game of telephone), rather than remaining essentially the same. But the best way of verifying perennialism is to look outside spiritual traditions, as we’ve done in this book. Most of the participants of my research had no familiarity with spiritual traditions or practices at the time of their awakenings, but still described them in similar terms to the mystics of many different traditions. (Some of them became familiar with traditions later — in some cases, many years later; in other cases, only to a limited degree.) This strongly suggests that there exists some form of underlying or perennial landscape of experience that precedes interpretation by spiritual traditions.

Steve Taylor, The Leap: The Psychology of Spiritual Awakening, pp.233-234

[T]he physical world is not ultimately separate from its transcendental foundation, and so the perennial philosophy is a non-dualistic view of reality. There is no barrier between the so-called physical and metaphysical dimensions of reality (i.e., between the universe and its transcendent source); the two are a Oneness rather than a duality, and this is in contrast to systems of philosophy or religion that place a firewall between the transcendent realm and the physical world. For Perennialists, the universe arises from the Ground of Being, or, put the other way round, the Ground of Being takes form as the world around us. The One becomes the many, just as one ocean can rise up into multiple waves. Furthermore, and because we too are “waves” on the surface of a cosmic sea, our physical selves also arise from the Ground of Being. The Ground, therefore, is not only the Ground of Being but, consequently, the ground of our being as well.

Dana Sawyer, The Perennial Philosophy Reloaded: A Guide for the Mystically Inclined, pp.33-34

Ever since I first read Aldous Huxley’s The Perennial Philosophy in my early twenties, I have been drawn to the clean simplicity of the idea. In the passage I’ve quoted above, Steve Taylor provides one of the briefest and most credible responses to the most common criticism from both humanist and religious points of view: that the contemplative traditions, rooted in such radically different religious soils, cannot have anything in common. As Dana Sawyer points out, a few lines on from the passage above, “…human beings have the latent ability to grasp the content of the two previous postulates experientially. That is, we have a capacity, whether we cultivate it or not, to go beyond intellectual descriptions of the Ground of Being (transcendent) and the Oneness of Being (immanent) to the direct experience of these realities, as did the mystics of the past—and as do some mystics today.”

It doesn’t matter, either immediately or ultimately, whether the experience in question occurs within the taught practice of any one religion or philosophy; as Taylor explains above, “there exists some form of underlying or perennial landscape of experience that precedes interpretation by spiritual traditions.” I can testify to this myself: my earliest unitive experiences of inner stillness, emptiness and heightened awareness came around the age of five, long before I knew anything of religious or contemplative teachings in any form.

The simple phenomenology of contemplation – inner experience itself (by which I don’t mean experiences, altered states or spectacular changes in perception, but plain awareness) – will teach the foundational fact of oneness with the ground. Merely to sit still is usually quite enough…

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.