I had a pretty wild experience last night, as I was falling asleep. For a few years now, I’ve been experiencing “lucid dreams” on a regular basis. I was trying to describe what it means to dream lucidly to my friend Jim. Basically I understand it like this:
Have you ever noticed, as you’re drifting off to sleep, the beginnings of a dream? And upon noticing, you become more alert, and the dream ceases to exist? I think this phenomenon relates to asmita – the ego-functioning of the mind. We might also define asmita as the portion of the mind that identifies with whatever it perceives – the action of the subject attaching to its objects.
How does this relate to waking and dream states? When you’re awake, the ego mind is actively involved in the perception of experiences. But when you’re asleep, the ego mind is unconscious, and the subconscious and the remaining unconscious is free to express whatever it wishes to express.
For the most part, we don’t remember these expressions upon waking. When we re-assimilate the ego into our consciousness, we can only remember the impression these expressions leave behind.
Lucid dreaming exists somewhere between the states of waking and dreaming. It’s as if the ego pauses at the threshold between the two. The subconscious and unconscious minds freely express themselves, in the form of a dream, as the ego stands at the door, watching the spectacle unfold. Asmita is aware, but it is not attached to the objects of its perception.
The retention of ego-awareness has an extraordinary effect on the dream itself. The dream is rendered much vividly than normal – or at least more vividly than we remember it to have been upon waking.
Here is my “lucid dream” from last night:
My brother and I sat in an empty movie theatre, looking up at the screen, which was actually a porthole to outer space. The screen also served as a medium for the projection of our thoughts – a blank canvas. We were creating music. The music was a combination of different styles. It was a mix of techno and trance, with a low, repeating bass drum. Layered upon it were the gentle strums of a guitar, or perhaps a lute. The music was ominous, yet with a playful, haunting quality.
The strangest part of it was that I could hear the music as clearly as I would if it had been playing on the radio. It was incredibly crisp and all-encompassing.
Suddenly the dream shifted and I was boarding a yellow school bus with a group of monks. The monks wore red robes and all were lost in their own respective trances. The music was still playing loudly in the background, except now, the sound of all of us chanting Om was layered on top of it. Just as with the music, I could hear the Om as clearly as I could hear the music – I could even feel its resonance within my body.
At this point in the dream, I spotted a dwarf among the monks, and immediately I knew he was somehow functioning at a higher level of consciousness than the rest of us. I had a strong desire to drop to my knees and stare deeply into his eyes as we chanted Om, but almost in the same moment, I was overcome by the knowledge that doing so was forbidden, and by a force outside of my control, I closed my eyes and focused all of my attention on the sound of Om.
When I opened my eyes, the scene changed again, and now I was sitting across from a woman who excitedly reported she had just experienced the same dream sequence as I had. We were laughing and practically jumping with excitement over the sheer trippiness and cosmic nature of it all.
Eventually the dream dissipated and I returned to the darkness of my room. There were a few precious moments where I could still hear the compelling music I knew was the product of my creative mind. I sat in awe, trying to prolong the state as long as possible. But as my ego-mind became more aware of this desire, and more analytical of the remnants of the dream state, the music faded and then stopped altogether. All that remained was an impression of it – similar to the memory of a normal dream, yet different. Different since I knew I had been awake through the entirety of the dream, as opposed to being asleep.
So, what does all this mean?
A huge part of me wants to latch onto this and assume I’m receiving messages from the spiritual realm. The “scientist” in me wants to analyze this from a strictly material and psychological point of view. Yet another part of me is aware that all of these dimensions affect each other, and that the experience is an interplay among all of them, so forming any conclusion whatsoever would be a kind of folly.
I’m trying very hard to become more comfortable with mystery, yet maintain the same degree of curiosity and analytical reasoning. Surrendering to the unknown is not my strongest suit.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
I’ve had a little bit of "monkey-mind" in the past few days, in the aftermath of the class plan due date. As Jennifer said the other night, "That thing was a BEAR!" Indeed it was. I’m surprised by how neurotic I’ve been about the whole thing. I’m still obsessing over it.
I feel like I should be working out my theme, since I didn’t flesh it out the first time around. As I stated loosely in my plan, my theme is going to center on evolution. But in what respect? I have to admit, Paul (my ex, who is taking Dhyana's teacher training) really raised the bar as far as I’m concerned, with his pictures of the universe and galaxies and all that jazz. He inspired me to really make something of my presentation. I’m satisfied with my sequencing, even excited about it, but what on earth am I going to say?
When I first began a regular meditation practice, I had the good fortune to be able to spend my lunch hour at a state park, which was right next to my office complex. I would find a fairly secluded spot, and spend at least an hour with my eyes closed. I would either lie in Savasana on top of a picnic table, or I would sit on a rock near a creek. I had no formal knowledge of how to meditate. But I did know that if I closed my eyes and listened closely to the sounds of nature, the churnings of my mind would come to a halt.
After a little while of just listening, of paying close attention to the distinct sounds of the external world – the birds, the trickling water, the wind through the trees – my perception of those sounds gradually morphed into something holistic. I was able to perceive the sum total of the sounds as a hum. If I could describe it in visual terms, it would be a glow. The sound had luster. And there was a certain freedom in that perception, a kind of bliss. Yet I knew this was not the bliss the ancient adepts had promised. It was too mundane – too gross.
Over time, my relationship to the hum changed. It gradually became an entry point into something new. But what? Now I know the hum led me toward sense withdrawal – pratyhara – but at the time I never heard of that term or concept before. Intuitively, it made sense, but I never know it was a specific technique to lead one to deeper states of consciousness.
So, when the senses stop engaging with the external world, they instead turn inward. But that is not even completely accurate. It’s more accurate to say that the senses stop engaging, period.
And then what happens? Perception still occurs. Synapses are still firing. We began to "see" and "hear" on the inside. We begin to observe more clearly the activity of our minds, when they are not engaged with external material. And what do we find? What have I found?
I guess I’ll save that for another day. All of this is so hard for me to express. But I’m just glad I’m trying. I trust that someday I’ll be able to get it all out in some coherent, relatable form.
I feel like I should be working out my theme, since I didn’t flesh it out the first time around. As I stated loosely in my plan, my theme is going to center on evolution. But in what respect? I have to admit, Paul (my ex, who is taking Dhyana's teacher training) really raised the bar as far as I’m concerned, with his pictures of the universe and galaxies and all that jazz. He inspired me to really make something of my presentation. I’m satisfied with my sequencing, even excited about it, but what on earth am I going to say?
When I first began a regular meditation practice, I had the good fortune to be able to spend my lunch hour at a state park, which was right next to my office complex. I would find a fairly secluded spot, and spend at least an hour with my eyes closed. I would either lie in Savasana on top of a picnic table, or I would sit on a rock near a creek. I had no formal knowledge of how to meditate. But I did know that if I closed my eyes and listened closely to the sounds of nature, the churnings of my mind would come to a halt.
After a little while of just listening, of paying close attention to the distinct sounds of the external world – the birds, the trickling water, the wind through the trees – my perception of those sounds gradually morphed into something holistic. I was able to perceive the sum total of the sounds as a hum. If I could describe it in visual terms, it would be a glow. The sound had luster. And there was a certain freedom in that perception, a kind of bliss. Yet I knew this was not the bliss the ancient adepts had promised. It was too mundane – too gross.
Over time, my relationship to the hum changed. It gradually became an entry point into something new. But what? Now I know the hum led me toward sense withdrawal – pratyhara – but at the time I never heard of that term or concept before. Intuitively, it made sense, but I never know it was a specific technique to lead one to deeper states of consciousness.
So, when the senses stop engaging with the external world, they instead turn inward. But that is not even completely accurate. It’s more accurate to say that the senses stop engaging, period.
And then what happens? Perception still occurs. Synapses are still firing. We began to "see" and "hear" on the inside. We begin to observe more clearly the activity of our minds, when they are not engaged with external material. And what do we find? What have I found?
I guess I’ll save that for another day. All of this is so hard for me to express. But I’m just glad I’m trying. I trust that someday I’ll be able to get it all out in some coherent, relatable form.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Musings on Prana
This is part of my response paper to Science of Breath, a teacher training assignment.
***
Much of my life has been a process of searching for the precise threshold, or link, where the mind and body (and possibly spirit) become interwoven. And upon discovering the power of the breath through meditation, I finally felt like I'd found the key.
However, the key is not the link. Prana, a concept that emerges often throughout this book, is commonly believed to be the link between – or the medium that connects – body, mind, and spirit. It is often said, in this book and elsewhere, that prana rides on the wave of the breath. The implication is by learning to direct the flow of breath, you can direct the flow of prana, thereby controlling the state of your body, and perhaps even gaining conscious control of its involuntary processes.
But what does it mean to direct the flow of breath? We are often exposed to that idea, in yoga classes, and in popular writing. It is problematic to equate the flow of breath to the flow of prana, however, for one main reason: Breath doesn’t enter regions of the body beyond the lungs – oxygen does, by way of the vast networks of capillaries and alveoli and whatever else comprises the structure of the lungs. Rather the conscious direction of breath is better understood metaphorically, as a quick way to say, "Study your breath to deepen internal awareness, and then direct that awareness to specific regions of the body."
However, it was very illuminating for me to read the portion of the book that described the locations of the various large nerves and plexuses – the vagus nerve, the solar plexus, the cardiac plexus, etc. This gave me the "aha" moment I needed when considering the mechanisms for deepening awareness of the body. It seems these plexuses could provide a means for learning how to release muscular tension, or for observing digestive and excretory processes, or for becoming aware of non-obvious pulse points throughout the body. They might also provide a means for insight into deeper and subtler processes of the body, such as the structure of the nadis and locations of the chakras, as well as the fabric or sheaths of the koshas.
At the gross level, I understand the mechanism like this: Breathing in and out (diaphragmatically) creates a controlled sense of expansive and contractive rhythm. This rhythm fosters a specific vibration in the tissue fields inside and surrounding the lungs. This rhythm then stimulates the nerves and plexuses closest to the lungs, and depending on the depth of one’s breath, extends to nerves and plexuses further from the lungs. Diaphragmatic breathing, if practiced consistently over time (thereby establishing this rhythm as the primary vibrational habit of the regions surrounding the lungs), these major nerves and plexuses become increasingly sensitive to stimuli. It "wakes them up", so to speak, and conditions them to respond to subtler changes in their environment – to internal and external forces such as the flow of blood and other fluids, the electrical charges between nerves, and perhaps even subtler phenomenon not yet observable by modern science.
But even if this is possible, this still does not identify or reveal prana, the supposed link between body and mind. Prana is often described in vague terms as a kind of energy, or an animating force for life. If it is, is it even accessible to us? Can we observe it directly, and therefore harness or control it, just as we can with breath?
At this point I find it helpful to think of prana in this sense:
Prana is the phenomenon of mind that emerges when it becomes aware of the holistic functioning of the body’s processes. Here is what I mean by that:
Take the cardiac plexus, and assume the above argument is true – that deep, conscious, diaphragmatic breathing can stimulate the cardiac plexus from within. Then assume that this stimulation generates a sensation, detectable by the mind of the conscious observer. This sensation is generally identified as the heart chakra. In my experience, this sensation appears to ebb and flow, moving in synchrony with the breath, yet there is also a steadiness to it – a presence that is simultaneously fluid and uniform. Within the ebb and flow there is another kind of movement – a swirling akin to how cream interacts with coffee, or how tide-pools form in bodies of water. The sensation appears to move on its own accord, as if it contains its own intelligence, yet paradoxically, it also seems susceptible to influence or control of the mind.
So, although we can define prana as the causal agent for the above-described sensations, we cannot deny the role awareness plays on its manifestation. Prana moves on its own and causes sensation, but awareness of prana both causes and directs the flow of sensation. To bring it back into scope, this awareness can be confined to a region such as the cardiac plexus, or extended to the body as a whole, or even to realms beyond the body. So then, prana becomes the potential link to union with any object of the mind, revealing our minds as inextricably connected to all things animated by prana.
I’m grateful for any opportunity to let my mind roam in this way. At some point I would like to clarify or improve upon much of what I've written. I would also like to explore my understanding of kundalini, as well as the chakras. It is important for me to express these things in written form, since it provides a clarity and structure to my inner experience. It is also helps to know that someone, somewhere, might be reading it. So, whoever is reading this, thank you.
***
Much of my life has been a process of searching for the precise threshold, or link, where the mind and body (and possibly spirit) become interwoven. And upon discovering the power of the breath through meditation, I finally felt like I'd found the key.
However, the key is not the link. Prana, a concept that emerges often throughout this book, is commonly believed to be the link between – or the medium that connects – body, mind, and spirit. It is often said, in this book and elsewhere, that prana rides on the wave of the breath. The implication is by learning to direct the flow of breath, you can direct the flow of prana, thereby controlling the state of your body, and perhaps even gaining conscious control of its involuntary processes.
But what does it mean to direct the flow of breath? We are often exposed to that idea, in yoga classes, and in popular writing. It is problematic to equate the flow of breath to the flow of prana, however, for one main reason: Breath doesn’t enter regions of the body beyond the lungs – oxygen does, by way of the vast networks of capillaries and alveoli and whatever else comprises the structure of the lungs. Rather the conscious direction of breath is better understood metaphorically, as a quick way to say, "Study your breath to deepen internal awareness, and then direct that awareness to specific regions of the body."
However, it was very illuminating for me to read the portion of the book that described the locations of the various large nerves and plexuses – the vagus nerve, the solar plexus, the cardiac plexus, etc. This gave me the "aha" moment I needed when considering the mechanisms for deepening awareness of the body. It seems these plexuses could provide a means for learning how to release muscular tension, or for observing digestive and excretory processes, or for becoming aware of non-obvious pulse points throughout the body. They might also provide a means for insight into deeper and subtler processes of the body, such as the structure of the nadis and locations of the chakras, as well as the fabric or sheaths of the koshas.
At the gross level, I understand the mechanism like this: Breathing in and out (diaphragmatically) creates a controlled sense of expansive and contractive rhythm. This rhythm fosters a specific vibration in the tissue fields inside and surrounding the lungs. This rhythm then stimulates the nerves and plexuses closest to the lungs, and depending on the depth of one’s breath, extends to nerves and plexuses further from the lungs. Diaphragmatic breathing, if practiced consistently over time (thereby establishing this rhythm as the primary vibrational habit of the regions surrounding the lungs), these major nerves and plexuses become increasingly sensitive to stimuli. It "wakes them up", so to speak, and conditions them to respond to subtler changes in their environment – to internal and external forces such as the flow of blood and other fluids, the electrical charges between nerves, and perhaps even subtler phenomenon not yet observable by modern science.
But even if this is possible, this still does not identify or reveal prana, the supposed link between body and mind. Prana is often described in vague terms as a kind of energy, or an animating force for life. If it is, is it even accessible to us? Can we observe it directly, and therefore harness or control it, just as we can with breath?
At this point I find it helpful to think of prana in this sense:
Prana is the phenomenon of mind that emerges when it becomes aware of the holistic functioning of the body’s processes. Here is what I mean by that:
Take the cardiac plexus, and assume the above argument is true – that deep, conscious, diaphragmatic breathing can stimulate the cardiac plexus from within. Then assume that this stimulation generates a sensation, detectable by the mind of the conscious observer. This sensation is generally identified as the heart chakra. In my experience, this sensation appears to ebb and flow, moving in synchrony with the breath, yet there is also a steadiness to it – a presence that is simultaneously fluid and uniform. Within the ebb and flow there is another kind of movement – a swirling akin to how cream interacts with coffee, or how tide-pools form in bodies of water. The sensation appears to move on its own accord, as if it contains its own intelligence, yet paradoxically, it also seems susceptible to influence or control of the mind.
So, although we can define prana as the causal agent for the above-described sensations, we cannot deny the role awareness plays on its manifestation. Prana moves on its own and causes sensation, but awareness of prana both causes and directs the flow of sensation. To bring it back into scope, this awareness can be confined to a region such as the cardiac plexus, or extended to the body as a whole, or even to realms beyond the body. So then, prana becomes the potential link to union with any object of the mind, revealing our minds as inextricably connected to all things animated by prana.
I’m grateful for any opportunity to let my mind roam in this way. At some point I would like to clarify or improve upon much of what I've written. I would also like to explore my understanding of kundalini, as well as the chakras. It is important for me to express these things in written form, since it provides a clarity and structure to my inner experience. It is also helps to know that someone, somewhere, might be reading it. So, whoever is reading this, thank you.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Fear of Dissolution and the Subsequent Void
We are now studying the kleshas in our teacher training program. Kleshas are considered the roots of all suffering. I’ve also seen them referred to as obstacles in the path to enlightenment, but as Corina said the other night, there is something more descriptive about referring to them as roots. The word “roots” suggests that kleshas are inherent to our experience – that they are built into the fabric of reality itself, and are therefore unavoidable.
According to Yoga Sutra II.3, the five kleshas are:
avidya = lack of wisdom, not seeing things as they are
asmita = the sense of ‘I’, egoism
raga = desire, passion, attachment
dvesa = aversion
abhinivesah= clinging to life, self-preservation
When speculating on this, I try very hard to move beyond how they relate to us in the ordinary sense. For example, I could wonder, “Hmmm… I appear to be attached to my morning cup of coffee…” , and then recognize the asmita and the raga elements to that observation, as well as the dvesa and avidya elements. Meaning, I am clearly habituated to the act of drinking coffee, and I am willfully blind to the possibility that I am better off without it, so I avoid taking the necessary steps to remove it from my life.
Obviously, exercises like these are illuminating and necessary, but for me personally, at this stage in my development, I am more interested in seeing how things such as the kleshas affect a person at the level of the Self, or soul. In other words, how do kleshas affect a person at the deepest manifestation of reality?
When we spoke briefly about abhinivesah, which has also been translated as “fear of death”, Corina said that Paul JJ Alix referred to it simply as “fear”, which I understood as the feeling in its most raw and elemental form. Then she said that perhaps this form of fear is truly fear of death, and that perhaps the ideas are interchangeable. This resonated with me, mainly because I wondered, what is the point of fear, then, if not to drive us to avoid death? We are animals, after all – creatures who evolved in this material world with an enormous desire to survive. It is a powerful drive that lives at our very core.
But then, another woman in the class wondered if “fear of death” did not only apply to oneself, but also to someone else. For example, she said she is far more afraid of the possibility of losing her child than she is of losing her own life. I replied that I believed abhinivesah was different – that instead it pointed to our instinctual clinging to the life force. I used the example of being confronted by a person with a knife. My feeling is, no matter how worried you might be about the livelihood of another person, the moment a murderer enters into your midst, all fears directed to the other person would surely be supplanted by the strong desire to protect your own life. I kept mum, though. The old me would have argued more, but fortunately I was able to recognize (and be satisfied with) the fact that clearly, I had more to ponder with respect to abhinivesah.
So, I wondered – is there a common ground between my classmate’s thoughts on “fear of death” and my own? Yoga, after all, means union. What unites these two ideas?
From here, I began to think in terms of subject-object relationships, since fundamentally, they are inherent to all aspects of one’s life experience. You are alive, you are awake, and you observe the world as you interact with it. You are the subject and everything else is the object.
In the case of impending death, the subject is the person and the object is the person’s body and its ability to sustain itself.
In the case of the mother and child, the subject is the mother and the object is the child.
In the first case, the subject fears the eradication of his/her relationship to the body and to the outer world.
In the second case, the subject fears the eradication of the mother-child relationship. (The mother might also fear the eradication of the child’s relationship to the outer world, by way of empathy, but I think this is secondary.)
So where is the common ground?
In both cases, there is a fear of the eradication of a relationship.
And if you look at a relationship as an object – an object to become attached to – then what happens when that relationship disappears? What happens when the object that had become manifest, is no longer manifest? Now in the place where the relationship existed, there is only void.
Now all of the attachments that had been projected onto that relationship have no place to land. The subject is left with a sense of emptiness, and of groundlessness. In response to that, fear arises, driving us to cling to new subject-object relationships, in order to alleviate the discomfort.
So, from this perspective, does abhinivesah become not exactly a fear of death, but rather a fear of the dissolution of a subject-object relationship, and the void that follows?
There is concept directly associated with void: Brahman. Braham is considered the eternal and absolute realm beyond all manifestations of reality. It is also considered the point from where cosmic consciousness emerges.
Inherently linked to this is the Atman (the Self or individual soul). It is considered the point from where individual consciousness emerges. The difference between Brahman and Atman is that Atman maintains the illusion that it is separate. But truly, they are one and the same.
So then, if abhinivesah is fear of dissolution and the void that follows, then is it also fear of residing in consciousness without content?
If so, why is this so frightening?
I suppose that question lies at the heart of all mystery. Perhaps one day a further expansion of consciousness will reveal the reason for this mystery. Until then I can only speculate.
***
I just updated my FaceBook status with the following:
I am a point around which all things swirl. I and those things swirl around other points, and those points and their things swirl around me. Point, swirl. Swirl, point.
***
A crude sketch of the kleshas:
According to Yoga Sutra II.3, the five kleshas are:
avidya = lack of wisdom, not seeing things as they are
asmita = the sense of ‘I’, egoism
raga = desire, passion, attachment
dvesa = aversion
abhinivesah= clinging to life, self-preservation
When speculating on this, I try very hard to move beyond how they relate to us in the ordinary sense. For example, I could wonder, “Hmmm… I appear to be attached to my morning cup of coffee…” , and then recognize the asmita and the raga elements to that observation, as well as the dvesa and avidya elements. Meaning, I am clearly habituated to the act of drinking coffee, and I am willfully blind to the possibility that I am better off without it, so I avoid taking the necessary steps to remove it from my life.
Obviously, exercises like these are illuminating and necessary, but for me personally, at this stage in my development, I am more interested in seeing how things such as the kleshas affect a person at the level of the Self, or soul. In other words, how do kleshas affect a person at the deepest manifestation of reality?
When we spoke briefly about abhinivesah, which has also been translated as “fear of death”, Corina said that Paul JJ Alix referred to it simply as “fear”, which I understood as the feeling in its most raw and elemental form. Then she said that perhaps this form of fear is truly fear of death, and that perhaps the ideas are interchangeable. This resonated with me, mainly because I wondered, what is the point of fear, then, if not to drive us to avoid death? We are animals, after all – creatures who evolved in this material world with an enormous desire to survive. It is a powerful drive that lives at our very core.
But then, another woman in the class wondered if “fear of death” did not only apply to oneself, but also to someone else. For example, she said she is far more afraid of the possibility of losing her child than she is of losing her own life. I replied that I believed abhinivesah was different – that instead it pointed to our instinctual clinging to the life force. I used the example of being confronted by a person with a knife. My feeling is, no matter how worried you might be about the livelihood of another person, the moment a murderer enters into your midst, all fears directed to the other person would surely be supplanted by the strong desire to protect your own life. I kept mum, though. The old me would have argued more, but fortunately I was able to recognize (and be satisfied with) the fact that clearly, I had more to ponder with respect to abhinivesah.
So, I wondered – is there a common ground between my classmate’s thoughts on “fear of death” and my own? Yoga, after all, means union. What unites these two ideas?
From here, I began to think in terms of subject-object relationships, since fundamentally, they are inherent to all aspects of one’s life experience. You are alive, you are awake, and you observe the world as you interact with it. You are the subject and everything else is the object.
In the case of impending death, the subject is the person and the object is the person’s body and its ability to sustain itself.
In the case of the mother and child, the subject is the mother and the object is the child.
In the first case, the subject fears the eradication of his/her relationship to the body and to the outer world.
In the second case, the subject fears the eradication of the mother-child relationship. (The mother might also fear the eradication of the child’s relationship to the outer world, by way of empathy, but I think this is secondary.)
So where is the common ground?
In both cases, there is a fear of the eradication of a relationship.
And if you look at a relationship as an object – an object to become attached to – then what happens when that relationship disappears? What happens when the object that had become manifest, is no longer manifest? Now in the place where the relationship existed, there is only void.
Now all of the attachments that had been projected onto that relationship have no place to land. The subject is left with a sense of emptiness, and of groundlessness. In response to that, fear arises, driving us to cling to new subject-object relationships, in order to alleviate the discomfort.
So, from this perspective, does abhinivesah become not exactly a fear of death, but rather a fear of the dissolution of a subject-object relationship, and the void that follows?
There is concept directly associated with void: Brahman. Braham is considered the eternal and absolute realm beyond all manifestations of reality. It is also considered the point from where cosmic consciousness emerges.
Inherently linked to this is the Atman (the Self or individual soul). It is considered the point from where individual consciousness emerges. The difference between Brahman and Atman is that Atman maintains the illusion that it is separate. But truly, they are one and the same.
So then, if abhinivesah is fear of dissolution and the void that follows, then is it also fear of residing in consciousness without content?
If so, why is this so frightening?
I suppose that question lies at the heart of all mystery. Perhaps one day a further expansion of consciousness will reveal the reason for this mystery. Until then I can only speculate.
***
I just updated my FaceBook status with the following:
I am a point around which all things swirl. I and those things swirl around other points, and those points and their things swirl around me. Point, swirl. Swirl, point.
***
A crude sketch of the kleshas:
Thursday, October 29, 2009
What is (my definition of) Yoga?
This is the paper I handed in for teacher training last night.
****
When I first answered this question on my teacher training application, I said that I believed that Yoga was not only a means to achieve union, but a means to achieve synthesis, or even synergy – a means to assimilate the disparate parts of oneself and one’s experience, and to sculpt them into something greater than their sum. I still believe this is true, as I believe all the definitions of Yoga to be true. However, I would describe my personal, day-to-day relationship with the practice a bit differently.
Yoga for me is, and always has been, a vehicle for self-study. Self-study, independent of Yoga, has been something I’ve always engaged in, even before I knew what self-study actually was. I suppose this is obvious – everyone engages in self-study, to varying degrees. But somehow, for me, looking back on my life, the practice of it stands out clearly as a strong aspect of my identity. It seems as if my very livelihood depended on it.
Much of this paper will explore what I believe is the path that lead me to Yoga. Without venturing into too many auto-biographical details, it should suffice to say that I experienced several traumatic events at a very young age, which perhaps forced me to evaluate myself and my reactions to a degree a less traumatized child might not have had to. I don’t presume that my suffering was any greater (or any less) than anyone else’s. I just know that the unique combination of my own life experiences led me to become who I am today – a person who happens to be intent on observing and working with all the permutations and inconsistencies in my psyche and/or my mind/body/spirit/soul.
In addition to this, as a young child, I also had very vivid and frequent "non-ordinary" experiences – hallucinations, hearing voices, dissociative states, etc. This may sound strange and perhaps alarming, but even then, I knew I had nothing to fear. I knew these states didn’t reflect any underlying psychosis; rather I knew they reflected a mysterious and unconscious source of creativity. For whatever reason, my access to those states diminished as I grew older. Nonetheless they had a lasting effect on me and always kept me open to the possibility of there being something more than what meets the eye.
Then, around the age of 8, I developed a debilitating panic disorder, which I have only been able to overcome in recent years. I had just begun swimming competitively year-round, and on top of that, my mother, my grandmother, and great-grandmother, all within the span of that year developed serious physical problems that changed the shape of their lives forever. Most notably, my grandmother became paraplegic. From that point until the day she died, 20 years later, my mother and I were very closely involved with her physical care. In hindsight, the panic attacks were likely a call for help, as well as a deep fear reaction to the apparent frailty and unpredictability of the human body.
So, as a coping mechanism, I began a "practice" of bodily awareness. I would lie awake at night, scanning my inner landscape with my "third eye", on the lookout for any possible defects. The hope was that if I scrutinized myself closely enough, the genesis of disease would reveal itself. How I would handle that revelation, I had no idea. Engaging in this practice wasn't really a choice. I was compelled by it, and obsessed with it, for the obvious aforementioned reasons, as well as some inherent inclination toward it. After all, another person in the same shoes might have distracted himself with television, music, drawing, etc.
As neurotic as this behavior was, I do believe it gave me a strong foundation for inner awareness, from which I am drawing now as a practitioner of Yoga and meditation. About 4 years ago, after a lifetime of emotional upheavals and general dissatisfaction with the state of my life, I experienced what one might call a "breakthrough". At this point, I had been meditating daily for about 6 months, and I had been amazed by the degree in which I was suddenly able to monitor the turnings of my mind. For the first time in my life, I felt like I actually had control over my reactions. I finally felt strong enough to clearly evaluate what I wanted from life, and to find the strength to do something about it. The only wrinkle was that I still experienced panic attacks. They would still arise out of the blue, in the most inopportune places – they were even beginning to arise during my meditations, even if I was in a complete state of calm. This fact especially angered me – meditation had been my safe haven, and now even that was becoming polluted with this mysterious plague. I felt very strongly that I needed to overcome it, but I just didn’t know how.
One day, while meditating, a strong feeling of panic arose. But instead of cowering in fear or trying to distract myself from it, I let it rise. And in that state of allowance, I found a glimmer of defiance. Somehow I was able to harness it, and to let it rise and become the prevailing emotion. It was as if I battled my fear with a sense of conviction, and conviction won. I was amazed by this. For the first time in my life, I was able to take the raw energy of that horrible, debilitating fear and transmute it into something different, something workable. It was synergy. Or better put, it was alchemy. In either case, I believe it was a form of Yoga.
Soon after that, I began a Vinyasa practice. Intuitively I knew that I needed to compliment my meditation practice with movement. I knew I needed to discharge my excess energy, and by then, all other forms of exercise bored me. So an asana practice was the logical choice. And of course, my idea of asana has evolved significantly from when I first began it, nearly 3 years ago.
Which brings me here – how do I define Yoga now? Now that I’ve worked through so many personal obstacles; now that I have a deeper understanding of the discipline and its traditions, how do I explain its relevance and meaning?
I don’t really know how to answer that question. Fundamentally, my definition of Yoga hasn’t changed. For me, Yoga is, and always will be, a means for self-study. At the same time, the definition has changed radically, since my idea of "self" has changed significantly since I was young and naïve and enslaved by fear and anxiety.
In other words, what does "self-study" mean, when your definition of "self" is constantly changing?
This morning on the radio I heard a quote from Soren Kierkegaard, which I thought applied here. He said, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."
To get where I am now, I had undergone a process of moving away from who I was. And now, drawing from that foundation, I’m trying to cultivate a practice of moving toward who I want to become.
Perhaps I should view it also a process of becoming who I already am. But what does that even mean? I trust I will find out, and I’m looking forward to what is revealed.
****
When I first answered this question on my teacher training application, I said that I believed that Yoga was not only a means to achieve union, but a means to achieve synthesis, or even synergy – a means to assimilate the disparate parts of oneself and one’s experience, and to sculpt them into something greater than their sum. I still believe this is true, as I believe all the definitions of Yoga to be true. However, I would describe my personal, day-to-day relationship with the practice a bit differently.
Yoga for me is, and always has been, a vehicle for self-study. Self-study, independent of Yoga, has been something I’ve always engaged in, even before I knew what self-study actually was. I suppose this is obvious – everyone engages in self-study, to varying degrees. But somehow, for me, looking back on my life, the practice of it stands out clearly as a strong aspect of my identity. It seems as if my very livelihood depended on it.
Much of this paper will explore what I believe is the path that lead me to Yoga. Without venturing into too many auto-biographical details, it should suffice to say that I experienced several traumatic events at a very young age, which perhaps forced me to evaluate myself and my reactions to a degree a less traumatized child might not have had to. I don’t presume that my suffering was any greater (or any less) than anyone else’s. I just know that the unique combination of my own life experiences led me to become who I am today – a person who happens to be intent on observing and working with all the permutations and inconsistencies in my psyche and/or my mind/body/spirit/soul.
In addition to this, as a young child, I also had very vivid and frequent "non-ordinary" experiences – hallucinations, hearing voices, dissociative states, etc. This may sound strange and perhaps alarming, but even then, I knew I had nothing to fear. I knew these states didn’t reflect any underlying psychosis; rather I knew they reflected a mysterious and unconscious source of creativity. For whatever reason, my access to those states diminished as I grew older. Nonetheless they had a lasting effect on me and always kept me open to the possibility of there being something more than what meets the eye.
Then, around the age of 8, I developed a debilitating panic disorder, which I have only been able to overcome in recent years. I had just begun swimming competitively year-round, and on top of that, my mother, my grandmother, and great-grandmother, all within the span of that year developed serious physical problems that changed the shape of their lives forever. Most notably, my grandmother became paraplegic. From that point until the day she died, 20 years later, my mother and I were very closely involved with her physical care. In hindsight, the panic attacks were likely a call for help, as well as a deep fear reaction to the apparent frailty and unpredictability of the human body.
So, as a coping mechanism, I began a "practice" of bodily awareness. I would lie awake at night, scanning my inner landscape with my "third eye", on the lookout for any possible defects. The hope was that if I scrutinized myself closely enough, the genesis of disease would reveal itself. How I would handle that revelation, I had no idea. Engaging in this practice wasn't really a choice. I was compelled by it, and obsessed with it, for the obvious aforementioned reasons, as well as some inherent inclination toward it. After all, another person in the same shoes might have distracted himself with television, music, drawing, etc.
As neurotic as this behavior was, I do believe it gave me a strong foundation for inner awareness, from which I am drawing now as a practitioner of Yoga and meditation. About 4 years ago, after a lifetime of emotional upheavals and general dissatisfaction with the state of my life, I experienced what one might call a "breakthrough". At this point, I had been meditating daily for about 6 months, and I had been amazed by the degree in which I was suddenly able to monitor the turnings of my mind. For the first time in my life, I felt like I actually had control over my reactions. I finally felt strong enough to clearly evaluate what I wanted from life, and to find the strength to do something about it. The only wrinkle was that I still experienced panic attacks. They would still arise out of the blue, in the most inopportune places – they were even beginning to arise during my meditations, even if I was in a complete state of calm. This fact especially angered me – meditation had been my safe haven, and now even that was becoming polluted with this mysterious plague. I felt very strongly that I needed to overcome it, but I just didn’t know how.
One day, while meditating, a strong feeling of panic arose. But instead of cowering in fear or trying to distract myself from it, I let it rise. And in that state of allowance, I found a glimmer of defiance. Somehow I was able to harness it, and to let it rise and become the prevailing emotion. It was as if I battled my fear with a sense of conviction, and conviction won. I was amazed by this. For the first time in my life, I was able to take the raw energy of that horrible, debilitating fear and transmute it into something different, something workable. It was synergy. Or better put, it was alchemy. In either case, I believe it was a form of Yoga.
Soon after that, I began a Vinyasa practice. Intuitively I knew that I needed to compliment my meditation practice with movement. I knew I needed to discharge my excess energy, and by then, all other forms of exercise bored me. So an asana practice was the logical choice. And of course, my idea of asana has evolved significantly from when I first began it, nearly 3 years ago.
Which brings me here – how do I define Yoga now? Now that I’ve worked through so many personal obstacles; now that I have a deeper understanding of the discipline and its traditions, how do I explain its relevance and meaning?
I don’t really know how to answer that question. Fundamentally, my definition of Yoga hasn’t changed. For me, Yoga is, and always will be, a means for self-study. At the same time, the definition has changed radically, since my idea of "self" has changed significantly since I was young and naïve and enslaved by fear and anxiety.
In other words, what does "self-study" mean, when your definition of "self" is constantly changing?
This morning on the radio I heard a quote from Soren Kierkegaard, which I thought applied here. He said, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."
To get where I am now, I had undergone a process of moving away from who I was. And now, drawing from that foundation, I’m trying to cultivate a practice of moving toward who I want to become.
Perhaps I should view it also a process of becoming who I already am. But what does that even mean? I trust I will find out, and I’m looking forward to what is revealed.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Vishnu-Granthi or Something Else, Nobody Knows
On Sunday night, during Vanessa's vinyasa class, I may have located and experienced what is known as the "vishnu-granthi", which is one of the three common blockages in the central energy pathway, known as "sushumna-nadi". Vanessa held us in a squat position for several breaths, and instructed us to lengthen our spine, to try to stack each vertebra on top of each other. While attempting this pose, I kept my eyes closed, and absorbed myself in the feeling of the sushumna. When my spine was completely vertical, I could feel a clear, uninterrupted flow of energy. But as my supporting muscles began to falter, I could feel a ripple in the center of my chest, and there was a disturbance in the flow. It reminded me of a rubber band or a string on a violin - meaning, plucking at it would alter the string's vibrations. I'm not sure if this makes any sense. It's one of those things you have to experience for yourself.
For me, this is one of the inherent drawbacks of following this path. I am someone who very strongly wants to share my experiences with others. I also take great comfort in knowing that other people might be struggling through the same issues I'm having, or at least might be able to relate. But as I said to Corina last night, after her class, attaining inner yoga experiences is nothing like attaining the external ones. For example, if I am practicing downward-facing dog (adho mukhta svanasana), another person can stand beside me and say, "Yes, I concur. She is experiencing downward-facing dog." I cannot, on the other hand, stand beside someone who is meditating, and say, "Yes, I concur. He is experiencing a state of asamprajnata samadhi." (I may explore the states of samadhi in a future post.)
I suppose this might be the beauty of the path, though. Being someone who struggles with a sense of (often causeless) loneliness, Yoga and meditation has been a great way for me to become more comfortable being by myself. Furthermore, following all the limbs of Yoga might be one way to free oneself from the bondage of the fear of death. After all, what experience is lonelier than the act of dying? So if one wishes to die with grace and dignity, then one definitely needs to master the art of being alone. And exploring one's inner energetic landscape is one way to go about it, I suppose.
On another note, it doesn't really matter whether I truly experienced the vishnu-granthi, or if it was merely a blip in my circulation patterns while attempting a challenging physical shape. The point is that my awareness was turned inward, and in that moment, I had attained union with my inner sensations, at the level of depth I'm currently capable of perceiving.
I suppose the issue I'm dealing with, though, is the communication part of all this. I am supposedly training to become a teacher. Furthermore, communication is how all of us (humanity) relate with and learn from each other. We are supposedly evolving as a species. And I believe wholeheartedly that the deepening and expanding of consciousness is key for the evolution of humanity. it is truly an amazing time -- we are beyond relying on random genetic mutations; we have attained enough intelligence so that we can actively participate in our species evolution. Everything we learn and adapt to comes through a process of absorption, integration, transmutation, and then dissemination.
Huh... I might be onto something with that.... absorption, integration, transmutation, and dissemination. I'm sure I'm not the first person to think of that, but I think it really makes sense when applied to consciousness expansion.
I'll have to think on it a bit more.
For me, this is one of the inherent drawbacks of following this path. I am someone who very strongly wants to share my experiences with others. I also take great comfort in knowing that other people might be struggling through the same issues I'm having, or at least might be able to relate. But as I said to Corina last night, after her class, attaining inner yoga experiences is nothing like attaining the external ones. For example, if I am practicing downward-facing dog (adho mukhta svanasana), another person can stand beside me and say, "Yes, I concur. She is experiencing downward-facing dog." I cannot, on the other hand, stand beside someone who is meditating, and say, "Yes, I concur. He is experiencing a state of asamprajnata samadhi." (I may explore the states of samadhi in a future post.)
I suppose this might be the beauty of the path, though. Being someone who struggles with a sense of (often causeless) loneliness, Yoga and meditation has been a great way for me to become more comfortable being by myself. Furthermore, following all the limbs of Yoga might be one way to free oneself from the bondage of the fear of death. After all, what experience is lonelier than the act of dying? So if one wishes to die with grace and dignity, then one definitely needs to master the art of being alone. And exploring one's inner energetic landscape is one way to go about it, I suppose.
On another note, it doesn't really matter whether I truly experienced the vishnu-granthi, or if it was merely a blip in my circulation patterns while attempting a challenging physical shape. The point is that my awareness was turned inward, and in that moment, I had attained union with my inner sensations, at the level of depth I'm currently capable of perceiving.
I suppose the issue I'm dealing with, though, is the communication part of all this. I am supposedly training to become a teacher. Furthermore, communication is how all of us (humanity) relate with and learn from each other. We are supposedly evolving as a species. And I believe wholeheartedly that the deepening and expanding of consciousness is key for the evolution of humanity. it is truly an amazing time -- we are beyond relying on random genetic mutations; we have attained enough intelligence so that we can actively participate in our species evolution. Everything we learn and adapt to comes through a process of absorption, integration, transmutation, and then dissemination.
Huh... I might be onto something with that.... absorption, integration, transmutation, and dissemination. I'm sure I'm not the first person to think of that, but I think it really makes sense when applied to consciousness expansion.
I'll have to think on it a bit more.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
What is Om?
I can remember the very first time I became acquainted with Om. I was about 5 years old, and my mother was teaching me how to sit “Indian style”. We were sitting in front of the TV, and she said, “Sometimes when people sit like this they say, ‘Ohhhhmmm’”. I asked her what that meant and she said she didn’t know.
Many years later, soon after I had begun began practicing yoga, I encouraged her to try it, so she attended a class at a nearby senior center with some friends.
“How was it? Did you like it?” I asked.
“It was alright,” she said, with some hesitation. “We Om-ed.”
“Oh really, what did you think of that?”
“I thought it was waste of time.”
“Well,” I said. “Om is a tool to help still the mind.”
“It didn’t still mine!”
Up until that point, I hadn’t really considered what Om actually was. All I knew was that I enjoyed chanting it at the beginning of class, and that it was one of the traditional rituals associated with Yoga. I assumed there was a spiritual, meditative element to it, but I didn’t analyze it too closely.
Since then, my understanding of Om has changed significantly. I suppose I could divide my understanding into two categories: one, by way of written and verbal knowledge; and two, by way of direct experience.
Om, also written as Aum, is said to be the sacred syllable representing Brahman, which is the eternal and absolute realm beyond all manifestations of reality. Therefore, we chant Om in order to celebrate, to revere, and to move closer to the source of all existence. It is a rally cry; it is a prayer; it is a vibratory vehicle.
A vibratory vehicle – but to where? Is Brahman a place to visit? Does it have a fixed location somewhere in space? Most texts say no – Brahman is incomprehensible; there is no way to reason your way toward it. Thus, chanting Om is one way to create conditions so that achieving union with Brahman is possible. Om is a means to still the mind, body, and spirit – to bring the totality of one’s vibrations into a uniform pattern, thereby providing the opportunity to shed all ties to the ego, and to either turn away from all perceptions of manifest reality or to perceive all of them at once.
Yet, for most, if not all of us, chanting Om does not bring us to a pure Brahman realization. Furthermore, Om does not render the possibility of realizing Brahman any less frightening. For me, whenever I transcend my baseline level of consciousness, my automatic response is one of abject terror. I liken the pursuit to the sport of free-diving. Free-diving is holding your breath, and swimming as deeply as you can toward the bottom of the ocean. So, I plunge into the deep, but when I reach a place too dark and unfamiliar, my chest screams out warnings of danger and I spurt to the surface, gasping for air. Then I regain my composure and plunge again, deeper than before, this time with knowledge of what lay ahead – until I encounter yet another level of Unknown.
However, during our retreat, Corina explained something about directly experiencing the Self (Atman), which I found very reassuring. And given that Atman and Brahman are inherently linked – the only difference being that the Self still experiences a degree of illusion in that it still considers itself separate from all things – then what she said applies here as well.
She said that you can’t experience the Self directly because you are the Self. You can only experience it by witnessing its radiance reflecting back to you. It’s just like looking into a mirror – meaning, you can’t see your face with your own eyes, but you can see it shining back at you from any surface that replicates objects with precision.
Somehow this analogy has a very grounding effect on me. Instead of thinking that the Self (or Brahman) is some mysterious and scary place to arrive, it allows me to realize that I already have arrived – and that there is nothing inherently dangerous in the pursuit of Self and Brahman. Previously, in the act of Self-pursuit, I would fear the existence of an imaginary threshold, which upon crossing, would thrust me into a schizophrenic realm of chaos, destroying my consciousness forever. In another way, I feared my own permanent death. But now, this analogy gives me confidence in the eternal nature of the Self. It allows me to believe that no matter what the external circumstance, there will always be a vantage point from which I can gaze peacefully at whatever manifests before me. Believing this, I feel safe. I feel like there is nothing to lose.
~
At this point, I would like to venture into a less subjective and more technical analysis of Om. Granted, this line of thinking is very new to me, so I’m sure there is a lot of hubris to what I’m about to write. At some future point, I would like to explore it more deeply.
None of what I wrote above answers what Om actually is. It might be a vehicle to achieve union with Brahman, but what is Om in-and-of itself? Does it have an inherent essence? And if so, what does that look like? What is the shape of Om?
Again, this line of questioning makes me think of String Theory. Also known as The Theory of Everything, it refers to one-dimensional oscillating lines, which upon curling and combining with each other, become the basis of all matter and energy – at the quantum level, the material level, and every level beyond and in between.
So, thinking back to the model of Aum described in our manual – the AAA, the UUU, the MMM, and the silence that follows – I ask the question, what happens when one of those lines begins to move for the very first time? What happens when it first rises from the ether that is Brahman and assumes its first form of existence? You might imagine it assumes an utterly primitive shape, a shape beyond all notions of primitive. It might embody oscillations, unimaginably miniscule.
You might also imagine these strings to live closest to Brahman. They have not yet evolved into any of the more complex combinations, which would live further from the core of existence.
And so, if your awareness is with Brahman, then perhaps you can “see” these younglings. Perhaps you can “hear” the sound they make.
And that sound might be pure and deeply resonant. It might sound something like the sound of Om.
Many years later, soon after I had begun began practicing yoga, I encouraged her to try it, so she attended a class at a nearby senior center with some friends.
“How was it? Did you like it?” I asked.
“It was alright,” she said, with some hesitation. “We Om-ed.”
“Oh really, what did you think of that?”
“I thought it was waste of time.”
“Well,” I said. “Om is a tool to help still the mind.”
“It didn’t still mine!”
Up until that point, I hadn’t really considered what Om actually was. All I knew was that I enjoyed chanting it at the beginning of class, and that it was one of the traditional rituals associated with Yoga. I assumed there was a spiritual, meditative element to it, but I didn’t analyze it too closely.
Since then, my understanding of Om has changed significantly. I suppose I could divide my understanding into two categories: one, by way of written and verbal knowledge; and two, by way of direct experience.
Om, also written as Aum, is said to be the sacred syllable representing Brahman, which is the eternal and absolute realm beyond all manifestations of reality. Therefore, we chant Om in order to celebrate, to revere, and to move closer to the source of all existence. It is a rally cry; it is a prayer; it is a vibratory vehicle.
A vibratory vehicle – but to where? Is Brahman a place to visit? Does it have a fixed location somewhere in space? Most texts say no – Brahman is incomprehensible; there is no way to reason your way toward it. Thus, chanting Om is one way to create conditions so that achieving union with Brahman is possible. Om is a means to still the mind, body, and spirit – to bring the totality of one’s vibrations into a uniform pattern, thereby providing the opportunity to shed all ties to the ego, and to either turn away from all perceptions of manifest reality or to perceive all of them at once.
Yet, for most, if not all of us, chanting Om does not bring us to a pure Brahman realization. Furthermore, Om does not render the possibility of realizing Brahman any less frightening. For me, whenever I transcend my baseline level of consciousness, my automatic response is one of abject terror. I liken the pursuit to the sport of free-diving. Free-diving is holding your breath, and swimming as deeply as you can toward the bottom of the ocean. So, I plunge into the deep, but when I reach a place too dark and unfamiliar, my chest screams out warnings of danger and I spurt to the surface, gasping for air. Then I regain my composure and plunge again, deeper than before, this time with knowledge of what lay ahead – until I encounter yet another level of Unknown.
However, during our retreat, Corina explained something about directly experiencing the Self (Atman), which I found very reassuring. And given that Atman and Brahman are inherently linked – the only difference being that the Self still experiences a degree of illusion in that it still considers itself separate from all things – then what she said applies here as well.
She said that you can’t experience the Self directly because you are the Self. You can only experience it by witnessing its radiance reflecting back to you. It’s just like looking into a mirror – meaning, you can’t see your face with your own eyes, but you can see it shining back at you from any surface that replicates objects with precision.
Somehow this analogy has a very grounding effect on me. Instead of thinking that the Self (or Brahman) is some mysterious and scary place to arrive, it allows me to realize that I already have arrived – and that there is nothing inherently dangerous in the pursuit of Self and Brahman. Previously, in the act of Self-pursuit, I would fear the existence of an imaginary threshold, which upon crossing, would thrust me into a schizophrenic realm of chaos, destroying my consciousness forever. In another way, I feared my own permanent death. But now, this analogy gives me confidence in the eternal nature of the Self. It allows me to believe that no matter what the external circumstance, there will always be a vantage point from which I can gaze peacefully at whatever manifests before me. Believing this, I feel safe. I feel like there is nothing to lose.
~
At this point, I would like to venture into a less subjective and more technical analysis of Om. Granted, this line of thinking is very new to me, so I’m sure there is a lot of hubris to what I’m about to write. At some future point, I would like to explore it more deeply.
None of what I wrote above answers what Om actually is. It might be a vehicle to achieve union with Brahman, but what is Om in-and-of itself? Does it have an inherent essence? And if so, what does that look like? What is the shape of Om?
Again, this line of questioning makes me think of String Theory. Also known as The Theory of Everything, it refers to one-dimensional oscillating lines, which upon curling and combining with each other, become the basis of all matter and energy – at the quantum level, the material level, and every level beyond and in between.
So, thinking back to the model of Aum described in our manual – the AAA, the UUU, the MMM, and the silence that follows – I ask the question, what happens when one of those lines begins to move for the very first time? What happens when it first rises from the ether that is Brahman and assumes its first form of existence? You might imagine it assumes an utterly primitive shape, a shape beyond all notions of primitive. It might embody oscillations, unimaginably miniscule.
You might also imagine these strings to live closest to Brahman. They have not yet evolved into any of the more complex combinations, which would live further from the core of existence.
And so, if your awareness is with Brahman, then perhaps you can “see” these younglings. Perhaps you can “hear” the sound they make.
And that sound might be pure and deeply resonant. It might sound something like the sound of Om.
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