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:

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.

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.

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.

Retreat Recap and Random Other Things

This past weekend was our teacher training's retreat to Pendle Hill, near Media, PA. Actually I think it might have been really close to Swarthmore College. Pendle Hill is a Quaker community, with various walking paths, ponds, gardens, recreation centers, lodging spaces, meeting centers, etc. It was a really nice place -- modest, accommodating, and perfect for our group.

We were only there from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, but it felt like we were there for a lot longer than that. In a good way, though. It's hard for me to sum up the experience, but I do think it was transformative for all of us.

Mostly, I feel purified. Saturday and Sunday morning, we got up at 6 and 6:30, respectively, and practiced pranayama for about an hour. On Saturday night, I used the neti pot to clear my nasal passages, and my pranayama practice felt better the following morning as a result of it. Actually, I attained a deeper state of absorption on the first day, but on the second day, I had a kind of clarity of consciousness. When a few people complained that the room had been very cold, I realized at that moment that may have contributed to my alertness, too.

My other favorite part of the retreat was the recitation of 108 Oms, led by Julie on Saturday morning, before our Vinyasa practice. That was a very powerful experience. Julie has a beautifully deep and resonant Om, which had a way of grounding me and letting me lose myself in the process. We probably Omed for about 45 minutes -- much longer than Julie had anticipated. She said she led groups in this practice before, but maybe it was because their individual Oms weren't as long, she was able to complete it in half the time. I thought that was pretty interesting. I think I got a bit tired from it, but not too much. I would have been able to sustain it for much longer, I think.

A lot of people reported having transcendent experiences during the Oms. Most people heard sounds, like tinkling bells and overtones. I heard some overtones in the beginning, but mostly I became hyper-focused on the act of Om-ing itself. I felt like my whole body was Om-ing.

Anyway, I'll write more about Om later. It's our essay assignment for this Wednesday. I'm not really sure what I'm going to write. We need to write about our experience with Om, and what it means to us. Another way Corina framed it -- if you were to explain Om to a lay person, what would you say?

Lastly, I would like to talk about the crazy dreams I had while away at the retreat, and also on Sunday night after coming home. The first night I was there, I couldn't sleep at all. I was keenly aware of every sound moving through that house, and even more so of every toss and turn my roommate Mey engaged in. It was torture. But it was also okay. I lay in a Savasana state for several hours, knowing that I needed rest if I were to make it through the next day alive. And while in that state, many visions came to me.

One -- I had the distinct sense that there were spirits in the room, and on the grounds. I wasn't sure if the spirit in the room was Mey's or Amanda's, or if it was someone else entirely.

I could also "feel the energy" of the place. That also kept me awake.

I also had a vision of Julie, dressed in Navajo clothing, sitting in the Lotus position. What I remember most was her eyes. They were luminous and large, penetrating into my core.

On Sunday night I had the strangest dream involving Corina. I dreamed we were in a public bathroom, and she was somehow transmitting knowledge to me that would teach me how to remove my attachment to my gross body. It was very cosmic.

Anyway, until next time...

I had another great time at yoga teacher training last night. Well, I guess I did. This training is definitely bringing up a lot of stuff for me. As I mentioned in a previous post, the class contains entirely women -- 18 students and 3 instructors. I think this is really good for me. Within the past decade or so, the number of women in my life has diminished significantly. Well, maybe that's not entirely correct. I had women friends in college, but upon leaving college, I didn't really retain friendships with them, except for a few. Then, when I entered the writing workshop at Temple, I developed a pretty sizeable network of women friends. But then that group eventually dispersed and I'm only in contact with one of them at this point. Nearly all of my friends are men now.

In any case, I have never been totally at ease in my friendships with women, and I've never been sure exactly why that is. When I got home, I floated a theory by Tim, but I'm not even sure if it's right. This is what I said:

I pride myself in my ability for insight, receptivity, and compassion. I think I added a different adjective to that mix last night, but now I can't remember. Anyway, the point is, I pride myself in certain qualities that might be considered "feminine". I also pride myself in my intelligence, and my ability to express the impressions I receive from engaging those feminine qualities. And so, in my friendships with my men, I can bring those qualities to our relationship (the male/female friendship), and it creates an interesting dynamic. Men appreciate my ability to examine life in that way, since for whatever cultural or genetic reasons, they are less predisposed to do so. So they appreciate it that I can draw those sides out of them in a way that makes them feel comfortable, relaxed, and interested.

However, it appears that most women pride themselves in the same way as I do. Most women are sensitive and emotional. And from what I can tell, my fellow women teacher trainees have quite a bit of depth and awareness, beyond the degree of the average woman. (What else would you expect from seekers of Yoga?)

So where am I going with this? I guess I notice that when I observe those traits in other women, a sense of competitiveness rises within me. I suppose I think that I can tolerate all of my other "weaknesses", such as: my inherent flexibility issues that will limit how far I can take my asana practice; the stagnation of my career; the lack of certain types of "wealth" in my life; etc. In the face of these shortcomings, I can tell myself, "So what if I don't have everything society thinks I ought to have -- I have my wisdom!" It is a defense mechanism, absolutely. So if others exhibit those traits, I feel like the whole house of cards could come tumbling down.

But I also feel a bit of impatience when I listen to other women's introspections. It seems I find them a bit boring. But why?

I know there's something deeper behind it all. There's a part of me that not only prides my abilities of introspection, there's a part of me that also hates it. It feels self-indulgent and pointless. Meaning, if I were to stay there too long, I would be mired in the muck of it -- I would remain trapped in patterns of thinking and feeling, and there would be no doing.

So I feel like my abilities of introspection are my most powerful tool yet my most dangerous weapon.

I'm not sure what else to say about it at this point. Last night Corina asked if any learning can be had from "resistance". I said that for me, resistance is like a fire -- a tapas -- and that even though it is painful to experience, and even though I might spin in circles for much longer than I should, eventually I arrive at a deeper place, a point of wisdom. I've finally come to trust this process in myself. I'm not sure I've come to a place where I can go through it without hurting myself -- perhaps that's where I'm stuck, perhaps that's what I need to move beyond somehow.

It's funny; the more I write, the more I discover "places where I'm stuck". I guess that's a good thing.

Musings

I told myself I would update this blog somewhat frequently. So even if I don't have time to write anything elaborate or careful, I figure I should use it to jot down ideas, just so they don't disappear into the ether of my mind.

At some point I would like to write more about something Paul and I began discussing last night: There are many different types of "spiritual experiences" to be had. Many of the different religions have grown as a means to organize and codify those specific experiences. Types of experiences differ based on cultural background, inherent disposition, and information one is currently exposed to. I'm sure there are countless other factors; I just can't think of them right now.

Mainly, I am trying to work out if some experiences are more authentic than others. I assume there are. I assume certain experiences are more tainted by illusion than others. For example, if someone sees the Virgin Mary standing in his bedroom versus someone coming into contact with the Atman during a deep state of Samadhi. Or, the experience of kundalini rising. What are the differences? Is the source of these experiences the same? And it is just a matter of pulling back the veils -- the koshas -- in order to witness what is truly driving these things?

Again, I want to explore these things... I just don't have the time today. Many times I've wished I could wear a small video camera at all times, to record the happenings of my life. That way I could locate interesting conversations and experiences and relive them for further understanding. I am much better in conversation than in any other form of communication. I love reacting to people, and using their ideas to fuel my own and vice-versa. Remebering all of those points and then trying to write them down is less easy. It could be that I am merely out of practice with writing. It is a craft like any other, after all. I need to remind myself of this. I need to look at my spiritual practice, and see how that's evolved in a relatively short period of time. Where would my writing be in, say, two years time, if I practiced every day?

From the Earth to the Moon and Back Again or Never to Return

Yesterday a co-worker friend brought to my attention a speech written by William Safire, which would have been delivered by President Nixon, in the event of a moon-landing disaster. I was promised that reading this speech would “send shivers down my spine”. Well, it did – and those shivers turned to ripples which swirled into an ocean of thought on the nature of man.

When my friend first brought this speech to my attention, he said something like, “Imagine how a landing disaster would have affected our view of the moon… each time we gazed upon it we would be reminded of the poor souls who were left to die and never return to Mother Earth.”

A provocative thought, indeed! A moon landing disaster would have changed the course of our history, for sure. It was a symbol of our greatness, of our ingenuity. It was also a source of great inspiration, and a means to express the camaraderie of the human spirit. I wish I had been alive to witness it. Just hearing the scratchy recording of “One small step for man…” brings tears to my eyes.

But what if it had never happened? How would we have viewed the moon henceforth?

I can imagine humankind projecting a sense of resentment onto the moon, as if it was the cause of our failure. I can also imagine those projections extending through all aspects of civilization – through the way we govern, the way we exchange money and property, the way we relate to our friends and family.

As much as exploring those possibilities interests me, something else interests me more. Instead I wonder – what would truly be behind those projections? Would it really be about failing to land on the moon? After all, negative feelings typically manifest for reasons other than what we think. Which this leads me to ask – what is behind the urge to land on the moon to begin with?

There is a popular concept in certain fringe psychological circles, which purports that the biggest trauma a person will ever experience is being born. I first learned this by way of Joseph Chilton Pearce, and then Stanislav Grof, both prominent writers on topics of psycho-spiritual development. The idea is that a human spends the most critical period of its development in a symbiotic state, protected inside the mother. Therefore, the act of being born – of being thrust through the birth canal by way of painful muscular contractions, of bursting into a harsh, cold, and foreign environment, and then being forced to receive oxygen via unfamiliar means, via lungs instead of placenta – is an enormously traumatic experience. It is the source of all primal fears. It is the reason for our inherent sense of alienation and insecurity. And so, we are forever left with a longing to return to the womb.

These are tall claims, for sure. But for me, they resonate. And upon reading this speech, they resonate even more.

How tantalizing is the moon, seemingly so nearby, yet impossibly out of reach. It’s like a forbidden fruit, lush and ripe and dangling from a vine. It feels like sustenance. Perhaps that is why we were so hungry for it, why we needed to stake our claim on it and say, “We are here. You belong to us.”

Consider the final line of the speech:

“For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.”

Why is that such a comfort? Could it be we are unconsciously driven to conquer and consume to quell the pain of being born – to fill the void left from our first, and most significant, loss of connection?

Theory says that when our solar system was forming, the Earth was struck by a foreign body. It shattered in two, hurling the smaller fragment off into the deep. It spun away until the larger body secured it in its gravitational embrace. Thus, one could say: The Earth gave birth to the Moon.

The Moon is Earth’s child. We are Earth’s children. The Earth is God’s child. We are all God’s children.

And so, perhaps the wholeness we seek by way of consuming is misdirected. It can’t be found on the moon’s vistas, the ocean floors, or the desert sands. Perhaps there is an inner space worth pointing to. Perhaps that is where our true mother resides.

Assimilating the Yoga Sutra

Last night at teacher training we began an inquiry into the Yoga Sutra of Patanjali. I've heard of it before, obviously, but I never investigated it myself. I knew it was written in Sanskrit, I assumed it contained poetry of a semi-religious nature. Turns out I was wrong. We only went over 3 or 4 stanzas -- I'm not sure if they're called stanzas -- but from what I can tell, it is a very practical instruction manual for the mind/body/spirit continuum.

I wish I could explain the reaction I had upon listening to Corina chant and then translate the meaning of the phrases. It resonated for me on such a deep level, I was practically moved to tears. I would have let them flow had I been in a more private environment. I wish I could explain exactly why I was so moved -- there was nothing rational about it. I mean, all she said was, essentially, "When the mind stops, Yoga begins." But it was like hearing that idea for the first time ever. I felt as if I engaged with it on some fundamental, cosmic level. I felt a strong sensation at the crown of my head, which I would best describe as some kind of assimilation of energy.

Now I'm really psyched to learn Sanskrit. One thing that really appeals to me is the sheer simplicity of the language. Such complex notions can be distilled into very few syllables. Each word is a poem unto itself, open to vast degrees of interpretation. I'm looking forward to the weekend of Manorama, the Sanskrit teacher. I feel lucky to have encountered her before. I attended one of her fire ceremonies at Wake Up West before one of the previous teacher-training Sanskrit weekends. I remember being deeply struck by her archetypal nature -- it's in her eyes, her voice, her sheer essence. My impression of her relates to what Corina has been saying about "planting seeds" -- from the moment I encountered Sanskrit by way of Manorama, I knew it would be profoundly meaningful for me. Yet I also knew that I was not ready to explore it completely. I knew I had to take several detours before returning to that specific path.

And so, here I am now. Now I'm ready.