In the last essay (Gnosis, Salvation, Enlightenment) we hopefully arrived at a fair understanding of three concepts: Gnosis, Salvation, and Enlightenment, and what they are intended to 'do'. We perhaps regarded them as more relative than they initially seem. Salvation especially, often believed to occur after death and the cessation of the five senses, may seem initially divorced from the other two, but if we perceive death as an induced psychic possibility, Salvation becomes closer to attainment in this life, hence the success of the Born Again. But allegedly, life-times are involved in the acquirement of these treasures, sometimes cyphered as the Holy Grail or Philosopher's Stone, these super-sensory goals are perhaps also super-chronic, beyond time, space and the individual personality. The particular teleologies which embrace movement towards experiencing and understanding the divine encourage a view of the self beyond personality, and beyond the transient experiences of an internal world, constructed into a cohesive picture through language, sense impressions and familiarity. All experiences, all apparently outside manifestations, are collated into coherency within our own minds – what relation they have towards what is really occurring is perhaps dependent upon the eccentricities of our own personal canvases. A common indication of the dominance of perception in our interaction with the world is demonstrated through the nature of colour. Colour is something which we see, but which is not inherently possessed by any particular object. We make colour with our own sense of sight. By extension, we make shape, sound, and texture and taste and odour with our other senses. The pictures we get are what make sense to us in our own prescribed three-dimensional interfaces with phenomenon, but by what process can we accurately perceive the universe beyond our senses, and reach out towards that which usually slips beneath our sensory radars, into dimension beyond three and even four? These processes also usually take the aspirant far beyond the innately limited conceptions of the Self.
So what has been happening when people experience the divine, or have experiences relative to systems mapped-out and plotted by Buddhists, Kabbalists and shamans in many cultures? Are there similarities between them all? A useful exercise in understanding what gnosis, enlightenment and salvation point towards is gathering particular indicators from seemingly disparate traditions, and examining the things they have in common. Naturally, this comparison will have to be abbreviated, but we could cover some ground.
The suspension of cognition of time and space is one of the first sign-posts towards an understanding of what is occurring when experiencing 'divinity' – entry into trance, or one of the many documented stages of meditation in Hinduism and esoteric Buddhism, seem to be one step along the way to experiencing levels of consciousness beyond the mundane. Touching towards the 'Mystical' or 'Religious' experience. What are these experiences? And how do we use language to describe them?
These are areas of experience available to the human species which immediately draw into question the common assumptions about the nature of ourselves. To describe these experiences, a certain language is necessarily used; mystical, religious, numinous, spiritual – in all examples of the terms used there is a common inference: an experience that transcends the ordinary, that has the subject of that experience in some way encountering something much greater than themselves, that bestows upon the experiencer a sense of wonder, unity, insight and often contentment with the present instant that they find themselves in. Nor is this experience reserved for the religious acolyte, people from all walks of life have them, but the terms we use to describe them tend to reflect ‘religious’ sensibilities, perhaps because when we have an experience on this level we have encountered a reality which the worlds religions are desperately trying to find the words to express. But perhaps not just to express – religions have encased within them knowledge of these experiences, and knowledge of how to reach this level of experience. In past ages, these experiences have given rise to new religions, and still do, as there seems to be no end to the multiplicity in which religion finds its expression in peoples daily lives. The difference between the past ages and our contemporary epoch is that the past has seen knowledge of these experiences in the hands of the few: the Priests of a religion, its monks, mystics and prophets. In our era, these experiences are open to us all, and it is no longer necessary to traverse the religious way of life to have them, or to use religious allegory in an attempt to describe them. They are not experiences for the ‘worthy’, the pure, he who is free from sin. They are experiences that, by virtue of our very birth, we are free to have, states of mind that we are free to use, and that, ultimately, seem to enhance our enjoyment of life, our understanding of each other and the strange and glorious universe we live in. But I don’t want you to take my word for that. I’d rather show you how this may be so, and introduce you to, or rather further clarify, experiences that have proved to be the very axis of history.
It is a curious habit of the human species to see ourselves in some way distanced from the luminaries of the past and the present. They are regarded in an awestruck manner, as if an abyss of experience divides ‘them’ from ‘us’: the geniuses, the world leaders, scientists, philosophers and performers. We are happy to regard them utilising their genius and talents, while largely neglecting our own, or even worse never even realising that we possess any. But they breathe the same air, drink the same water. Buddha, Jesus and Mohammed were all born from a womb, and nourished at their mother’s breast. History has served them well in elevating their status, weaving mythology into biography, removing those instances where they, like the rest of us, needed to fulfil the body’s natural functions, scratch their armpits or perhaps sneeze. This has served to distance them from the blood that coursed through their veins; blood that ran red like yours and mine: and from the common process that all three (as a convenient example) needed to go through in order to become what they have become. Ordeals that we can all experience, and which result in the blossoming of a new way of seeing the world, a new way of feeling, a new way of being. I don’t wish to demythologise these figures; that would be pointless and dysfunctional. What I propose to do is to re-mythologise us. Put our experiences, our lives and our consciousness, in its correct and miraculous context. And also to discuss exactly what each of us is capable of as a human being: to discuss what is, ultimately, our birthright.
First of all, though, before discussing these ideas, we need to talk about language. Our whole world is composed of language. That which we speak, that which we think, is a conglomeration of symbols that are inseparable from each other, that are in perpetual dependence upon each other for their usefulness, and for their definition. Language is our mode of communicating, sharing ideas and effectively ensuring understanding between each other. It seems that if we understood a little bit more about language, we’d understand a little bit more about one another. The definition of language is not restricted to speech, either, but also to gestures, signs and symbols which make up our daily realities. Don’t I mean reality? No. And oops! Lo, and behold: we’ve already encountered our first problem with language. And that problem is, essentially, one routed in individual experience. It needn’t be a problem, though; lets discuss it and see where we end up.
Let’s discuss language in terms of ‘dogs’. Firstly, when we think about a dog, do we all think about the same dog? Aristotle, the Greek philosopher, argued that we all share the common idea of ‘a dog’, that there is, essentially, one dog which we share a common conception of. I suppose what he was saying is that eve2n though there appear to be lots of different dogs, when we think of a dog, we share the same language. Aristotle called these ideas that we all share archetypes, and the concept of archetypes are apparently very important to make certain ideas communicable. But though we may share a common idea of a dog (not necessarily one that looks the same, but one whose essence communicates to the human, and perhaps the animal kingdom, dog-ness), we very rarely share the same experience of a dog. Lets make up four different people for fun: Jane, Harry, Bob and Sue.
When Jane was four years old, she was bitten by her dog, Banjo: this upset her very much, and from that moment on, she was afraid of dogs. Even if they were friendly to her, all they needed to do was bark with excitement, and she’d begin shaking.
From the day Harry was born, Lassie, the family dog, would always be very kind to him, play with him, fetch him toys and blankets when she thought he’d need them. When Harry was twelve, Lassie died, but his childhood experience of dogs was always one of joy and friendship, faithfulness and fun. His adulthood maintained this experience.
Bob was raised with cats: the next-door neighbours had dogs, and they were always very loud and appeared to be quite daft in comparison to Twitch, Scratch and Noodles, who possessed a superior sense of themselves, an independence, that Bob always found admirable, right up until old age.
Susan never had a family pet, and never really took to animals.
Of course, they were all old school friends, and once they got together in the park for a picnic. They talked about all sorts of things, and then a dog came bounding up to them, sniffing around their food, [but being very friendly and amiable].
Jane was petrified; Harry showered the dog with affection; Bob felt sorry for the pathetic creature, so needy; Sue wished it would just go away.
FREEZEFRAME!
The same dog, surely, but each one of our fictional characters is having a completely different experience of the mutt, their present experiences determined by their past experiences: their past experiences, effectively, have become their present experiences, so that their past is their present. But asides from that crazy idea, each one is experiencing a totally different dog, even though it’s apparently the same dog bounding up to them, sniffing around their food.
This is, firstly, an illustration of how language differs from one person to another: the word is the same, ‘dog’, but the association that each person attributes to that word is quite different. Secondly, this is an illustration of how language and reality are intrinsically linked: we may use the same language to describe things, but we are using a language whose meaning is specific to our experience, our reality. Thirdly, this is an illustration of how realities are plural: we are rarely all of us experiencing the same thing, one singular reality, but each our own separate one. This may make you feel lonely, perhaps separated from the rest of the species, but remember that each one of us is in the same fix, thereby uniting us all over again.
So, language is used to communicate our experience of something, while simultaneously being dependent upon our own experience of something for it’s meaning, both to us and its intended meaning to others. Confused? Is this a paradox? No, yes, maybe, all three, the first two, the last two, the first and the last, and neither: The answer depends entirely upon your experience of the above sentences. Now, I think, we’re getting somewhere. So let us now talk about truth, re-enlisting the help of Bob, Jane, Sue and Harry, and our dog.
All four of our fictional characters will have a different conception about the ‘truth’ of dogs: Jane’s truth is that they are frightening creatures, to be avoided at all costs; they are ‘bad’. Susan’s truth is that they are just animals, an annoyance, sometimes, but neither ‘good’ nor ‘bad’ necessarily: neutral. Bob sees them as pretty pathetic, nowhere near as hip as cats, so ‘bad’ in that respect, but ‘good’ also because they make cats look even better. Harry just thinks that they are ‘good-good-good’, to be loved and adored at all costs. So, simultaneously, we have four different truths for the same object: good, bad, both and neither. All of these truths are dependent upon the individual’s experience of the object in question.
What is the point of all this? How on Earth does this relate to mystical and religious experiences? In the West we tend to have an ‘either/or’ logic, limiting the possible nature of a thing to a dual state. In the East however, there exists the ‘good/bad/both and neither’ philosophy, which increases the possible nature of a thing to a fourfold state. Because of the nature of mystical experiences, and the possibilities inherent in our own experience, it is much easier to regard phenomena as having a fourfold, or an x (as big or small a number as like)-fold, state, as it will increase our understanding of reality, and increase the amount of possible experiences of a thing available to us. So the four-fold eastern system will be of much more use in our discussion. As will become clear, when talking about what the human mind can do, it is much more convenient, and accurate, to think in multiples. And when we are discussing religions, different worldviews, different ways of seeing what we are and what the universe may be, seeing all views as equally true and false, or neither, evens things out and enables the mind to bypass its machinations and its assumptions that there must be a ‘right’ one and a ‘wrong’ one. Unless we get used to viewing reality in multiples, we’ll never see the whole forest because all the trees will be in the way. After this brief initiation into the complexities of meaning and reality, our next article will look more closely at the Religious/Mystical/Spiritual/Numinous/Transcendent experience.
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