The Skeptical Mystic

        It began with a remark by Dr. V.G. Kulkarni, about how he had begun his own spiritual search; one small phrase he used had created a burning desire within myself.  His life story was more traditional and straightforward than the spiritual paths I had wandered.

         Trained in the university, and with all the enthusiasm of a university student, V.G. had persistently attended lectures on Sanskrit, holy texts and spiritual disciplines.  Afterwards, he would confront the lecturers, politely but pointedly asking each one the same two questions: "Have you yourself seen the Face of God; can you show me the Face of God?"  All had solemnly shook their heads no, suddenly brought down from their lofty height as an expert in spiritual matters.  It was different when he finally met his guru and master, Rama.

         What caught me was not so much V.G.’s reverence and devotion to Rama, but that phrase V.G. had used—‘seeing the Face of God’.  I was already running into deities or godforms within my meditations, despite my best attempts to avoid any encounter.  There existed a passionate love-hate relationship with these episodes.  I tried desperately to avoid encounters, only to be mesmerized and totally smitten, once caught up in the experience itself.

        To stand before a godform was awesome—painfully spellbinding, beautiful and terrifying.  There is nothing (no matter how one may idolize, worship or seek connection with person, place or experience in this world) that could compare with being in the presence of a deity.  It is as if—after a lifetime in a cold, damp cave—you suddenly stepped out into the intense heat of the blazing sun.  How glorious to be hit with the overwhelming sensation of heat wrapping its warmth about your entire being.  How desperately you embrace the sensation, acutely aware of delicious warmth sinking deeper and deeper into the cold reaches of your inner being.

        No, never could I give up the memory of such experiences.  Yet, I remember also reaching a point where the bone-chilling dampness of the cave had melted away, where the intensity of warmth became increasingly uncomfortable, when an overpowering desire arose to crawl back into the coolness of shade to rest.  Too much of a good thing brings its own pain.  Despite the initial ecstacy of stepping into the sunlight, only a fool would choose unlimited exposure to the sun’s burning rays.

         Even later, in the most congenial and gentle encounters, there would come a moment when the delight of being in the loving presence of a godform subsided, the human mind saturated by all it could manage of such blessings.  Then I would feel the burning desire to be far away, to not have my flaws so visibly exposed (truly, godforms never sat in judgement; the pain was my own awareness of the gulf that separated us).

       How sad, in retrospect, to remember the way I used to resign myself to meeting with godforms. The times were not of my choosing.  Various deities would begin appearing in my meditations, would make themselves available when I reached out to them.  During these rare moments in my life, it was easy to connect with godforms, though I was conscious that the timing of when these moments might occur remained beyond my control.  The encounters would help me past specific stumbling blocks, would turn my attention to unexpected but necessary departures from a traditional spiritual path.  In these time periods I could seek out a godform because of the burning need inside myself to find deeper truths.  I remained on guard because one could never tell when there might be a price to be paid for answers given.

        Never would I seek out a godform to prove I could do it. If someone were to ask, "Could you stand before Jesus or Shiva, Sekhmet or Tara," I would only stare at them.  What was I to say when I stood before the godform?  What excuse would I have for being in his or her presence, other than pride and ego of proving myself different from other humans?  I could think of no worse ordeal than standing before that patient and knowing gaze, aware that the deity could see the deepest motives in my heart.  Seeing a godform, standing before or interacting with a deity, was an awesome experience.  It was not the spiritual goal that I was seeking.

        I’ve missed blogging, but there’s been a whirlwind of activity this spring and summer. When I first realized I would be selling my home and moving into Randy’s already furnished home—panic hit. Where would I ever put the things that had been given by family and dear friends, that I’d struggled to accumulate while building a life after the divorce? Where would I put the family treasures I was determined to keep and pass on to my children?

        When I first told my mother that Randy was a minimalist and his house was smaller than mine, she suggested I warn him: the pack-rat syndrome was a strong genetic trait, running throughout our family. I laughed, knowing there was some truth in what she said. Each year I’d sent at least half a dozen bags to Goodwill, to keep the closets and drawers from overflowing. When the boys moved out, I’d gone through their rooms twice, removing layers of what they had accumulated, getting the outward appearance of the boys’ rooms under control so I no longer needed to close doors when company arrived.

        Still, sixteen years in one house with four pack rats (mom included) created the need for serious downsizing if I was to move the remainder of ‘my home’ into Randy’s house. Ours was not a house where one was forced to weave between piles of clutter to navigate a room, but there were bookshelves or desks or storage units against every wall.

        Randy would break out in a cold sweat every time he came to visit, unable to imagine how anyone could pack so much into so many places, unsure how we could ever squeeze my things into the few empty spaces of his house. I could acknowledge the pack-rat tendency enough that his light-hearted suggestion to me ("just pitch it all") could be answered with a facetious grin.

        I loved Randy and wanted to spend my life with him. I positively dreaded the thought of moving, of giving away so much, of packing the remainder in boxes (I still had boxes in the basement closet that remained unpacked from the divorce sixteen years ago).

         Randy and I would talk about how I’d written the article ‘The Leap of Faith’ just before meeting him. We talked about starting a new lifestyle for both of us. We discussed the logic in moving to his house (seven minutes from work and in a quiet neighborhood), rather than moving him into my house and forcing both of us into a long commute every day. The beautiful meadow that had so long delighted me was now gone—leveled by developers, the peaceful backyard view of wild flowers rapidly being replaced by new homes. Randy lived in a quiet, wooded neighborhood where we could feel secluded and yet be close to stores and activities. Sell my house; move my belongings, change my name on a myriad of legal forms—how I dreaded facing these ordeals, logic or not, leap of faith or not.

        I’ve had a year to work on the moving problem. Bags of throwaways went to the curbside for months on end. Carloads of bags were hauled to an assortment of charities. Randy began calling my house an archeological dig, because I would remove layers and he could see no noticeable thinning of the clutter when he came to visit. Five hundred books (over multiple culling sessions) were taken to the local library for their used book sales. Five hundred books—you’d think that would leave bare spots on my book shelves. Only people used to my bookshelves could notice the difference (there no longer were books piled in front and on top of the stacks; there were occasion spots where books were not packed solid).

        After the wedding we began spending weekends at my house, packing, moving, painting. Of course, some furniture had to be left while we were selling the house, but it seemed a Mission Impossible to actually get the house on the market before summer’s end.

        Serious downsizing raised deep feelings I hadn’t expected. Despite best intentions, I resisted letting go of items I saw as useful. Sure, I hadn’t used them in years and years, but one never knew when the need might arise. (In defense of this tendency---we later needed items that had been pitched in the frenzy of downsizing.) It’s a terrible thing to be a packrat in the process of moving.

        Yet, I’ve reached a turning point. It used to be painful to think of leaving the neighborhood, the flower gardens I’d put so much effort into building, the house itself. Could a short drive through city traffic replace the rolling farm hills when the early morning sun turned ground fog to soft pastel? Could I give up being surrounded by personal history that made up my sense of self?

        The need to run back and forth between houses is slowing. The house is on the market. I no longer see it as home, but simply property to be kept up until it is sold. My energies can be directed to unpacking and reorganizing Randy’s home (my new home). I can start preparing for our next major trip (a symposium in Iceland).

          Suddenly I can find time to think again of blogging. I am not sure it comes because time is freed up; I rather think my emotions are being freed up. Blog articles started early in the spring stalled after a few paragraphs. Why the difference now?

          We are still busy. Projects still remain piled high. I have been busy writing thank you’s and emails all along. I have completed numerous creative projects (though none required exploring deep personal thoughts). It seems strange how—when I sit down now at the computer—my thoughts run more freely. It makes me wonder about creative expression, what drives people to put their thoughts down on paper, and what creates the writer’s block. Even that thought is a turning point, from the past few months.

         I have no answers to the questions of creative thought. I still have pressing priorities that fill up my day. Yet I am delighted to rediscover the process of searching and exploring inner motives. No matter how slowly I re-engage, I have to admit I’ve missed blogging. Adding another entry to my journal feels wonderful, even if it has little to do with my usual subject matter.

No matter how many times I think of a great blog article and just need time to get my creative thoughts down on 'paper', I am stymied to find some other requirement, obligation or responsibility pops up and takes center stage.  I'm not sure if this is just me getting sidetracked, or if I am not taking blogging as seriously as the die-hards, or if it is the plight of most women--being pulled in too many directions at the same time.

Some days I do a great job of multitasking: I've always been able to juggle a wide range of priorities and keep other people (like my kids) on track with their obligations.  Lately, I find myself dropping an occasional ball--a great source of embarrassment.  Should I write the occasional blunders off as senior moments, as wedding and moving stress, or as having neglected my introvert needs for so many months I'm losing my usual inner balance?

I have not given up on blogging but realistically have given up hope of generating any new entries until after the wedding, my youngest son's graduation, and my move into Randy's house.  I've almost finished up my work with three separate lawyers (none of these ordeals nerve-wracking at the present moment).  Getting my house ready to sell--that may take time, but I hope the ordeal can be balanced with things that nurture my soul.  If I can hold out a few weeks, my piano will be refinished and moved to Randy's.  How I long for the free time to work on music or writing. Both are such a balance for everyday pressures.

For those who wonder why I've  stepped away from journal entries, be assured that I will return in another few months. Wish me luck keeping my juggling balls in the air. I'll report back later.

          My schedule is busy right now, so let me direct you to a great article by Dennis Gersten, M.D. that gives more advice on differentiating between visions and hallucinations. This article, written in 1997, can be found at http://www.imagerynet.com/book/excerpts/visions.vs.hallu.html .

         I’d also agree with Dennis that most spiritual visions are pleasant and uplifting.  This is part of the reason people cling to the experience as being real and valuable, why they seldom bother exploring other interpretations.  Even if (as materialists might say) these experiences are fantasies generated within the brain, they do no harm and leave one feeling more positive about one’s own life and about the world in general.  However, as I've said before, we are constantly evaluating everyday experiences for validity and relevance.  We should be doing the same for all experiences. 

          By the time you reach more advanced stages in spiritual development, you should be able to make your own determinations about validity.  In the case of negative experiences, when back to everyday reality you should remain rational enough to understand inner issues that are being (or need to be) confronted.   The vision will not control your destiny, but clarify deeply buried issues that are interfering with further progress.  In positive experiences, the key issue will not be about vision versus hallucination but how to keep the experience in perspective and your ego in check.

        There are two stages to a spiritual journey. The first is dependent on the will of the aspirant.  This is the stage where one builds a foundation of understanding by studying a religious tradition, creating positive behavior patterns, and learning to restructure thoughts in a positive, loving manner.  Religions are great at this stage because they provide structure, communal support and reinforcement.  Religions tell the aspirant how to live a better life, how to express one’s devotion in a secular world, and what actions will brings one closer to the divine.  They have rituals and gatherings to help the aspirant refocus when secular life has pulled daily awareness away from the divine.  To worship a godform (whether the image of the divine in the likeness of some physical form, or as holy text) is to give the mind an object on which one can pour love, devotion, reverence.

         In the second part of the spiritual journey, one must release personal will and effort.  It is the divine which pulls the seeker into god realization.  Give up all your old established ideas—this stage goes beyond time, space and thought.  It is the point of surrender (and I am not talking about the religious surrender of following someone else’s directions and interpretations).  One is ever more open to inner guidance, while continually stripping away more of one’s personal ego and desires.  While mystics may talk of this stage, most religious seekers continue to cling to traditional patterns, feeling that the path requires simply an ever-narrowing focus on God.

         Note that a tight focus of surrendering more to one’s faith and removing more of one’s ego does increase closeness to God.  Saints become ever more devoted to following their hearts and remaining aware of the presence of God in their lives.  This is a good thing.

         To reach God-consciousness, however, requires more.  Think of the divine as residing behind a wall created by the limits of our perception.  The human brain cannot grasp or comprehend an unlimited, all-inclusive source.  The brain is built to function in a dualistic world; it sees male and female, inside and outside; it thinks in terms of now and then, the observer and the observed. It has no way to comprehend ‘formless form’.  It has no symbol to represent ‘all-inclusive’.  Can you picture the shape of infinity as it stretches ever outward?

         So we have a wall separating us from this divine ‘form of the formless’. There are doorways along this wall, and at these intervals there stand the various godforms (remember these can be in the form of human, animal or religious text).  As the aspirant focuses on a particular godform, the love or power of the divine flows through the doorway and the godform: the aspirant knows in the core of his/her being that this is a true reality, more true and real than could ever be found in the everyday world.

          Why are religious mystics so sure they are standing before the one and only true form of God? Because the divine is flowing freely through these forms; the godforms filter that flow into an emotional format recognizable by the human brain.  If you have only stood before one godform, it is human nature to assume this is the only truth or reality that could ever be so powerful and pure.

         Few mystics reach outside their path.  There is no reason to run up and down the wall looking at all the doors to find spiritual bliss.  Bliss resides wherever a doorway is opened by a godform.  What some religions fail to point out is that the godforms are there to lead you to the doorway, not to stand guard.

         There is no divine restriction preventing humans from seeing the true form.  It lies within the human potential.  Had I not been passed around between various godforms as part of my inner training, I might have never questioned how each had a distinct personality while still exuding the same intensity of divine presence.  My own curiosity and stubbornness might not have made me remain open to truths still waiting to be uncovered.

         In Hindu tradition, they do mention reaching a stage of spiritual enlightenment where the godforms are supposed to catapult you beyond their forms and into awareness of the divine itself.  Buddhists try to keep their focus on the everything/the nothing so one form is never taken to be the endpoint.  All too often, however, we forget that daily worship is a temporary stage of spiritual evolution.

         Should people try to reach the endpoint? The Jewish tradition tells of several rabbis who were determined to see the true essence of the divine (My apologies for not knowing the exact number—I recall hearing numbers of four and six). These rabbis retreated spiritually with the sole desire to be shown the true form, and their request was finally granted.  The experience is said to have killed some of them.  Some went crazy from the vision; one was so shaken he lost all belief in his faith and became a heretic.  Only one survived who had seen the true essence and could bring that spiritual wisdom back to his people.

         From my experience, this is probably an accurate assessment of the risks in seeking this level of awareness.  It is not given for free.  These higher insights require sacrifices most people would not want to endure.  Trust me—you don’t want to go there.  I don’t think I will ever discuss that highest level, because it is so far beyond words that the mind refuses to even attempt the search for words.  Yet, there are things from slightly lower levels which may give insights into creation and evolution.