Prayer of Activity

There are times when I am working on a practical subject, most often when it is related to something to do with my ongoing house renovation, that everything seems to come together in a way that seems to be magical or miraculous. It may be that I have spent many an hour pondering over a way to do something, trying to take everything that I can think of into account, to ensure a successful completion of the task. Of course that pondering, or mulling over a problem, is itself an act of discursive meditation, probing a problem from a variety of directions, feeling out the various factors involved in coming to a successful conclusion, or plan of action.

In the course of the work there may come a point where I realise that certain factors are slotting into place, factors that I had not thought to take into account. It is as if some invisible person has been looking over my shoulder, filling in the gaps I have missed, adjusting matters so that my decisions do not conflict with the practical reality that I am facing. It is then that I sense the presence of the miraculous. If I should choose to talk about that presence, I attempt to do so in a jokingly, half serious manner. Why? Because I immediately feel a sense of self-consciousness, almost embarrassment. Yet deep inside me, I know the experience of that otherness to be a potent reality.

It has been called, and I quote*:- 

".......... the prayer of activity, the kind of union we have when all or most of our attention must be concentrated on some task.........The whole nature of the activity is changed by this mutual presence. Let one go away and all is different.........."

* Ruth Burrows OCD, "Guidelines for Mystical Prayer", Chap. 9.

Focus of Attention

Much has been said in spiritual literature about the need for one-pointed concentration on one's goal, the experience of unity with the ground of one's being. Yet there appears to be a contradiction at the heart of this process. To concentrate is to imply that I must "do something", but "doing something" implies an activity that panders to my Selfness, my ego. All I can do is nothing, except to become available to the higher forces and powers within myself.

If I try to take a more positive, active approach towards attaining that goal of unity, I discover something else, something quite different. I discover that I willy-nilly have my focus of attention drawn towards my sense of Selfness, and in so doing I identify with my ego-self. That movement, it seems to me, is a movement toward spiritual entropy and illusion. When I become totally identified with my ego-self I walk like a zombie in the house of the spiritual dead. Yet I must always be aware of my ego-self. Indeed, I cannot avoid that awareness. Detachment, or perhaps non-attachment is a less confusing word, is about breaking that addictive need to be with my ego-self and all its works, and remaining separate. Difficult though that is, it must be possible to achieve that separateness. Why else would the spiritual teachers exhort us to strive for that end?

On the other hand, spiritual enthalpy, the move toward ever greater complexity is a movement toward life and Being. But I do not know what my Higher Self is, that point toward which I must move to expand my consciousness, to increase my spiritual enthalpy. I have only some very vague, shadowy notions derived from my ego-self, but how can the dead judge the value of the living? Even my spiritual studies, for all their value, can be seen as an egoistic indulgence; all the imagery a way of deflecting my attention from my movement toward spiritual enthalpy and growth. Yet not all is lost; there is clearly a movement from above that draws my awareness upwards towards the ground of my Beingness. I must remain alert to counter the attraction of the ego-self, and also to feel the upward attractive currents toward my Higher Self, which may be God, or at least the way towards the experience of God.

Although I often tend to relate my conscious mind to my ego-self, or Selfness, that state of "out-there"- oriented self, in actuality that would seem to be an inappropriate relationship. My ego and consciousness appear to occupy the same field of view, but Selfness is not about consciousness. To be fully, truly aware and conscious I must detach from my ego-self and its illusoriness, for the ego-self is the state of death of awareness even if the ego-self would claim it to be otherwise.

I think the hope that my sense of Beingness can be raised out of the illusory realm of the ego-self and upwards towards the ground of my being, my oft-called Higher Self, lies both in the assertion, and the experience, that I can be raised from death, from the ego-state.  That is the only form of resurrection that has any meaning, or makes any sense, for me.

A Waking Dream.......of Truth

..........It feels like a dream, yet I do not seem to be asleep. I am out of touch; my senses cannot respond to the physical world around me. I cannot see, hear, small, taste or feel, but I know there are those outside me that are trying to make contact. To them I must seem to be comatose, a human vegetable. A little sadness perhaps? A vestige of outer consciousness; nothing more. A twinge of fear, even; not that kind of fear.

          I am quite alone, beyond the realm of time. Ahead of me there is a great Infinity of Darkness.  It and I are one; we are all that Reality Is; we are Mind.......... 

It is 3 o'clock in the morning; two of-the-clock GMT. I was dreaming, yet awake. There had been a disjoint between experiencing the Infinity of Darkness and the visual "explanation" that followed. I had to get up from my bed and write it all down before I forgot the memory of the experience. I carried my sleepy body through the quiet, darkened house and switched on the computer. So bright. I began to write, or scribble, from the keyboard. This is what I wrote, without editing:-

..........What is "wrong truth"? What is "right truth" come to that? The questions make no sense to me; they are simply what they are. They are Truth. Truth can only be experienced. I don't know how often I can say that before the very words "Truth" and "experience" become gobbledygook, meaningless from continued use.

        It is like flying, a lone passenger in an aeroplane, and looking out through a near-circular window. Outside the window there are clouds, events in time. They pass by my viewing port because they are caught in time; and time passes. I see the passing of temporality, then suddenly the aeroplane seems to halt in mid-air. There is no stumbling, falling or loss of balance, no sense of inertia, because inertia belongs to the physical realm, and I am in a waking dream, puzzling over the meaning of Truth. The aeroplane is stilled, and the outside passing-bys have stopped. I see a view, framed by the window of my consciousness.  I see an aspect of an experience that has movement but no passing; experience which does not pass on, or pass away.  

          In attempting to "see" or understand, rather than experience from beyond my senses, I attempt to straitjacket, in time, the eternal, the essential "is-ness" of Truth. I attempt to limit the vastness and wonder of some non-thing to within the compass of the window-frame, my everyday consciousness of temporality. It is too big for that. To limit Truth to my consciousness is to attempt to ensnare it. When I try to do that, the aeroplane in my imagination moves on again, and I am left only with a memory, a memory of an experience which is ineffable, ineffable, ineffable.

          But just for a few moments released from time, I knew........ Just for a few moments, released from time, I made some form of non-sensing contact with that which is of my very foundations. That is where Truth is experienced, but as if it lies immediately before my eyes. Truth is divine, and for a short time, outside time, I watched.........

And so back to bed. The physical, temporal world still has its pleasures......the shared animal warmth of a cosy bed......and I can sleep in peace, for the morning is yet far distant.

Why Gwynt?

Most of what I write is based on what wells up from the unknown depths of my Self, rather than that which comes out of my planning, controlling intellect. My intellect must be a tool, not my inspiration. Those statements would appear to answer the question expressed in the title of this post, but only in part. Whether my ego-selfness is the controlling factor in why I continue to write here, an ego that somehow appears to drag my deeper/higher Self along with it, or whether my deeper Self urges me to write, and uses my ego as a conducive element, I am uncertain. Perhaps my motives can only be determined from what I gain from my posts.

Since posting, "A Matter of Truth" I have taken the opportunity to stand back and re-read it, as if from a position "once removed." A number of points have arisen from this examination. First, it lacked the feeling and fervour that I felt prior to the actual task of writing; second, only two points really stood out for me, that Truth was a deep experience and that that experience lay not in the words themselves but beyond those words; third, that there is a very good reason for seeing one's own words in print, a reason which I will come to momentarily.

It happens that when one becomes accustomed to mulling over a topic, over a period of time, one's thinking can become sloppy and dishonest. I use the word "dishonest" with care, but without the emotive baggage that usually accompanies that word. One's thoughts may glide over a point without checking it for truthful accuracy. In time that flawed thought may come to guide one's assessment of a truth. Inevitably, that truth itself becomes flawed. However, if I write my thoughts down, I begin a process whereby the correctness of what I write is examined, and as my writing is further examined by an external reader, it places an extra onus on me to get things correct. In short, it is a way of allowing one part of myself to speak to another part of myself, a well-known technique used in counselling.

Thus it is that my primary reason for Gwynt appears to be about discovering, and having discovered not to dilute, my deepest innermost truths. Now my sense of selfness, or ego, is less interested in truth than in its own survival. Therefore that which initiates the search for truth is of a quite different order. Words are necessary for the development of this process, but they, like the ego, must assume their proper role. To worship the words, as so often appears to be the case with sacred writings of one form or another, is nothing short of idolatry.   

It is strange, but when I write from my depths it feels as if a wound is opened. That wound is not closed and healed until another written submission is placed before my readers. This, I feel, is a good enough reason for posting, "Why Gwynt?"

A Matter of Truth

If I write:-                                2H2 + O2 = 2H2O

that is to say, two molecules of hydrogen when combined with one molecule of oxygen produce two molecules of water, then that is a statement of truth. In other words, the symbols used in this chemical equation correspond to "things" which we can handle in the outer world, and which behave in accordance with that equation. The truth lies in the sense of equivalence between symbol and object.

Similarly, if I write:-                     10 + 5 = 15

this could correspond to the fact that if I enter a shop and buy ten articles, enter a second shop and buy a further five articles, I will arrive home with fifteen articles. In other words, there is a direct correspondence between the symbols used in the arithmetical equation and the objects I take home. I have made a statement of truth relative to those objects and their symbolic representation, but these exemplars are not the only kind of truth.

In the comments to an earlier post ("An Instrument of Power," posted on 10.8.2013) it was suggested that I draw the Wand of Power.  I have long puzzled over my antipathy towards that idea.  What purpose would the drawing of the Wand have served?  I concluded that the only purpose which could have been served, and which could have been served equally well without the use of a drawing, would have been to point me in a particular direction, for a Wand of Power needs to direct its energy.  Thus it was that when, in a state of meditation, I pointed the wand to some point ahead, a great hole opened in the air before me.

..........Through that hole I stepped, to be confronted by a world of fire, flames that did not consume.  As I walked through the flames I saw that they were heads of people, man and woman, young and old, modern and ancient, of many faiths and beliefs.  Everyone had their faces turned towards a great column of brilliant, white light.  So bright was the symbol of enlightenment that all eyes were closed against that symbol of enlightenment.  And I also, as I approached the light, was obliged to turn my eyes away......... 
                                                              [Extract from my personal diary]

The symbol referred to in this extract was not truth in itself, but a pointer to an ineffable experience which was truth. It was what I experienced that day that was truth, not the imagery which pointed the way.  Similarly, no words in any book, no matter how learned in psycho-spiritual matters, no matter how holy and sacred, can be said to be the Truth.

Like the Wand, the Word is a pointer towards the truth.  Truth is revealed through experience.

Finally, to say, "God Is," or even that, "I Am," is not truth.  They are nothing more than statements using written symbols.  Equally, to say, "God Is Not," is not truth either, for the same reason. But, the experience of God, or by whatever means that theistic experience is named, and which is an ineffable experience because God cannot be defined, now that is truth, and it is absolute, because that experience is "known" by the totality of my innermost, deepest, being.

Mortification, and a Tale of Woe

On Saturday, eleven days ago, whilst Lucy was in England doing her knitting wool thing, Molly and I were taking a stroll around the local Plan d'Eau. The weather and the ground were damp that day, and there came a moment when, lo and behold, I found myself lying on my back and gazing at the limited wonders of an overcast sky. My first reaction to this unexpected state of affairs was to murmur, "Oh Moll!" as I discovered I had let go her lead. Now as you probably know, our Molly is as deaf as a beautiful, black post; her eyesight isn't up to much either. Thus it was with a sense of pleasure and relief that I felt her snuffling my face, with her tail banging against my chest. She had not wandered off, and was safe. It was only when I realised what a fool I might have looked, lying on a wet and gritty path, that I found the necessaries to get back on my feet, and drive home.

At home, I was engaged in the partial laying of a new hall floor, a task I wished to complete before Lucy returned home on the Monday, two days hence. This I did manage to do although the pain in my right thigh, and a slight niggle in my right knee, was causing some difficulty. You see, when I fell - I had caught my foot in a grass-camouflaged animal hole - I did so with my bunch of car keys and my purse/wallet in my right-hand trouser pocket. If I knew the values of the parameters involved in the thigh/keys/wallet-to-ground contact, I'd happily calculate the force of the contact for you. It felt like many tonnes per square centimetre. (Alright, tons per square inch then.) As the week progress, my thigh improved quite satisfactorily. Unfortunately, unsuspected damage to my right knee, held in abeyance whilst my thigh healed, now made itself unpleasantly apparent.

Yesterday, having collected all the reasons I needed to see my local GP, (my alarmingly colourful knee and associated pains, two hypodermic syringes of anti-flu stuff for Lucy and me - mine's free - and a request for my annual blood test) off we went to the surgery. After some gentle poking and prodding, and slight manipulation, the doctor concluded that there had been a sprain, damage to various ligaments, bleeding into the knee joint, and possible disruption to the meniscus between the thigh bone and the lower leg bones. (For those interested that's a cartilage between the femur and the tibia and fibula, the whole joint suffering the effects of a haematoma.) At the completion of our visit, and not needing to have an X-ray - which can be a real pain, sitting in a clinic with sick people and screamingly ebullient kids running around - we went on our way rejoicing, as the saying goes, to 'la pharmacie' for some painkillers.

It has to be said that yesterday I was feeling rather less than well. Nights are difficult to cope with at present, and when the morning finally arrived, and finding me in something of a 'below par' state, I was offered breakfast in bed.

"Poor Tom!" I hear you saying, "Needing to be fussed and coddled."

Now please do not be concerned on my account. Being fussed and coddled by Lucy is not something I have a strong aversion to; in fact I have no aversion to it at all;  I will go further and say I rather like it. So there you are, confession is good for the soul, and so is fussing and coddling.

This morning, meditation was very difficult. Frankly, I was feeling on the up and found it difficult to find a sense of inner tranquillity. I burned a stick of frankincense and myrrh (well you have to do things properly, and my knee is far from pain-free) but it didn't help. Then, before I had a chance to start beating up on myself for my failure to carry out my spiritual exercise in a successful manner (get thee behind me, Ego!), some thoughts came to mind. But before sharing those thoughts with you, let me say that in my experience mortification of the senses was a necessary path out of the extreme spiritual difficulties in which I found myself in the late-eighties/early-nineties. I have never found physical mortification an attractive proposition, so have never indulged, except when falling down when taking a stroll, or similar experiences.

Now let me share those thoughts I alluded to a little earlier.

"When the will, the moment if feels any joy in sensible things [experiences of the senses - my brackets] rises upwards in that joy to God, and when sensible things move it to pray, it should not neglect them, it should make use of them for so holy an exercise;  because sensible things, in these conditions, subserve the end for which God created them, namely to be occasions for making Him better known and loved."

                                                                                                    [St. John of the Cross]

So I don't feel bad about my morning meditation. The next thought is one I really like.

"Anybody who wishes to do so can get all, and indeed more than all, the mortification he wants out of the incidents of ordinary, day-to-day living, without ever resorting to harsh bodily penance."                                                                                                                    [Aldous Huxley]

So that's alright then! My fall (Oh the pain! Oh the agony! etc. etc.) turned out to be a blessing in disguise?..........No-o-o-o-o-o!

Further Probings

Whilst it can be of some help to study the psyche along reductionist principles, the holistic and dynamic structure of the psyche can never be completely ignored or forgotten. In a sense, that proximity to the ever changing nature of one's inner being throws a spotlight on the apparent fragility and powerlessness of the "I", that inwardly observing self. The real sense of deep unease that arises from one's Selfness (ego, or false self) is that it is not entirely in the realm of consciousness. Some part of it, and maybe the larger part, lies in the unconscious mind beyond the relatively weak control of the conscious will. I cannot be unaware of the predatory nature of my Selfness as it forever seeks to control and manipulate every aspect of my conscious life. Trying to fight that psychic predatoriness is like trying, single-handedly, to clear virgin ground only to see Nature move back in with all the urgent and willing power at her command. Similarly, my sense of Selfness refuses to be denied its assumed divine rights. So, also, it seems to be with my soul, my most inner and Higher Self. I am a house divided against itself. "I" desire to rest in silence; my Selfness wants the opposite, to be filled with anything but silence.

Although I have become accustomed to talking about the ego, and also the Higher Self, almost as separate entities, they are, each one, states of being that exist in part or wholly in the unconscious mind.  Furthermore, although there is a different feel about the experience of these states, it is impossible for me to draw a line of demarcation between them, for that would be an action appropriate only to my conscious sense of Selfness, a flawed reality. Thus I can see no way that reductionist principles can be applied to my unconscious mind in order to gain enlightenment. Only the language of imagery and an intuitive sensing beyond the physical senses are of any assistance. It is a source of great wonder to me that the unconscious mind is able to 'speak' to consciousness in this way;  and on occasions insists on so doing.

For all its power to consume and control, I think it would be a mistake to call Selfness either bad or even good for that matter. Judgementalism can play no part in this assessment. Selfness simply 'Is'. The difficulty that I need continually to confront arises from its assumption of Godlike importance and sense of rightness, for therein lies its fundamental flaw. But who or what within my awareness makes this assessment? Maybe this and other questions should be left alone, because they simply draw me back onto the merry-go-round designed to establish the sovereignty of my false self, my Selfness. The paramount task in the search for the true self is to disengage, detach, allow to slip out of focus, break concentration on egoistic traits, and allow timeless silence into my being. And that is what my Selfness least desires.

If I could see the total reality of the power of my ego I would be terrified. It seems to leave my consciousness just the bare minimum I need to survive. I have no real power, no real control. It is like being the most insignificant of human beings caught up in a war of the gods; or Jacob fighting with an opponent that is variously a man, an angel, or God. Even so, "I" must be of some importance in the inner grand scheme of things. That I do not know why the observing "I" is important is a direct result of the fact that I do not yet know myself, do not yet know what I truly am.