Viewpoint: Beyond Duality

Printed in the  Spring 2022 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Hebert, Barbara "Viewpoint: Beyond Duality" Quest 110:2, pg 10-11

 

Barbara Hebert
National President

Barbara HebertMany spiritual concepts seem paradoxical. A less tenacious student may look at the contradictions in such ideas and drop the subject entirely. However, those who are willing to dig more deeply and ponder the contradictions may find spiritual treasure. One such paradox is the idea that duality exists within the unity of all life. It is helpful to contemplate these two seemingly disparate concepts in more detail.

Contemplation of the unity of all life brings the idea of a whole: an undivided, harmonious, Oneness. This Oneness is fully inclusive. All life is contained within it, without differentiation, division, or separation.

On the other hand, some individuals may perceive duality as two conflicting forces that oppose one another. Examples of these opposing forces might be up/down; in/out; push/pull. Others may perceive duality as the difference between subject and object. If I am the subject, then everything I observe is the object. Duality is based on differentiation, division, and separation: the exact opposite of unity. Paradoxically, then, duality exists within the unity of all life.

The Theosophical perspective provides some of the treasure that underlies this paradoxical statement. Although continued contemplation may lead to even more gems of wisdom that can only be found by looking within, let’s consider some of the valuable insights that are provided in Theosophical literature.

From Theosophical teachings, we learn that duality (differentiation or separation) only occurs in the manifested universe. In The Secret Doctrine, H.P. Blavatsky writes, “The ‘Manifested Universe,’ therefore, is pervaded by duality, which is, as it were, the very essence of its ex-istence as manifestation” (1:15).

Because duality occurs only in the manifested world, it is in the physical realm that we perceive differences and see separation. As I walk down the street, I see the trees as separate from me and from one another. I compare the dark green of the leaves to the vivid blue of the sky and perceive they are different things. In the pasture, I see cows and horses grazing on the green grass. Again, I perceive them as separate from me and from one other. Furthermore, I perceive that they are different kinds of animals. My brain has further separated them into categories: cow and horse. If I pay enough attention, I realize that my brain has categorized the brown cows into one class and the black and white cows into another.

Certainly duality or differentiation is a part of the manifested universe and the way our brains perceive the world in which we live. Many other examples of differentiation are at hand. In the international president’s message for the Theosophical Society’s 146th International Convention in late December 2021, Tim Boyd said, “Our experience is fragmented—joyful/sad, here/there, before/after, outer/inner.” In addition, we can look at other ways in which we separate ourselves and the world in which we live: male/female, old/young, me/you, them/us.

Yet according to Theosophical teachings, we are not separate at all. At the core of our being, we are one. In The Secret Doctrine, HPB tells us that there is “one absolute Reality which antecedes all manifested, conditioned being” (1:14). Moreover, “the opposite poles of subject and object, spirit and matter, are but aspects of the One Unity in which they are synthesized” (1:16).

In discussing duality in relation to Theosophy, Vic Hao Chin writes, “Theosophy is a nondualistic philosophy. It posits an Absolute principle beyond all manifestations and dualities. It is only in manifestation that there is duality and multiplicity.”

We realize that the manifested world in which we live, while it is real to us as we exist within it, is illusory from the perspective of the Absolute. Therefore, duality, division, and separation are also illusory if we view them in a more universal or higher way.

What we have discussed to this point has been theoretical. In his article “Essentials of Theosophy,” published in The Theosophist in May 1981, John Algeo writes:

 

There are two aspects of Theosophy whose essentials need to be considered: the theoretical aspect and the practical. The word theory comes from the Greek theoria, “a view or way of looking at things.” A theory is a window on the world. Sometimes, indeed, the word is used to refer to something unreal or impractical, as when we say, “Oh, that’s just theory.” But to reject theories is to reject windows and therefore to remain in a closed and viewless room. As “The Golden Stairs” tells us, we need open minds; and for the mind to be open, it must have windows—that is, theories—and it needs more windows than one.

In addition to being theoretical, however, Theosophy is also practical. The word practice comes from the Greek praktike, “a concern with action,” from the verb prassein, “to pass through, experience, act.” Theory is looking; practice is doing. The two are complementary, each being indispensable to the other. If we wish to sail across the “perilous seas,” we need both a chart to guide us and a skilled crew to run the ship. Lacking either, the ship is lost. So theory without practice is a map that is not followed, whereas practice without theory is a journey with no direction.

Therefore, while theoretical discussions about the Absolute, Duality, and Oneness are fascinating and can keep us enthralled in discussion for quite some time, it is essential that we look at its counterpart. From a practical perspective, we may ask, “If duality is an integral component of physical life, what are we supposed to learn from it? What is the value of duality in my day-to-day life?”

It has been said that to appreciate light, one must know darkness; to experience happiness, one must experience sadness, and so on. Therefore, in order to know Oneness, we must experience separateness. How would we know Oneness without having first experienced separateness?

Assuming that experiencing separation allows us to more consciously know Oneness, we recognize the value of living in a world that is dualistic in nature. We realize that it is a spiritual challenge on our journey: to exist in a world that is filled with differentiation and separation yet become consciously aware of the unity that exists beyond the duality. Our spiritual journey compels us to move beyond division and separateness toward the essential Oneness.

If the manifest world is inherently dual in nature, then we must move beyond the manifest toward the unmanifest. We must reach beyond the temporary components of ourselves: the physical as well as the emotional and “lower” mental aspects of our being. We must attempt to touch the higher aspects of our nature. As we do this, we reach toward that Oneness.

The question then becomes: how do we attempt to touch the higher aspects of our nature? Each individual’s journey is different, yet striving toward a connection with the higher aspects of our nature is an important component of our spiritual quest. Some may connect through contemplation or meditation; others may connect by spending time in nature; others, through interactions with others; still others, through an intuitive leap during intense study. Regardless of how we come to this connection, we are, at least for a moment, touching that higher aspect of ourselves.

While connecting with that higher aspect of ourselves may last for only a brief moment, a split second, we have accessed the Eternal. We have come, as much as possible, to a conscious understanding of the unity of all life.

With this conscious understanding of Oneness comes a deepening moral and ethical perspective. The way we perceive our world and those who inhabit it are changed. We no longer see ourselves as separate from and perhaps competing with others; rather, we see ourselves as united at our core. We work for the benefit of all living beings. We realize that what happens to one of us happens to all of us, because we are the same.

This is at least part of the treasure we find buried under the paradoxical statement that duality is inherent within the unity of all life. In order to consciously experience Oneness, we must first experience duality and differentiation. Experiences rooted in separation compel us toward an understanding of the essential unity of all life. As we move in this direction and touch those higher aspects of ourselves, we change. As we change, the world changes.


Sources

Algeo, John. “Essentials of Theosophy.” The Theosophist, May 1981: https://theosophicalsociety.org.au/statics/the-essentials-of-theosophy.

Blavatsky, H.P. The Secret Doctrine. Two volumes. Wheaton: Quest, 1993.

Chin, Vic Hao. “Duality.” Theosophy World, accessed Jan. 3, 2022: https://theosophy.world/encyclopedia/dualism.


From the Editor's Desk Spring 2022

Printed in the  Spring 2022 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Smoley, Richard "From the Editor's Desk" Quest 110:2, pg 37-39

Richard SmoleyIf you look at the word nonduality, it’s really quite peculiar. It tells us that there is such a thing as duality, and something that is not duality. So you have two things. So you still have duality.

In fact, it is often hard to understand what people are thinking of when they use this term. Many of them leave you with the distinct impression that duality is bad or inferior to nonduality. But how does that get you past duality?

As A.V. Srinivasan’s article in this issue shows, nonduality has a very specific meaning in Hindu thought. It is a translation of advaita, which means not dual. It refers to different schools of the Hindu darshan (perspective) on the Vedas called Vedanta, and has to do with the existence of a personal God—Ishwara in Sanskrit.

Dvaita (dualistic) Vedanta asserts the existence of a personal God and the existence of individual selves, who worship him.

Advaita Vedanta denies that this is the case. It insists that there is no ultimate difference between the Self (atman) and Brahman, that is, between the Self and God. Any differences between the two are merely illusory.

Then there is the intermediate position of Vishishtadvaita, or qualified dualism, which holds that Brahman, the individual soul, and the physical world are all real, distinct, yet inextricably interrelated.

In the West, dualism means something quite different. In theology, it refers to the belief in the existence of two independent principles in systems like Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism, which posit a fundamental cleavage between the good and the bad—the light and the dark—in the universe.

Secondly, dualism has been used to characterize the metaphysics of Descartes, who claimed that there is a radical difference between mind and body, which, he said, run on separate tracks, connected in some unexplained way in the pineal gland.

Still another use of dualism has to do with other schools of Hindu philosophy, notably the Samkhya (usually translated as something like enumeration but probably more accurately rendered as analysis). Here the duality is between purusha and prakrti, which mean consciousness and the contents of consciousness respectively. Glen Kezwer’s article in this issue delves into this duality: he points out the difference between the Knower, as experienced in meditation, and what the Knower perceives—experience at all its levels, both internal and external.

 Dualism, then, is hard to avoid. At certain levels of meditative practice, you can still perceive a self and an other, but the relation between these has shifted radically. Ordinary consciousness identifies with the body and personality as opposed to an external world out there. By contrast, at these levels of meditation, the orientation shifts: there is the Knower, which realizes that the true Self is quite distinct from the body and the personality, which are mere composites of physical sensations, emotions, thoughts, and ideas. These can be observed from a distance in meditation. If you can see something from a distance, it follows that you are not there; furthermore, you are not it.

Is there a state beyond? Yes, and it points to nondual experience. If consciousness is the distinction between self and other, then, if self and other vanish, there is no consciousness. As Glen Kezwer indicates in this issue, it is a state very much like deep sleep. In certain meditative states, awareness persists, but it is objectless. As such, it is paradoxical to describe or understand conceptually.

Is this objectless awareness the Absolute—the furthest you can go? Here it is amusing to look at the dialogue between Eastern and Christian mystics. Christians sometimes say that this objectless awareness is merely a forecourt to the encounter with the living personal God. Some Hindu mystics say that the experience of the personal God—Ishwara—is merely a prelude to objectless absolute consciousness.

Who’s right? It’s impossible to say. That’s because experience may be absolute in itself, but the mind interprets this experience in terms of its own cognitive structures, including religious ones. Even though the experience of the mystics of all religions may be remarkably similar, they will express it in light of the theologies they have internalized.

 At this point, you may be asking, “Who cares about all this intellectual mumbo-jumbo? What does it all matter?” Actually, this kind of discourse is a form of yoga, called jnana yoga, or the yoga of knowledge. It is distinct from bhakti yoga, the practice of devotion; karma yoga, the practice of action; or hatha yoga, the yoga of breathing and bodily postures. But it is no less legitimate or important. It holds that contemplating these deep questions with the intellect is itself a means of inner transformation.

In any event, some seem to think that it’s important to overcome duality. Of course, that’s impossible: if you are overcoming duality, you still have you and duality, which are two things, so you still have duality.

 It may be best to close with the conclusion to Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus: “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen.” Meaning, “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.”

Richard Smoley

               

               


Piercing the Trance: The Wholeness Process

Printed in the  Spring 2022 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Sugg, Judith "Piercing the Trance: The Wholeness Process" Quest 110:2, pg 37-39

        

By Judith Sugg

JuithSuggAt our Source, we are the same, yet an individual’s interaction with the world is distinctive. Psychology refers to the sum of our habitual responses and tendencies as personality, and these patterns and biases can prevent us from experiencing life directly. If we believe we are the sum of these patterns rather than an emanation of the Source, we remain ignorant of our true nature.

Those on a spiritual path align their lives with ideals such as Truth and Love. Sadly, our best intentions are shattered by those same biases, habits, and knots (granti) of personality. Millennia ago, the Katha Upanishad (3.5) taught that a person “who has not understanding (avijnana), whose mind is not constantly held firm—his senses are uncontrolled, like the vicious horses of a chariot driver” (Hume, 351). We see this truth every day, in ourselves and others.

Meditation is the most prescribed tool for holding the mind firm, yet its course is arduous. As Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater noted, internal silence is a rarity, and even though no one else hears the chaos in our mind, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. Thoughts are energy and form, often existing in conflict, fueling emotions and self-interest.

I have long been intrigued by the mechanics of the mind as viewed in both psychology and meditation. How do we align higher ideals and intentions with personality patterns that seem so entrenched? Having taught yoga and meditation for thirty years, I have a deep respect for the potential power of practices, but I also know the hazards and struggles they involve. This article attempts to link our highest intentions for living with love and clarity with a psychological tool that deepens meditation.

The Purpose of Meditation

I.K. Taimni, whose translations of Hindu texts are well known to Theosophists, published a short paper on the more profound aspect of meditation in The American Theosophist. He speaks to the motivation for meditation, hoping to move the theoretical discussion of yoga to a deep, serene, impersonal experience of Reality. Without an impartial perspective, we are likely to remain oblivious to the illusions in our mind. Taimni states that intensity of purpose is needed to “open up the channels between the lower and the higher and establish the center of consciousness on the spiritual planes of manifestation” (Taimni, 323).

When that happens, no matter the circumstances of life, the higher mind is present, “brooding in the background.” Here spiritual knowledge or intuition comes as a direct perception of Truth, and these glimpses, free of illusions of the lower mind, fuel steadiness in meditation. Does this spiritual knowledge or intuition result solely from effort and devotion? Maybe, but knowing how our lower mind is structured—and deconstructed—helps our practice become more reliable and purposeful.

Untrancing

There is an old story, told in many forms. A meditation teacher asks a novice to fetch him a glass of water. To fetch the water, the novice decides to walk down a trail. He meets a woman, falls in love, and has children. To his horror, the family’s lives are threatened by a flood! But then the family is rescued! And he is saved from sure death! Suddenly, in the middle of this drama, the novice feels a tap on his shoulder. A voice asks, “Where is my water?” While only a few seconds have passed in reality, the mind has conjured up a lifetime of events.

Trances are, by their very nature, enticing, unconscious, and seductive. Personality is the most elusive trance of all. Meditation elucidates how wildly pervasive it is: can we sit even two minutes before wandering off to memories, plans, and imaginations?

Guided imagery substitutes another trance, with good intentions and often good results, because it encourages relaxation and possibility. A more skilled meditator will eschew trance by tracking the breath, being mindful of the moment, or focusing intently on a chosen symbol or concept. As meditators wrench their awareness back to task when their mind wanders away, they exercise a mental muscle to break an impending trance. This effort takes courage and skill but results in increased clarity, stillness, and freedom from drama.

Shifting Consciousness

When I met psychotherapist Connirae Andreas and learned her Wholeness Process, I recognized something that was integrated with, and complementary to, meditation. This process hones the skill to manage the mind and pierce the trance of personality. This process is not everything needed to reach that deeper level, but it is an elementary how-to for shifting consciousness.

As I learned this process, I realized that what arises in meditation is not just a thought or sensation: it is a door opening to a colorful, enticing story. Until we can open or close that door at will, we have no control. For example, I start to meditate and notice my left arm itches. The door opens, and I wonder about the hike we took: we were warned about poison oak; now I feel scared; I don’t know if it got on my dog . . . Two minutes later, if I am lucky, I return.

The understandings behind the Wholeness Process arose from Andreas’ health issues. As a psychologist, she now uses the process with others to manage many forms of pain and distress. Starting with a problem or feeling at hand, she helps the client locate where in the body it is located and its sensory qualities. For example, the client locates it in her belly and notes that it is jagged and impermeable. There is no storytelling or history; understanding the story is not the purpose, because the story is part of the entrenched pattern. Here the objective is to dismantle or disentangle the mental structures that hold distress in place, leaving a person free to experience the moment in isolation. When that happens, experientially it feels like profound relaxation.

In meditation, the distress can be anything that arises. After relaxing, the meditator notes what remains after conscious relaxation. There is no expectation of what will arise or remain: it can be an internal voice, memory, feeling, or image. The location can be anywhere, inside the body or outside, although I have found that what remains is frequently inside. Tracking this location can be subtle work, especially for those unaware of the effects of thoughts on the body. For example, I have a thought about planning my day: “I should call my friend.” If I investigate, I note a tension in my left shoulder accompanying these words. For thoughts to have much traction, there is often a corresponding reaction in the body. When I uncover this linkage, I move deeper into the process of unraveling thought because I begin to see the linkages and knots of my thoughts.

To summarize, the meditator notes what remains after relaxation and then finds the location of the experience. Staying with the sensation, the meditator notes its qualities: Is it hot or cold? Fuzzy or clear? Hard or pliable? Hefty or light? Dense? Opaque? Vibrating or still? Notice that no story or meaning is given, and for those of us locked to our stories and explanations, this is a puzzling inquiry! Yet what makes thoughts invasive are the meanings we bestow on them. What makes us open to awareness is an impartial curiosity about the structure of thought.

 Those familiar with Besant and Leadbeater’s work Thought-Forms will find that this type of inquiry jibes with their book’s abstract images of thoughts. Nevertheless, Andreas’ process lacks the interpretation after the fact: in fact, she adamantly avoids the symbolic interpretation offered by Besant and Leadbeater. Andreas’ approach helps relax the structure of thinking rather than ascribing meaning to thoughts.

Meditators talk about an “observer” of thoughts, or, in Andreas’ terminology, the “I who is aware.” Humans have the facility to mentally step out of their experience, gain distance, take perspective, and observe. We can debate the terminology, but ultimately this observation skill is a tool for awareness.

In the Wholeness Process, the “I who is aware” (the observer) is another manifestation of the thought complex. Consequently, the questions are the same: What is the location of “I who is aware”? What is the sensation? When I first asked myself these questions, I was startled to find a concrete answer.

Many find that the location of the “I who is aware” is not inside the body. For me, it is usually located above my head, and its characteristics are fuzziness, permeability, and darkness. It could be anywhere and have any qualities, but when meditators answer these questions, they let go of expectations about what it means.

The “I who is aware” is then “invited to open and relax . . . as the fullness of Awareness . . . There can be an allowing of this to happen in its own way” (Andreas, 87).  Then the original sensation is also invited to open and relax as part of Awareness. I have puzzled over these words, which turn out to be both powerful and beautiful in action. The words both facilitate trance and interrupt the existing trance. This dual action perhaps explains why I see this process as aiding direct perception. As our internal, unconscious structures dissolve upon exposure and kind direction, what is left is, for me, something more authentic.

Now return to the earlier example of a thought in meditation: “I need to call a friend.” I note the thought and feel it in my shoulder and arms. It is a gripping, dense sensation. The “I who is aware” floats above my head on the right, a fuzzy, grey, small orb. I invite the “I who is aware” to melt and relax into all awareness. I take the time to allow this to happen fully. I invite the sensation in my shoulders to relax and dissolve into awareness. They melt. I breathe, and for a blessed time, there is only awareness. I am clear and present.

Andreas suggests that over time, with practice, the “I who is aware” may fade, yielding to the “I who invites awareness,” This is another, subtler layer of thought. When we speak of a meditator who experiences the rise and fall of mental activity without being carried away into trance, we are talking about a presentation of experience without an automatic split in consciousness. In a sense, the old personality structure has, at least for the moment, dissolved. While this may be temporary, the skill to return to wholeness is being honed. It seems natural to expect that when our split in consciousness is healed, compassion arises. We are not a self in the world battling for ourselves; we are.

Whether or not you use this tool, the process highlights three aspects of understanding consciousness. First, the structure of our thoughts and personality is generally unconscious. We obsess about the content of our thoughts, but we don’t pay much attention to the structure. How do we create these thought forms? What is their form? Second, approaching an experience of direct perception deconstructs the unconscious structures of personality. It is not a mystery, at least at the initial levels, to disentangle our coding. Last, for students of yoga in particular, this work sheds light on the mechanics of avidya—how ignorance obscures the knowledge of our own true nature. With that knowledge, we are more likely to align our daily actions and thoughts with our spiritual ideals.


Sources

Andreas, Connirae. Coming to Wholeness. Boulder, Colo.: Real People Press, 2018.

Besant, Annie, and C.W. Leadbeater. Thought-Forms. Adyar, India: Theosophical Publishing House. 1999 [1925].

Hume, R. The Thirteen Principal Upanishads. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002.

Taimni, I.K. “Some Interesting Aspects of Meditation.” TheAmerican Theosophist, 58, no. 11 (Nov. 1970): 320–28: https://www.theosophical.org/files/resources/articles/InterestingAspectsMeditation.pdf.


Judith Sugg, PhD, is a counselor, psychology instructor, and yoga teacher. Her graduate work was in the psychology of yoga and the Samkhya, and she wrote the Study Guide for the Yoga Sutras for the Theosophical Society.


Suffering and Soul Making on the Mean Streets of Planet Earth

Printed in the  Spring 2022 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Grasse, Ray "Suffering and Soul Making on the Mean Streets of Planet Earth" Quest 110:2, pg 35-36

By Ray Grasse

 

Call the world, if you please, “the Vale of Soul Making,” then you will find out the use of the world.

—John Keats, in a letter to his brother, 1819                               

 

raygrasseI had an astrology client who had enjoyed a short-lived career on Broadway many years before, strictly doing bit parts as an extra in various theatrical productions—an office worker in one play, a soldier in another, a street thug in yet another. He never landed a major role in any of those but still valued that period of his life because (in his words) “even the smallest part in those spectacles was an amazing experience. Everyone wanted to get in on the action,” he said.

Hearing that, I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s not comparable to the situation we experience down here on earth, in terms of souls clamoring to land on this planet and get in on the action—no matter how small or mundane the part.

In fact, there may even be something of particular value in those seemingly small parts that’s quite different from the more extravagant lead roles. Let me explain what I mean.

On a number of occasions, I’ve watched a celebrity interviewed who talks about coming up from humble beginnings, whether that be growing up in poverty, working for years as a dishwasher or waiter, or having survived on the mean streets of Chicago or Detroit. Intriguingly, those celebrities generally seem quite proud of coming from those hard backgrounds and having paid their dues in a way someone raised with a silver spoon in their mouth wouldn’t have experienced.

In some cases, it later comes out that the person exaggerated or even lied about that early “hardship”: in reality they hailed from a perfectly middle-class background. They just wanted everyone to think they rose up from those lowly quarters.

Think about that for a moment.

Why would anyone do that—that is, lie about how bad they had it and how much suffering they endured?

My guess is it’s because there’s a certain belief that dealing with hard circumstances and surviving early struggles builds character or gives one a certain toughness or depth which those who grew up in easier circumstances might not share.

It reminds me of the time as a kid when I watched two older gentlemen discussing their battlefield experiences back in World War II. It was almost as though they were trying to outdo each other with the hardships they endured and were practically bragging about the suffering they’d experienced. (“Yeah, but you should have seen what I went through at the Battle of the Bulge!”)

I find that fascinating. We clearly dislike suffering and try to avoid it at all costs. Yet once we’ve gone through it, we’ll sometimes look back on it with a certain pride at having survived it, wearing it almost like a badge of honor. Like those veterans I overheard as a kid, we might even brag about it when comparing notes with others, with an attitude of one-upmanship: “You think that was bad? You should see what I had to deal with!”

I think this has something to tell us about the role and value of earthly existence itself, in terms of the role it plays in our spiritual evolution.

I’ve sometimes conjured up the image of two angels sitting on a cloud somewhere high up on some astral plane, their harps alongside them. They’re swapping stories about their past sojourns down here on planet earth, comparing notes about what they went through and endured here in these nether regions.

One angel says to the other, “Boy, in my last lifetime I was sick all the time, poverty-stricken and completely deaf to boot, and in the life before that one my parents and I were refugees in a war-torn country. You can’t imagine the hardships we endured.”

The other angel says, “Oh, don’t get me started! I was sold into slavery in my last lifetime and beaten up daily by my master; and a few lifetimes before that one, I was trapped in a house fire during my childhood and suffered third-degree burns all over my body, which plagued me my entire life. So shut your mouth!” They argue back and forth like that, each trying to outdo the other over what they did or didn’t endure during their physical incarnations.

Then another angel comes along, one who has never descended down into an earthly body and thus never experienced either the joys or sorrows of living down here in this pit of physicality. This neophyte angel is a very pure soul, a proverbial babe in the woods (or clouds, as the case may be) but also lacking in a certain awareness, and in turn a certain depth. This angel never had to “leave the garden,” as it were.

The two veteran angels look at each other and roll their eyes over this innocent, who they know is relatively inexperienced and has no idea of what existence is really about, not in its fullness. They also know that there’s something substantially different about their own souls as a result of having spent those thousands or perhaps millions of years down here on earth, a quality not just of depth and complexity but also one of compassion and empathy, which can only come from having suffered and dealt with great struggle and resistance. That’s because the soul grows its spiritual muscles by pushing up against obstacles, against resistance, and contending with “friction.”

That’s one of the subtle messages of the ancient “Hymn of the Pearl.” A passage from the apocryphal Acts of Thomas, it tells the tale of a boy, the “son of the king of kings,” who is sent down into Egypt to retrieve a pearl from a mysterious serpent. While on his mission, he is seduced by Egypt and its ways, and consequently forgets his home country and family. The king sends him a letter to remind him of his past and his royal heritage, at which point he remembers his mission, retrieves the pearl, and returns home.

Symbolically, “Egypt” in that tale signifies worldly, mortal existence itself, in which we can likewise easily become lost—and will forever remain lost until we receive that message from our higher Self reminding us to complete our mission and return home again. Thus our sojourn in this realm is not a waste of time, nor is it meaningless; there is a treasure to be gained from enduring this mortal existence, which is symbolized by the pearl.

That choice of objects by the author (as opposed to a treasure chest or crystal statue, say) is significant, when you consider that a pearl’s beauty arises from the interaction of a rough irritant (like a grain of sand) with the oyster it’s found its way into. In a similar way, one’s soul is in some sense polished as a result of its sojourn through this rough world. That’s not to say that one seeks out suffering, because even the mystics say the wisest option is to learn without it, if at all possible. But as the Buddha himself pointed out, that’s not always possible: suffering is, to some extent, part and parcel of mortal existence, with its rounds of life and death, beginnings and endings.

Let me toss one more idea into the mix to help round out this picture a little more.

One summer between freshman and sophomore year of college, I worked a summer job to earn some money for a trip through Europe, a kind of pilgrimage where I’d visit as many of the major art museums in Europe as I could within a four-week period. I didn’t have much money, so I purchased a Eurail pass, slept on the trains at night, and went from city to city, a new one each day, to study the great masters up close. The chief focal points of my study were artists like Leonardo, Velázquez, Ingres, Vermeer, Caravaggio, Van Gogh, and Rembrandt, although there were many more I found inspiring.

When I got to the great Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, I had an interesting thought while standing before Rembrandt’s large canvas, commonly called The Night Watch, completed in 1642. The work is essentially a military group portrait painted in Rembrandt’s inimitable style. In a way that almost prefigured the later Impressionists, the Dutch master was notable for his depiction of figures and forms with richly textured swabs of color along with atmospheric plays of light and dark.

When I stood up close to the painting to examine it in detail, I saw that some of those splotches of brown or black paint were nothing particularly beautiful when seen up close—taken strictly by themselves, they could even be considered somewhat ugly. But when you stood further back, all of those splotches and dabs of paint, both light and dark, colorful or drab, became part of a larger tapestry, and the result was majestic.

Some time later, I thought: if we indeed experience thousands or perhaps even millions of lifetimes over the course of eons, each lifetime might be like one of those little dabs of paint on Rembrandt’s large canvas. A given lifetime might seem dreary or even painful as experienced up close and in isolation, but might play an integral role within the larger canvas of spiritual evolution—and that would become clear if one stood back far enough. I could imagine that even a lifetime spent wasting away in a medieval dungeon could play as important a role in that evolutionary arc as any dab of black or brown paint did in Rembrandt’s painting, complementing the rich gold and white highlights right alongside it.

So I do believe there is something profoundly important about surviving the mean streets of planet earth. It is often a life filled with disappointments and seemingly endless struggles, right alongside great beauties and awe-inspiring wonders; but whatever you may think about it, it certainly doesn’t seem meaningless.

At least not if you stand back far enough.

Ray Grasse worked on the editorial staff of the Theosophical Society in America during the 1990s. He is the author of several books, including The Waking Dream: Unlocking the Symbolic Language of Our Lives (Quest, 1996). This essay has been excerpted from his forthcoming book When the Stars Align: Reflections on Astrology, Life, Death, and Other Mysteries (Inner Eye, 2022). His website is www.raygrasse.com.


From Duality to Polarity in the Works of Jean Gebser

Printed in the  Spring 2022 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Hoepfl-Wellenhofer, Susanne "From Duality to Polarity in the Works of Jean Gebser" Quest 110:2, pg 32-34

 

By Susanne Hoepfl-Wellenhofer

Susanne Hoepfl Wellenhofer 1The words duality and polarity are often used interchangeably, but discerning between these two concepts is extremely important in the metaphysical sense. Knowing the difference enables us to avoid misunderstandings and half-truths and clearly align our consciousness. This became clear to me when I discovered the writings of Jean Gebser (1905–73), a German-Swiss poet, cultural philosopher, historian, and intellectual mystic. Reading Gebser’s work is no easy task, and it took me many years to study all his books and lectures. But I was so intrigued by his concept of integral consciousness that I stuck with it.

Gebser concluded that human consciousness has transitioned through four levels: the “archaic,” the “magical,” the “mythical,” and the “mental-rational,” and is now transitioning towards the “integral” level of consciousness (Gebser, Ursprung, 83–164; Fuhr and Hellbusch, 22–35). He pointed out that this level must go past the rationalistic unambiguity and the dualistic either-or dichotomy of the mental-rational consciousness and into a both-and way of thinking (Gebser, Verfall, 39).

Gebser calls these transitions “mutations” and believed that they involve structural changes in both the mind and the body. He explained his thesis in his work, Ursprung und Gegenwart, which was published in various editions from 1949 to 1953 and translated into English as The Ever-Present Origin

The archaic structure is almost completely instinctual, zero-dimensional, nonperspectival, and there is a total absence of differentiation or sense of separation. Humans and the world are identical.

The magical structure marks the first step toward a waking human consciousness. It is one-dimensional and egoless, a preperspectival state of timelessness and spacelessness. The magical man was part of his environment and felt secure only within his group.  Its deficient form results in serfdom and collective trance (Gebser, Ursprung, 87–106; Fuhr and Hellbusch, 22–35).

In the mythical structure the soul experiences something as an other and lives in a two-dimensional polarity. It unfolds in symbols rather than in calculation. Its deficient form inflates symbolism and uses tales in an addictive way (Gebser, Ursprung, 106–25; Fuhr and Hellbusch, 22–35).

The domain of the mental-rational phase of consciousness is the thinking mind. The world is seen as an object. It is three-dimensional, and cognition operates on the principle of duality. The deficient form of this structure is a dissociation from the unity of experiencing and thinking and an overemphasis on logic. (Gebser, Ursrpung, 125–64; Fuhr and Hellbusch, 22–35).

The characteristic of the integral structure, which Gebser also called the aperspectival structure of consciousness, is a transparent lucidity capable of seeing through all dimensionalities and time forms (Gebser, Ursrpung, 165–72). In Jeremy Johnson’s words, “space is no longer empty of value or opaque as it is in the perspectival world but full and transparent. Integrality, then, is the fully expressed and innate wholeness of all the mutations” and “sees through to the spiritual reality that substantiates all worlds and all time forms: the ever-present reality of origin” (Johnson, 130). For the integral level of consciousness to arrive, we must discover what it means to be space-free and time-free, which, for Gebser, is learning to be ego-free.

For Theosophists who have read about the stages of human evolution in H.P. Blavatsky’s The Secret Doctrine and the timelines for the different root-races, it might be interesting to know that Gebser is deliberately vague about those time periods.  Ken Wilber, an integral theorist who acknowledged Gebser as an important source for his model, estimates that the archaic level of consciousness began 3 to 6 million years ago and lasted to around 200,000 years ago (Feuerstein, 58). The mutation of the magical consciousness coincided with the appearance of Homo erectus. This human species was the first to use fire (Feuerstein, 75). Feuerstein argues that the early, mythical structure could be placed around 20,000 to 12,000 BC (Feuerstein, 76). The entire period from around 10,000 BC to 500 BC, which may be the time of transition from the mythical to the mental-rational consciousness, was marked by tremendous upheavals (Feuerstein, 95).

 In his book Verfall und Teilhabe (“Decline and Participation,” which has not been published in English), Gebser emphasized that reaching the integral structure of consciousness required understanding the difference between duality and polarity.  He criticized the belief that these terms are interchangeable and supported his opinion with quantum theory and discoveries by Max Planck, Albert Einstein, Ernest Rutherford, Niels Bohr, Werner Heisenberg, and others. He said that we must overcome Aristotelian determinism and its dualistic thinking—the belief that a given entity must be one thing or another (Alternativdenken)—the three-dimensional geometry of Euclid, the atomic theory of Democritus, and the heliocentric view of the universe, pioneered by Aristarchus of Samos in the third century BC. We must also overcome the belief that duality entails a negative and a positive that conflict with each other. Seeing polarity as complementary forces, in which the negative and positive attract each other and work together to create balance, will help us make our transition into the integral structure of consciousness (Gebser, Verfall, 39).

Gebser supplies specific examples for the transition from the mental-rational structure of consciousness to the integral one, such as: “Haste is replaced by silence and the capacity for silence”; “goal-oriented, purposive thoughts are replaced by unintentionalness” (Absichtslosigkeit); the pursuit of power is replaced by the genuine capacity for love; quantitative idle motion (Leerlauf) is replaced by the qualitative spiritual process. Prejudice is replaced by the renunciation of value judgments, manipulation is replaced by the patient acceptance of providential powers, action is replaced by poise/attitude (Haltung), and Homo faber, the human being as artificer, is replaced by Homo integer, the integrated human (Gebser, Verfall, 62; Feuerstein, 170).

In another lecture, Gebser mentions that he had received statements from young people who “distinguish themselves with a fundamentally new attitude. Compared to the previous deficient mental rationality, it expresses integral consciousness, although they do not harbor any resentment” toward the earlier mode (Gebser, Verfall, 59). He writes that these are “more self-critical; they know more about their weaknesses, which they openly admit and are working to overcome, and they make demands on themselves and not on the environment.” He states further that they are “open, in a completely unsentimental way, tolerant, capable of loving, not arrogant, silent, and shielded from the inside against the lure of money, property, power, fame, and no longer are exposed to the flight into the means [of escapism], the lie, the split, and mere sexuality” (Gebser, Verfall, 60).

The last book I read by Gebser was his first: Rilke and Spain, a short monograph on the Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. In this book, Gebser shows that he grasped that the troubled times he lived in contained the embryonic beginning of the integral consciousness. We encounter Gebser’s first tentative explorations of this theme in this book (Feuerstein, 128). In discussing Rilke, Gebser writes: 

The notion of objects has lost its significance, together with perspectivity, achieved using adverbs by which objects were meant to be deepened or interpreted according to the viewpoint of the observer. What is gaining importance now is the spiritual light that prevails between objects—the tension and relation between them. (Gebser, Rilke, 41–42; Feuerstein, 128)

Gebser is pointing toward a mode of consciousness that is no longer based on perspective, as it is in the mental-rational structure. Gebser describes how Rilke’s great existential crisis eventually led him to come to terms with the phenomenon of death, leading him toward a nondualistic type of thought:

The Yes to life becomes at the same time a Yes to death. More than that, it is in two at the same time because it has erased the boundaries: It is a single space, a single world, which at every moment encompasses the two phases of development, because time, the organic component, has become the fourth dimension. (Gebser, Rilke, 46; Feuerstein, 128–29) 

Gebser emphasizes that the integral level of consciousness, which in his opinion has been constellating since the turn of the twentieth century, depends on each individual person for its full emergence. All must do the work of self-transcendence, which, as he admits, is the most difficult of all human tasks.

All work, the genuine work which we must achieve, is that which is most difficult and painful: the work on ourselves. If we do not freely take upon ourselves this preacceptance of the pain and torment, they will otherwise be visited upon us in individual and universal collapse. (Gebser, Ursprung, 676)

Studying Gebser and trying to get a deeper understanding of his thought eventually led me to Theosophy and helped me understand the difference between duality and polarity on a spiritual level. In The Secret Doctrine, Blavatsky explained that the manifested universe “is pervaded by duality, which is, as it were, the very essence of its existence as ‘manifestation.’” She added that the opposite poles of subject and object, and spirit and matter, are but aspects of the One Unity, in which they are synthesized. She went on to observe that “evil” merely denotes the polarity of matter and spirit, a struggle for life between the two manifested principles in space and time. But these principles are ultimately one, being rooted in the Absolute (Blavatsky, 1:15–16).

In simpler terms, duality implies separation, meaning that the two are separated. But polarity tells us that they are two poles of the same thing. Thus we are talking about polarity within unity.  That is the secret: understanding that we are all one with the Absolute and thus with all else.

It is not enough to merely understand the difference between polarity and duality. We must live this polarity within unity, think it, breathe it. That takes tremendous effort, and the path to integrating it into everyday life is different for everyone. As Pablo Sender explains in Evolution of the Higher Consciousness, in order to “stabilize the perception of unity,” we must gradually integrate it into daily life (Sender, 171). The concrete suggestions in Sender’s book have helped me to work on this goal daily. They have helped me understand that polarity is the dyad of equal, mutually complementary poles, based on the natural balance of the divine order.


Sources

Blavatsky, H.P. The Secret Doctrine. Two volumes. Wheaton: Quest, 1993.

Feuerstein, Georg. Structures of Consciousness: The Genius of Jean Gebser. Santa Rosa, Calif.: Integral Publishing, 1987.

Fuhr, Reinhard, and Hellbusch, Kai. “Jean Gebser: Das integrale Bewusstsein: English Summary of Jean Gebser, ‘The Integral Consciousness.’” Integral Review 1 (June 2005): 22–34: https://integral-review.org/issues/issue_1_jun_2005_full_issue.pdf.

Gebser, Jean. Rilke und Spanien [“Rilke and Spain”]. In Abendländische Wandlung [“Western Change”]. In Gebser, Gesamtausgabe [“Complete Works”], volume 1. 3d ed. Schaffhausen, Germany: Novalis Verlag, 2003.

———. Ursprung und Gegenwart [“The Ever-Present Origin”]. In Gebser, Gesamtausgabe, 3d ed., volumes 2 and 3.

———. Verfall und Teilhabe [“Decline and Participation”]. In Vorlesungen und Reden zu “Ursprung und Gegenwart [“Lectures and Discourses on ‘The Ever-Present Origin’”]. In Gebser, Gesamtausgabe, volume 5:2. 2d ed., 1999.

Johnson, Jeremy. Seeing through the World: Jean Gebser and Integral Consciousness. Seattle, Wash.: Revelore, 2019.

Sender, Pablo. Evolution of the Higher Consciousness. Ojai, Calif.: Fohat, 2018.



Susanne Hoepfl-Wellenhofer was born in Austria and has been living and working in the U.S. since 1986. She is currently the president of the D.C. Lodge, contributes to the Theosophical Wiki and the Online School of Theosophy, and mentors prisoners.  She retired from the German department of the George Washington University in 2019. She still translates from German to English and teaches yoga.

 


Subcategories