Quest Magazine

By Robert D. Trice

Originally printed in the MAY - JUNE 2007 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Trice, Robert D. "Ethics and Responsibility" Quest  95.3 (MAY-JUNE 2007): 106-107.

Main Entry: ethic
Pronunciation: e-thik
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ethik, from Middle French ethique, from Latin ethice, from Greek ethike , from ethikos ,
Date: Fourteenth century

1 plural but singular or plural in construction: the discipline dealing with what is good and bad and with moral duty and obligation

2 a: a set of moral principles: a theory or system of moral values ~the present day materialistic ethic ~  ~an old fashion work ethic~ — often used in plural but sing. or plural in constr. ~an elaborate  ethics ~  ~Christian ethics~
  b: plural but singular or plural in construction: the principles of conduct governing an individual or a group ~professional ethics~
   c: a guiding philosophy
   d: a consciousness of moral importance ~forge a conservation ethic ~

3 plural: a set of moral issues or aspects (as rightness) ~debated the ethics  of human cloning~  Merriam-Webster

A sense of responsibility is the first indication of the soul. When we are young, the sense of responsibility expresses itself in the outer world: family, career, education, and friends mark out our circle of awareness and influence. At about seven years old, and as we grow older, a review takes place, impressed by the soul. Through the lens of the soul, we see our lives weighed against the ethics of the soul. Pythagoras understood this when he taught his students to review the day in reverse—by asking themselves "What have I done wrong today? What could I have done better today?"—and then visualizing the opposite of what was done wrong. This produces tension. Tension produces friction and friction creates fire which burns the dross within. We will always be given another chance, another opportunity, to correct ourselves and our ethics, to become "in sync" with the soul eventually. Remember this takes time, many lives, and patience. "Wherefore I say unto you, All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy [against] the [Holy] Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men" (Matthew 12:31).

Many great men and women have come to us to give us the rules and framework for living an upright, ethical, and responsible life. They assumed great responsibility and made great sacrifices, sometimes to the point of death, in order to bring the divine message from the higher planes.

The Buddha gave us the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path:

Cease identifying with material things or desires.
Gain a proper sense of values.
Cease regarding possessions or even earthly existence as of major importance.

Follow the noble Eightfold Path of right relations, which begins with right values and ends with right happiness.

Patanjali, the author of the Yoga Sutras, is another example. He was a compiler of sacred teachings who wrote about the dangers of avarice. This avarice is a covetousness, or in reality, envy of characteristics and traits that you have not earned or worked for. Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet: "Assume a virtue, if you have it not."

Moses brought us the Ten Commandments. Regardless of its mired history (suspected by HPB to be from India), the Ten Commandments offer a basic framework of ethics that holds good to this very day. Later, Aristotle wrote on ethics, calling his work, Nicomachean Ethics, after his son Nicomachus, who probably edited it. He took Plato's view that all that is done by anyone is for the good ultimately.The Master Jesus gave us the Lord's Prayer:

Our Father who art in heaven,
Hallowed Be Thy Name.
Thy Kingdom come.
Thy Will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our sins,
As we forgive those who sin against us.
Lead us not into temptation;
But deliver us from evil.

Prayer, selfless prayer, always works. Remember always that we are evolving and it takes time to be those ethics. Most of us are a mixture of good and bad and as such, we must forgive our shortcomings and continue to strive for the ethics that we already have (yes, already have). Our conscience always lets us know if, we should not have done something. This is the soul, dear brothers and sisters: silent but firm.

The great nations that have come and gone have also had as their foundation systems of ethics instilled by those who led them in their earliest days. The legend of King Arthur and Camelot is a good example of high aspiration for a new world based on ethics and responsibility.

We have a responsibility not to be a burden to the Masters that we serve. We can honor this responsibility by staying out of places and planes which are beyond the protection of ethical, common sense, and responsible behavior. They should be avoided at all cost, as St. Paul cautions us, "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high [places]" (Ephesians 6:12). The phrase "high places" does not refer to altitude. The path is harrowing; and full of traps. Selfishness motivates errors. Always check your motive for it must be pure. We can always ask ourselves. "Is what I am doing serving the soul and humanity? Does what I am doing permit the Christ principle to enter into my life and therefore radiate to others?"

There is one more truth that should be imparted: the worst enemy that a Master has comes not from the forces of darkness, but from within his own camp. Innocent errors, personality problems, low desires (which should have been left behind long ago), and separatism all affect the group aura. When someone falls, a "hole" appears. This hole is taken advantage of by those who wish to see this happen and evil pours in. It takes much time, energy, and prayer to close up such a hole. Ethics and right responsibility prevents this from happening. It is important to foster fearlessness. Without fearlessness, paranoia and paralysis ensues. Fearlessness is the rock which all should seek.

In The Voice of Silence, HPB gives one of the most succinct descriptions of the path and its ethical requirements:

There is but one road to the Path; at its very end alone the "Voice of the Silence" can be heard. The ladder by which the candidate ascends is formed of rungs of suffering and pain; these can be silenced only by the voice of virtue. Woe, then, to thee, Disciple, if there is one single vice thou hast not left behind. For then the ladder will give way and overthrow thee; its foot rests in the deep mire of thy sins and failings, and ere thou canst attempt to cross this wide abyss of matter thou hast to lave thy feet in Waters of Renunciation. Beware lest thou should'st set a foot still soiled upon the ladder's lowest rung. Woe unto him who dares pollute one rung with miry feet. The foul and viscous mud will dry, become tenacious, then glue his feet unto the spot, and like a bird caught in the wily fowler's lime, he will be stayed from further progress. His vices will take shape and drag him down. His sins will raise their voices like as the jackal's laugh and sob after the sun goes down; his thoughts become an army, and bear him off a captive slave. (Stanza 69)

by Tracey Aysson

Originally printed in the MAY-JUNE 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Aysson, Tracey. "One Woman's Journey Around Mount Kalish." Quest  96.3 (MAY-JUNE 2008):87-91.

RISING MAGNIFICENTLY in the wilderness of Western Tibet, Mount Kailash is one of three sacred mountains in Tibet. Its shape is unmistakable: a symmetrical cone marked with striations and graced with perpetual snows. Four rivers emanate from it, nourishing the entire region. Mount Kailash is the center of the spiritual universe. It is sacred to four religions: Buddhism, Hinduism, Ben, and Jainism. For Hindus, it is the home of Shiva. All of these statements are true of this magnificent mountain, but the truest is what my teacher said to me before I left to do prostrations around Mt. Kailash: "The center of the spiritual universe already exists in your human heart. Meet your mirror."

In 2005, I was vacationing with dear friends, which afforded me a whole week of time to rest, read, and practice Tibetan Buddhism. It was perhaps the first morning I was there when, during practice, I felt an invitation to return to Tibet and a calling to do prostrations around Mt. Kailash. I was not aware that circumambulating Mt. Kailash is called khora, and that a very small number of pilgrims will do khora with prostrations. It was from within my heart that there arose a fierce longing and devotion to go to Kailash, to lie on the land of Tibet with my heart open wide.

I had the advantage of going to Tibet with no base of experience to bias me. I am not an outdoorswoman, had no knowledge of the terrain of Tibet, or experience in high altitudes. I am not a Buddhist, never heard of doing prostrations around Mt. Kailash until the invitation came to me, and did not think much about the Chinese occupation. Friends kept asking if I was scared and advised me to be careful. It did not occur to me that my journey was dangerous. None of this cluttered my simple preparations. I began to exercise to develop more physical stamina and did more prostrations in my daily practice, until I was able to prostrate for several hours a few days in a row. To protect their bodies from the constant contact with the ground, Tibetans wear heavy leather aprons and a kind of wooden clog on their hands. A friend made me the leather apron and I designed the hand clogs. I had my eyes checked for exposure to the sun at high altitudes; acquired medication for altitude sickness, tetanus, Hepatitis A, and a course of antibiotics; along with over-the-counter cold and diarrhea medicines. I bought duffel bags, a plane ticket, wired money to my travel agent, got travelers checks and cash, and off I went.

Mt. Kailash is in Western Tibet, which is wilderness. Darchen is a small town at the base of the mountain, with guesthouses, supplies, horses, and yaks. A few kilometers down the road is Tarboche, famous for an enormous flagpole that is the site of Tibetan festivals each year. Lines of prayer flags stream down from the flagpole, making it a joyful, colorful, highly visible landmark. Between Darchen and Tarboche there is a road for vehicles, and parallel to this road, but some distance away, is the khora path for pilgrims. Beyond Tarboche there is only the narrow khora path. There are three monasteries as one circumambulates Mt. Kailash. Chuku Monastery is just outside Tarboche. As one finishes the northern climb around Mt. Kailash, before turning east towards the highest pass, there is Drira Phuk Monastery. And as one is approaching Darchen, having come nearly all the way around the mountain, there is Zutrul Phuk Monastery, where Milarepa stayed. History tells us that Gotshangpa was the first to mark the trail around Kailash. The story goes that whenever he came to a point where he was unsure, dakinis or spiritual beings would appear and point out the path to follow. It is at these points that the monasteries were built. As I prostrated through the wilderness, these monasteries were the few landmarks letting me know where I was on the circuit around Mt. Kailash.

The land of Tibet is amazing in and of itself. I crossed the border from Nepal, and was perhaps only a few miles into Tibet, when tears began running down my face. The power emanating from the land was palpable. Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava, came from India in the eighth century bringing Buddhism to Tibet. There are stories of how he tamed the land, containing the natural and demonic forces within the mountains. As we drove into Tibet, I understood what he had done as I could still feel the forces there. I wrote in my journal, "If I were the Chinese, I'd get out of here while I still could. The power in this land is unbelievable."

The wilderness of Western Tibet is arduous in every way. Generally, I was at an elevation of 14,500 feet. The highest point of the khora path around Kailash is Drolma La Pass at an altitude of 18,500 feet. I am blessed with good health that is sturdy and resilient, but was surprised at the physical impact of being at these altitudes. For the first week, driving toward Kailash, I suffered from altitude sickness and spent an entire eight-hour day throwing up out of the window of the Land Cruiser as we lurched across rugged terrain. Finally, I adjusted to the 14,500 foot altitude, became less nauseated, got over my headache, and could eat again.

The first day of khora is an article in itself. My intention was simply to get past the hurdle of beginning to do something I did not know how to do, in a land that was completely strange and new to me. I did not realize that I was beginning khora at Tarboche, close to Darchen, where people were returning for supplies or to leave the area. (Two of my four-guide team stayed in Darchen, while the other two guides accompanied me, made camp, and watched me like hawks. I think they were not sure that my body would hold up.) There would be many days when I saw very few people and spent the day alone in the spacious silence of this magnificent land. But on a brilliant Tibetan day, blazing with sunshine, I began my journey north on the khora trail, and met many people who were curious about this Westerner doing prostrations, curious about my leather apron and clogs. I heard no English spoken that day and I spoke no Tibetan, so learned the art of speaking through gesture and mime, a sign language of sorts. I was overwhelmed with everything that day; beginning with all the people who wanted to stop and talk with me, the heat of the sun, how to carry my water bottle while prostrating, getting my skirt to stop catching on the heel of my boot, how I would know when to stop, where the camp would be pitched for the night, and how I would find it.

What drew me to my pilgrimage most was a spiritual passion. It is said that doing khora around Mt. Kailash will dissolve a year of karma. For me, it dissolved my life. On the first day of khora, I wrote in my journal:

Tossing and turning for an hour, sorting things through in my thoughts. I am so afraid. I am so afraid to set my foot on Mt. Kailash. . . . It's not going around the mountain. I think I can do that if I choose to. It's that if I go around the Mountain, it never stops. There's no escape from all this Love. There's no escape, and that's what terrifies me . . . Mother/Father Kailash, receive me, teach me in the way I need to be taught. Despite my ignorance, despite my blindness, I have come to you. I have come to receive your blessing and your teaching and your empowerment. I have come to love you. I have come to love me.

The beauty of Tibet's wilderness is still pure. The ground is rocky, pervasively strewn with chunks of jagged rock. At times, I prostrated across boulder fields, laying my body across boulders that spilled across the landscape. At other times, the khora trail ran along the edge of rivers dropping off into embankments ending in white water. Sometimes, the khora trail was at an angle as it curved around the mountain, and I would literally grab onto the land as I came down into the prostration, so that I did not slide or roll off the trail into the river below.

The wildlife of Tibet was very much a part of my experience. Particularly up the west side of Kailash, the eagles soared over the mountains, at times gliding down to fish the rivers. The rivers moved from pristine pools of blue water to roaring stretches of white water. Yaks stood in the rivers, cooling themselves or crossing through to a new pasture. Vultures circled above. My guide explained to me that there are two kinds of vultures in Tibet, those that eat bones, and those that eat meat. He pointed out the bone-eating kind which carry the bones to a great height, drop them to break them open, and then descend to have their meal.

I worried about the reception I would receive from the people. After all, I am a Westerner, and I knew enough to understand that I was undertaking a ritual that is sacred and specific to the Tibetan people. I did not know if they would experience me as an intruder or a pilgrim. I had no need for worry. The reception I received from the Tibetan people, day after day, was overwhelming to me. Every day people gave me food or money. Encouragement was shown by a hearty thumbs-up. One day I heard someone calling from across the river, and I looked up to see a young yak herder on his return journey down the valley calling to me with a vigorous thumbs-up. Each day, I met a man who I decided must have been a Ben lama. Ben is the original religion of Tibet. We would smile in greeting as we had no language in common. He would stop and give me food of some kind, sometimes evaluating my jacket for sufficient warmth at the higher elevations. At one point, while I was trying to navigate my way up a steep mountainside covered with boulders that made it impossible to find a path, he did his best to point out possible routes I might take. He was always very kind and I wondered if his practice was to walk khora everyday, an amazing practice since the circuit is thirty-four miles around.

Such examples of kindness toward me are an endless. However, the ones that touched me most deeply were the Tibetans who were clearly so very poor but who insisted on giving me what I am sure was their dinner. One day as I prostrated up a particularly steep mountainside, I saw a young man tracing the Tibetan letters of a mantra on a boulder and then chiseling them into the rock, making a mani stone. As I headed toward my camp and guides that evening, he was sitting among the boulders, also at the end of his day. He had a small campfire, and through sign language, he invited me to a warm meal. I indicated my camp a little ways ahead. But I was touched at his generous invitation and at his devotion to turning the boulders into prayers.
On Day 4, I wrote:

I've been home [at camp] for an hour. My feet are tucked into my sleeping bag. I've just encouraged myself to get up and dressed, to put my soaking skirt, hat, and wet jacket in various places where they might dry. I prostrated for five hours. When I stopped, I could hardly stand with tiredness and belly pain. . . . It's hard. Spiritual admission is not cheap. I still don't know where I am, or what I am capable of. . . . I injured myself today. This morning, I came down on a rock which connected with my last left rib. Not too bad. . . . Mostly the coughing bothers it.

Although everyday was the same, I never got in a rhythm. I never felt stronger, oriented, confident, or like I "had gotten it down." I never got better at breathing the scarce air nor was I less tired. Every day was hard, physically hard, and it never got easier. Since I did not know how to do this, I simply moved at a pace that respected myself and my body. I never pushed or judged. Although there were days that my issues walked with me, that depression, discouragement, and despair were available to me, I never chose to go there. There was only the doing of each prostration.
On day 13, I wrote:

Though Khora is not a goal, it is an experience, perhaps that is why it never becomes easier. It is always a teacher. It is never about the lesson, which could be mastered, but about the teacher, which is always present in the new moment. The Khora is a teacher, not a goal. I'm beginning to not know where this Khora is taking me. That's a good sign.

The climb to Drolma La Pass deserves mention. Although I had acclimated to an elevation of 14,500 feet, as I began the climb to Drolma La Pass which rises to 18,500 feet, altitude sickness arose again. My main guide showed up the next day with a special Chinese medicine for altitude sickness. I do not know how he knew, although in retrospect, I realize that my four-man team had their own ways of communicating. Sleep was frequently disrupted due to nightmares as my mind brought forth issues that needed purification. Often, I was simply awake every two hours, although I did not know why. I was always exhausted. Yet, I was so constantly joyful at the incredible opportunity to circumambulate the mountain that the sickness was unimportant.

One day, my guide pointed to some pilgrims, a few on horseback, who were passing through our camp area. He explained it was a party of Koreans from India who had turned back from Drolma La because they could not tolerate the cold. Later, my guide told me that five people had died on Dromla La that year, and more had died the previous year, because of the altitude and temperatures. One day over lunch, I asked him how old he was. He smiled and said, "Twenty-eight. And you are fifty-six." That is all he said, but the implication was clear: why would a fifty-six year-old, middle class, non-athlete from a low altitude terrain who did not even like camping choose to do this? And would she be able? He made an unspoken point.

The path that begins the ascent to Drolma La is about a thousand feet straight up a steep hillside, disappearing at the top. Prostrating up that path, I had the thought that if I could just get to the top of it, I would see Drolma La, the prayer flags, and Milarepa's great stone. When I did finally get to the top of that steep path, it flattened out into a very small area, like the landing on a staircase, and I could see that it was just the first leg of the climb. I took a breath and kept going. Many, many such climbs later, I finally saw the many prayer flags that mark the Pass. Before it, lay a sea of boulders. The closer I got to the Pass, the more I was prostrating on boulders, laying across them as I headed up, always up, toward the mass of prayer flags marking that sacred Pass.

The day I headed out across the last field of huge boulders toward the Pass is the only day that my guide stayed with me the whole day. It is dangerous ground. The path snaked across, between, and around the boulders, and I often lost sight of it. Although I rarely saw him, he would appear just as I was about to lose the path and head off in some circuitous direction. He was tactfully unerring.

When I reached Drolma La, we sprayed and drank Cokes in celebration. In the fog, snow, and cold, I stood there touching Milarepa's rock, hanging prayer flags and katas for my loved ones at home and my newly loved ones in Tibet, while drinking in the pleasure of this sacred site. The Pass itself is a very short space from edge to edge. I prostrated across it and began a precipitous descent downward, almost immediately seeing Shiva's sacred lakes as I rounded a corner on the narrow, rocky path.

As I came through Darchen, a man with a somewhat ragged child standing just behind him was watching me. He disappeared then reappeared and greeted me with a short bow, which I returned saying "Namaste." He then reached behind and drew out one child who was holding a cellophane bag of noodles and a second child with another package of noodles. I am sure they were offering me the family's dinner for two nights.

I met the Ben lama again when was I was nearing the end of khora. I did not know I was near the end because the wilderness has no markers in it. I knew Tarboche was ahead, but did not know how far. That particular day I was quite ill. I prostrated most of the day continuing around the edges of wash-outs and gulches, when the lama appeared from around the edge of one gulch. He looked so surprised to see me still doing khora. He and I stopped to greet each other. He held my hands and took off my clogs. He seemed concerned at how dirty my hands were and brushed them tenderly. He then looked at me with extraordinary kindness, pointed over his shoulder and said, "Tarboche." It was clear to me that he was offering me encouragement, telling me that although I could not see the end of my journey, I was close, that Tarboche was within reach.

I did finish khora with prostrations. It took me twenty-eight days. I will always remember the last prostration when I finally reached where I had begun at Tarboche. It was unbelievable to me that khora was ending, that there was not another prostration to do. It was all I wanted to do for the rest of my life's time, to stay at Kailash, prostrate, and pray. But there came a time when the circle was closed and my task was to move forward, not around.

I must speak of the Void. A great blessing of khora with prostrations was the ignorance with which I approached my task. I sought advice from more experienced friends, from Rinpoches who knew the terrain and tradition. But no one could tell me how long to prostrate for each day; or when the hailstorm was too heavy or too cold to prostrate in; or how hot or cold it would be that day as I left for the day's prostrations. What did I know of what was reasonable in such conditions? All I had was myself.

The khora path looks the same everywhere. Sometimes it is going up a mountainside, sometimes down, sometimes along or through a river. But none of those things ever told me where I was. After six hours of prostrating, I had no idea if I had gone five hundred yards or a kilometer. I would prostrate for hours and then walk back for half an hour to the camp and my guides, wondering if I had gotten anywhere at all. I did not know if my body would hold up. There was nothing to encourage myself, nothing to gauge progress, and really, this is as it should have been. There is no progress, no goal. There is the experience and there is surrender to the invitation to attempt this. Doing khora was not my idea; it was an invitation that came to me in prayer. I felt that my role was to show up and do the best I could each moment. Khora is surrender in the not-knowing.

The Void filled me. It rang in my ears. It wrapped itself around me. It was inside and outside of me. It was infinite, it was everything. My intellect did not even try to analyze the Void. It would have been a silly endeavor, like a gnat wanting to navigate outer space, and it never occurred to me to attempt it. I let the Void hold me because I just did not know; I could not assess or control my experience; I could only show up or not show up. There is an enormous freedom when we let go of the illusion of knowing. After all, life is enacting itself along some pattern, some dance, but that dance is not for me or you. It is for itself, it is dancing itself. I am invited to participate, but I should not have the arrogance to think that it is my dance, my design. It is infinitely beyond anything I will ever grasp. My choice is to play at the hem of its skirt, or to sit aside while it dances.

Khora was a crushing spiritual experience. On every level, it was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life and the most joyful. It would not surprise me if someday, when I die, I look back and know for sure that it was the most meaningful and most important thing I have done in my life. After I returned, a very kind Rinpoche in Nepal repeatedly told me that I might not understand the meaning of what I had done for some time and should not worry about it. He said that in time, it would become clear to me. It has been just over a year since I completed khora and the truth of his words remains with me. Although I better understand the magnitude of what I undertook, my depth of understanding is that of a layer of paint on a huge block of wood. The wood will rise to meet me, but I cannot yet let it in. Tibet was singing out signs to me that I was welcome, that she had made a place for me to be there, that she was supporting me in this step into the Void, in this effort of which I had no conception. She would take my life while holding me together and dissolve me while carrying me forward. I believe that the unfolding of her lesson will continue for the rest of my life, dissolving and re-shaping me according to her wisdom.

Six months after I returned, despite my efforts to come back to the life I left, it finally became clear to me that I would never be back again. That moment of life had become my home. Very, very slowly, through each relentless day, I found myself changed, as if pieces of me that had been missing were rising again to support my feet. I am returning, more mature, more open, less knowing, more conscious, more loving, more humble, and more confident. At last, the first glimmers spill over the horizon that is me. It has taken so long to come home. In October 2007, I returned from my second trip to Tibet, Eastern Tibet this time. I realized that I needed to bring closure to my first trip and to finish closing the circle. The circle is inside me. It is the circle of my word, the circle of how I live my life, of how present I am in my moment, of how open my heart is. Mount Kailash was an enormous, diamond-studded door through which I stepped. And now, the opening will not stop. Door after door opens, drawing me deeper into the heart of love, devoured and comforted in the infinite heart of love that is Kailash, that is Tibet, and that is me.

Tracey Alysson, Ph.D. has worked as a clinical psychologist since 1980. She incorporates mind-body techniques including EMDR, hypnosis, and thought field therapy in her clinical practice with individuals of all ages, families and groups, and combat veterans. Tracey is presently interested in where psychology and spirituality meet in humans and is developing training to address the healing rather than the maintenance of trauma symptoms by exploring and reclaiming innocence in the human being. This article is part of Dying and Living in the Arms of Love: One Woman's Journey around Mount Kailash, a book in progress.

by David R. Bishop

Originally printed in the MAY-JUNE 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Bishop, David R. "Sacred Sights on Santonni." Quest  96.3 (MAY-JUNE 2008):102-107.

EACH OF US HAVE PLACES ON EARTH we regard as special. Such places meet a more valuable criterion than the real estate rubric of "location, location, location." We may truly consider them sacred places because of the richer touchstone of "experience, experience, experience." Indeed, when the mix of time, place, and space is just right, the energies of such sacred sites work their transforming magic in us. There, we experience the feeling of wonder, a holy communion, as we become attuned to the reality of our deep connection with everything around us.

For many people, Greece is such a place. Throughout history thousands of students have traveled to the Greek Isles as part of their education. Other people have visited on holiday and have been enriched and enlivened. Still others have gone there to pray or to heal and have been, in some way, enlightened or transformed by their experience.

Whether a visitor or a native born Greek, each person comes to have a favorite island and probably a favorite location on that island. Although an extraordinary history and heritage pervades each, it is the experience that makes the place memorable. St. John, for example, is connected with the island of Patmos through his mystical experiences and his writings. Mykonos is loved by those who have enjoyed its night life and beaches. Delos, the legendary birthplace of Apollo and Artemis, has been a sacred pilgrimage site for centuries.

For many, the island of Santorini is that special place of relaxation, restoration, and renewal. Ia, on its northwest tip, is one of the loveliest portions of the island. There, the magic of the isles, about which many have spoken and written, can truly be felt. Such was my own experience there during a recent summer retreat. Those ten days provided the context for my spiritual exercises and experiences.

From my first step onto the island, the outer realities that greeted me were consistently amazing. First, of course, was the reality that it is an island. From previous visits I have made to Kauai, Molokai, Maui, St. Maartens, St. Thomas, Tobago, and Cuba, I know that I, like many others, easily connect with island energy. That energy can alter one's ordinary state of consciousness and create what some call "an island state of mind."

Likewise, the soothing daily routine of the retreat contributed to my shifting state of awareness. The regular order of a morning yoga session, a leisurely breakfast, a morning session of meditation or breath work, afternoons free for personal time (lunch, walkabouts, reading, swimming, private contemplation), an early evening session of meditation or group sharing, and the typical late evening dinner, supported the processes of transformation within me.

Of course, travel itself can have an altering effect on any person who genuinely lets go of accumulated stresses. Surrendering to the opportunity to relax in a new environment and live at a more leisured pace, one's relationship with time shifts. New or different modes of behavior follow: sleeping until a natural awakening, rather than reacting to an outer alarm clock; resting in bed, rather than immediately arising; taking a leisured walk before or after breakfast, rather than rushing off to be somewhere; eating when hungry and at an unhurried pace—what some call "dining"; indulging in an afternoon nap, or a prolonged stay on the beach.

While out and about, interactions may now include: the relaxed "good morning" to the passer-by; returning the shopkeeper's welcoming smile and savoring the warm hospitality while perusing the contents of the shop, unhurriedly; listening more closely to the group's harmonious singing in a courtyard; stopping to look more carefully at the play of light and shadow on the building as the calico cat promenades along its tiled wall; enjoying the tour group enthusing in their experience in a foreign language; and, from the top of a hill, feeling the religious ambience of the town with church domes lifting towards the heavens in the near distance.

Add to the "on vacation" mindset the unique vibrations of an island, and you have the potential for even more alchemical magic. For, indeed, island energies can heal us with the womblike protection of their surrounding waters; continually massaging us with that "island time" state of mind which enables us to "hang loose," as they say in Hawaii, and live more consciously in choosing what we really want to do "now"; living more simply and honestly; spending quality time with ourselves in reflection and solitude; or quality time with others in the community of life in relaxation, conversation, or just sharing silence. Everything seems to work together to induce us to think, feel, and behave in ways which enable us to discover or reconnect with the deeper dimensions of reality.

Mystics refer to these dimensions as the field of greater (divine) energies that surround and influence us. These energy flows try to break into our awareness, invite connection and intimate communication with them, and offer their guidance in our lives. From Greek mythology we learned that our distant relatives even gave these energies names such as Zeus, Hera, Apollo, and Athena.

Santorini's enchantment, under the influence of the goddess Athena, is one such energy current that quietly works at soul level for those who let themselves experience it. For example, an important part of any island's identity is its unique separation from the outer mainland world. Each has had to creatively develop its own identity in the relationship between itself and the off-island world. I think especially of Tobago, which has changed hands over twenty times according to the terms of peace treaties which settled wars during Europe's era of empire building. As a contemporary example, our neighbor Cuba struggles to emerge from its tragic repressions arising from its identity and relationship with the western hemisphere and the entire world.

Guided and inspired by its unique identity, an island can be a blessed place for inner work, where the reflective visitor can explore and experience personal interior landscapes. There we can reconsider our personal history of choice making, our beliefs and values, and our ways of relating to ourselves and all our outer worlds. Do my choices and behaviors authentically represent and reflect who I am? Do I want to make some outer changes that reflect the inner changes being evoked in me? Can I return home and "go with the flow" of life more consciously because I have given myself the opportunity to practice that value during my "island time"?

That is always the challenge, isn't it? It is so easy to slip back into the ordinary state of mainland awareness and forget the spirit that moves in us and in all of creation. Our conditioning is reinforced by the pace and style of our daily lives which lulls us back to sleep. As spiritual teachers remind us, we look without seeing, listen without hearing, touch without feeling. It is so easy to revert to that conditioned consciousness in which we take in information and knowledge, but miss true understanding or wisdom.

A second current of reality that I encountered daily on the island of Santorini was the amazing sunlight. Dare I say that, somehow, the light of the god Apollo shines differently or is experienced differently there, with more sparkle, more radiance, more translucence. The journals of many past visitors to the Greek isles include accounts of being "irradiated with Greek light," and reflections on directly absorbing divine energies. Not only on Delphi or Delos, but also on Santorini, one lives with and feels this irradiation. Truly, the bright sunlight enlightens everything it touches.

In the bright morning light of my first full day, I felt the eye of my heart open, able to perceive with the eye of the divine. I noticed the light penetrating everything in such a way that the darkness within was transformed and the inner light in people, places, and things was more accessible to my consciousness. All my perceptions and experiences reconnected me with a truth that I know deep within, "Everything is beautiful, in its own way."

Such an experience invited me to quietly reflect on this energy's deeper reality. We know from astronomy and physics that the sun's radiation circulates throughout the entire solar system. Everything within it lives in the ebbing and flowing currents of the sun's heat and light. How does this light affect our seeing? Many contemporary pioneers in consciousness theory suggest that we do not really see what we think we see because our perception is the coming together of the reflected light of the environment and the light of consciousness. The Sufi mystic, Pir Zia Inayat Khan, believes that "human beings are miniature suns," by which he means that our bodies have a natural biological luminosity which manifests in our tissues producing waves of light that move through space to the core of the solar system.

Some questions from my journal include: Is everything in creation somehow, someway a miniature sun? Is the mystery of the sun, its light, and the art of seeing in this light, somehow, more available to conscious experience on sacred sites? When we see with the aid of the light are we the ones seeing, or is the sun seeing through our eyes, or. . . ? Having experienced seeing in this way, in the laboratory of the sacred site of Santorini, can the experience be replicated anywhere, everywhere else? These and similar reflections served as background to the foreground of the daily experiences of my retreat.

Living in the light of Santorini with as much conscious presence as I could bring to each moment, I attended to my own inner Being and its unity with the energy field that gives life to all existence. The graced ability to see afresh with this amazing light enabled me to connect deeply with the ancient currents of energy surrounding me. I recognized Mother Earth in a new way, as a living being and related to her more intimately. Through this bonding with the natural world, this feminine source of everything offered me new experiences of personal integration and transcendent wholeness. Whether in silence or in activity, I learned to cherish the intimate oneness with myself and with everything I encountered.

The details of every moment of every experience filled me with gratitude and awe. I came to know and love my soul through its connection with my body's experience of seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling. Everyone and everything I experienced served as a mirror for my inner artist to reflect in and to experience and understand itself in a fresh way, as if creating a new awareness of myself.

In this work I can honestly say that I felt the guidance of Apollo and Athena. Their spirit was present in the bright clarity, artistic beauty, and simple wisdom all around me. Sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically, I experienced the currents of their energy in the morning sun's inviting promise of a new day of beauty for every glance and a surprise for every sense. Apollo and Athena arrived at daybreak with a gentle breeze through an opened window or door, or in surprisingly intense gusts across the open air balcony during morning yoga. Later that same day, they may choose to meet you for lunch on the patio in a soothing, whispering breeze off the Aegean Sea.

They appeared in the heat of the hillside heights by day, and lighted coolness at evening; in the bright white and other colors of painted houses and churches; in the variety and enchanting fragrances of flowers and vegetation; in the steady footed mule, occasionally braying while carefully climbing up the hillside back from the sea; in the simple, yet elegant, symbiotic embrace of ancient and modern architectural designs and structures; in the authentic sounds of laughter of people in shops, restaurants, hotels, or at home; in the refreshing and healing Aegean waters during an afternoon swim; in the sun-drenched boat's bouncing ride across the water to ancient volcanic sites; in the fresh, warm aromas and luscious tastes of pastries and foods and spices; in the blue domed church's solitary bell eloquently ringing out the simple truth that every moment is holy, and, in the spectacular farewell of the day's light at sunset.

Perhaps most enchanting, however, was their surprise visit in the silences of the day, which beckoned me to the inner temple of my heart to ponder my experiences more deeply still; and to share with them an inner connection with divine reality and the ensuing quiet delight. The words of Einstein seemed to serve as the perfect "Amen" to my contemplations: "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." Leaving that quiet sanctuary, I looked forward to my next encounter with their divine energies.

In another journal entry I queried: Who does all of this surrounding light, beauty, and truth serve? Answers emerged each day in reminders from without and reckonings from within. It is meant to serve my continuing awakening in consciousness and integrity, in compassion and creativity, in courage and simplicity. It is meant to enable me to realize the One, that everything is a manifestation of that One. It is meant to evoke in me the understanding that everything belongs because it is a part of me, and that nothing is to be excluded. It is meant to give me the peace that casts out fear. It is meant to move me to serve the divine energies by rejoicing with them, in them, and through them with everyone and everything I meet. It is meant to show me that all of life is a celebratory worship of the conscious connection with this Reality. This humbling, tearful realization filled my heart with gratitude and awe. For me, it was a time of rebirthing a deeper dimension of divine consciousness within.

The daily routine of the retreat provided a wonderful cauldron of safety and privacy that supported my inner work. That regular regimen of daily exercises enhanced the careful attention I needed to pay to my breathing process of inhaling peace and exhaling any fear, whether in yoga, meditation, or breath work.

Meditation practices differ in their work with the breath. The practice of welcoming the breath is an essential part of doing yoga or breath work (which is sometimes called rebirthing). Both are processes of careful, attentive work that enable the practitioner to release physical, mental, and emotional blockages stored in various muscles or tissues of the body and feel the released energy. The unblocked energy can illuminate dark memories, feelings, attitudes, or ego bound beliefs, whether conscious or unconscious. These energies, which enlighten us, likewise shine out from our body as understanding deepens and realization clarifies. I believe that the glow of awareness resulting from these energy shifts is a manifestation of embodied divine light.

Other meditation practices that work with counting, extending, holding, or squaring the breath, also work with this light. Letting thoughts simply pass by the eye of the observer self, without any ego-need to grab onto any or all, is one way to clear the mind. Then the light in its non-ordinary dimensions can shine upon and within the person meditating. In other words, dissolving the vibrations of thoughts can allow for their replacement with the higher vibrations of the light of awareness, and the accompanying altered states of consciousness.

As in yoga and breath work, the subtleties of the darker contents of interior consciousness can be brought to light in meditation. You can begin to recognize ego-centered motives and behaviors. Shining light on the holding places of heavy and dense emotions such as fear, inadequacy, greed, jealousy, pride, and pessimism, or on ego serving behaviors such as wasting time and energy in gossip, distractions, and the pursuit of material rather than spiritual values, can bring release from the spell of ignorance of some of the misperceptions, misunderstandings, and misinterpretations which, though locked away deep inside, still influence behavior.

Embracing with compassion and forgiveness all these realizations is the work of and the experience in the contemplation that concludes these practices. The light of non-judging acceptance brings focus and clarity. This is the sun within, the divine presence itself, working toward our healing and wholeness. Staying focused on and connected to this "beloved of our heart" enables us to know truth and to experience the divine energies within us. The real connection between our outer world perceptions and our inner world truth is felt and understood more clearly. We perceive reality more authentically and our experience of peace is genuine. We can now share this with others and wish the same for them.

I normally use the daily practice of any spiritual exercise to help me stay connected to the awareness of who I truly am. So each day of my retreat, I practiced observing and dissolving the thought vibrations from my mind so the vibrations of the true light within could illuminate and heal my wounds, and inspire and guide my behavior. Living in each moment attentive to the energies within me and surrounding me, I was more able to lovingly and gratefully meet every person and every situation in my day just as they were. From a state of self-understanding I knew that "all is well," and that everything is unfolding as it is should.

Now, "off island," and "post retreat," I continue to practice. I often use the word "Santorini," like a mantra, to evoke in me a renewed attunement in my soul with the energies of truth and transformation I experienced in many waves and ways on that Greek island.

For me, as for many others, Santorini was a place of revelation and manifestation of the truth of a pervasive, deeper reality. Every ambience of the island seemed encoded with a consciousness that invited and supported a shift to a state of transcendent awareness. It will come as no surprise that I found Martin Buber's observation that "All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware," to be especially true of my own journey to that sacred site.

David R. Bishop is a professor of philosophy and religion at Pima College and the University of Phoenix, both in Tucson, Arizona. He has degrees in philosophy, theology, and transpersonal psychology. His interests are states and stages of consciousness, holistic health, astrology, and film.

by Betty Bland

Originally printed in the MAY-JUNE 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Bland, Betty. "Along the Way." Quest  96.3 (MAY-JUNE 2008): 84.

HOW WOULD WE COPE WITH THE EXTREME altitudes 14,500 to16,500 feet above sea level? Would we experience a major spiritual insight? Who were these folks we were going to spend the next two to three weeks with? These questions buzzed through our heads as we prepared for the journey to Tibet and again, as we began gathering at our rendezvous point in Beijing.

In the past, I have related to the word "pilgrimage" in terms of this lifetime of effort and unfoldment. Madame Blavatsky's description in the "Proem" of The Secret Doctrine rang true to my heart when I read of the obligatory pilgrimage of every soul "through the Cycle of Incarnation (or "Necessity") in accordance with Cyclic and Karmic law." It made sense that each struggling soul had its own purpose, challenges, and pathway. And we were each called upon to unravel the mystery for ourselves—with a little help from our friends, of course.

The other meaning of "pilgrimage," that of a particular physical journey in this world in order to visit a holy site, consistently applied to other people but not to me. There were a few destinations that could be termed loosely as pilgrimage sites, such as my regular treks during the 1980's to Stil-Light Theosophical Retreat Center in the Great Smokey Mountains, or my annual Thanksgiving homecomings to visit family in North Carolina; but these were journeys to familiar places with familiar people. The idea of pilgrimage as a journey to an unknown holy site with unknown people had not entered my personal experience until I joined the pilgrimage to Tibet.

We were well into the journey before I began to realize that the process of the journey was of equal importance to reaching the destination itself. Each obstacle we encountered provided an opportunity to bond with fellow pilgrims. Each holy site, reverent practitioner, or resting stopover made an important contribution to the whole. This process, supported by the mutual intent of each wayfarer, was the pilgrimage.

We did not come together merely to experience travel, or to see sights, but to gather nuggets of understanding and to encounter transformative inspiration. I do not know what we expected, but our first encounters with the Chinese in Tiananmen Square put us a little off balance. First, there was the friendliness of the people—they were particularly attracted to Chris Bolger's 6 foot 6 inch frame, but there was also an otherworldliness about the street vendors hawking English versions of the sayings of Chairman Mao, and the stark reality of several acres of open pavement broken only occasionally by a light pole, monument, or military guard stand. Shades of oppression nibbled at our peripheral vision.

Then, after a visit to the Lamasery, which sadly had been reduced to not much more than museum status, we were further introduced to the very different mindset of the Chinese government. Because of the Security Police's suspicions of Westerners in general, spiritually inclined travelers in particular, and a technical difficulty with one person's passport, our passage to Tibet was to be blocked. Skillful but tedious negotiations on the part of our guides finally resolved the issue with only one sacrificial lamb. Vicki Jerome of New Zealand would be barred from entry but would be compensated with her own private tour of holy sites, including the birthplaces of Tsongkapa and the Dalai Lama, in the former Amdo Province of Tibet, now known as Qinghai by the Chinese. Already we were confronted with unpleasant circumstances to accept and work around.

After a few days of acclimation in Beijing, we welcomed our flight to Lhasa which is located 14,000 feet above sea level, but we were all concerned about how we would react to the effects of high altitude. We had different remedies, mostly diuretics to give our fluidic circulating systems a jumpstart in order to function at the more rapid pace required by high altitude. We compared notes, shared our miseries, and generally adapted very well—all, that is, except for Valerie Malka from Australia who required extra pressurization/decompression in a portable body bag brought along for the occasion. Our guides, Glenn Mullin and Pawan Tuladhar, had thought of everything.

Every day was a new adventure of hiking, sitting, riding, eating, and settling into new accommodations—not to mention our creative toileting experiences. For our comfort breaks off the bus out on the open plateaus of Tibet, we were told, "Gents to the left; ladies to the right." Ladies were provided umbrellas for a modicum of modesty, but we soon found that it was easier to maneuver ourselves behind deep trenches or retaining walls. Eating establishments were usually ornately decorated, second floor, family style affairs. Most destinations were at the top of a mountain after an extended bus trip. Every aspect of physical life took care and attention. Nothing was according to the old routine. In having to break with our set patterns, we were finding enhanced capabilities and a new openness in ourselves.

During each adventure, we counted noses numerous times to be sure we were not missing anyone, but it was not always failsafe. Once, after stopping at an outlook at one of the highest passes we traversed, we all clambered back on the buses and headed down the other side, glad to be out of the chill wind. All of a sudden the shout went up, "Where is John Besse?" The bus slowed down as we looked at the sight back up the road. John was running after the bus for all he was worth. We could not imagine a more desolate place to be marooned.

As bus mates, we sang, told jokes and stories, and shared intimate details, and were not unlike the pilgrims of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Being thrown together in all sorts of circumstances brought about unusual opportunities to bond with fellow travelers on a mutual mission. These connections opened our hearts a bit wider and created new channels for caring communication within our psyches.

Not only did we get to know each other, but we developed an understanding and concern for our Tibetan brothers and sisters. We wrangled with them in the Free Market at Shigatse and believe me, when their very livelihood depends on the bargaining, they can be quite persistent. If one enters into the argument over pricing, one had better be prepared to make the purchase. After that point, "No" is not an acceptable answer. Later, we were most kindly served yak butter tea by the nuns at Ani Sangkhu Nunnery (a little sip will do you) and shared our western hats and clothing with gently curious native people. Our pilgrimage expanded our horizons and concerns for our fellow human beings in the larger world.

The underlying key to all of this, however, is the single spiritual focus—in this case that of touching the mystery of Tibet and its ancient teachings. A journey becomes a pilgrimage when the traveler, recognizing the purpose embedded in spiritual experience and unfoldment, becomes a pilgrim. With the help of our guides, we sought out the caves where great lamas achieved enlightenment, circumambulated holy temples (long the site of devotional destinations), mindfully turned the prayer wheels, hung prayer flags, and tossed the prayer papers called windhorses to the winds. And we meditated, meditated, meditated. Glenn provided rich explanations along the way and on occasion he or other monks would chant the sacred and timeless chants associated with Tibetan Buddhist practice.

Individual devotion and the power of place contributed to the tangible spiritual cohesiveness that developed over the course of the trip. Each precious temple or cave and each breathtaking mountain vista in the crisp clear air added its essence to the overall experience. The combined energy of the group enhanced the deep spiritual impact of our journey. The power of spiritual intention supported by fellow pilgrims and powerful places worked its magic on each of us, making a permanent impact on our being.

This rambling tale reveals the aspects of pilgrimage, whether as the one we made to Tibet last May, or the one on which we have embarked as an obligatory pilgrimage of the soul. The destination is not always crystal clear, but in order to make progress, the purpose must be set. In our personal pilgrimage, which is life itself, we have to cultivate our capabilities, be open to change, and deal with constraints and absolute obstacles. The joy and growth is to be found in rising to the challenges, growing in personal strength, supporting and being supported by others of like mind. The goal may recede as we approach it, but we are headed in the right direction if we cultivate and share our aspirations and care for one another along the way.