Quest Magazine

VOLUME 92, NUMBER 6

CONTENT

Dust Matters
By Betty Bland

What is Our Priority?
By Radha Burnier

Transformative Qualities of Theosophy
By Minor Lile

Theosophy: Changeless Yet Always Changing
Willamay Pym

Memories of L. W. Rogers
By Robert Bonnell and Leatrice Kreeger-Bonnell

In The Work
By Gary Lachman

Seven Ways to Nourish the Soul
By Beverley Champion

Originally printed in the November - December 2004 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation:Lachman,Gary. "In the Work." Quest  92.6 (NOVEMBER - DECEMBER 2004):221-217By Gary Lachman

I first came across the names G. I. Gurdjieff and P. D. Ouspensky in 1975, in Colin Wilson's The Occult. I was nineteen and living in New York City, playing bass guitar with the then-unknown pop group Blondie. I had just become interested in books about magic, the occult, and esotericism, and I have to admit that in my first exposure to Gurdjieff, I was more interested in the reports of his remarkable powers than in his austere doctrine. He was as fascinating as the many other figures in Wilson's book, like Aleister Crowley, Rasputin, and Madame Blavatsky, but I wasn't drawn to his teaching. Two years and many books later, I had changed my mind.

I had read Ouspensky's early work Tertium Organum as well as A New Model of the Universe and was impressed by both. I then read his account of his time with Gurdjieff, In Search of the Miraculous, which had a seriousness and urgency unlike most of the occult literature I was devouring. Gurdjieff's doctrine—that human beings have enormous powers of consciousness, which are obscured by a mechanical habit of sleep— struck me as self-evident. I believed that we experience only a fraction of what our consciousness is capable of and that the aim of all occult or spiritual practice is to tap this hidden reservoir of power. I had made some attempts to do this on my own, with interesting results. But after covering a lot of fascinating ground, after a while I had to admit I wasn't really getting anywhere.

It was then that I wondered about Gurdjieff. I still had some resistance. I'm not much of a joiner, and Gurdjieff's "fourth way" was based on the idea that one can do nothing on one's own; according to him, being in a group was absolutely necessary. This made me hesitate. Other elements put me off too. For example, I love books and music and found it difficult to accept Gurdjieff's assertion that my favorite poets and composers were just as asleep as everybody else. But there was nevertheless something about his teaching that attracted me. It certainly struck me as the most demanding and rigorous I had come across. As presented by Ouspensky, it was lucid and almost scientifically precise, although I quickly discovered this was not the case with Gurdjieff's own books. But most important, it was based on experience and knowledge, and this meant that it was honest. In a realm where wishful thinking and self-deception were commonplace, this seemed important.

By the early 1980s, Gurdjieff, who died in Paris in 1949, was experiencing a kind of revival. New memoirs and accounts by his students seemed to appear overnight. James Webb's definitive study, The Harmonious Circle, appeared then too. Gurdjieff's name was in the air. Yet unlike today, it was difficult t to find a school practicing his teaching. When you pick up a fourth-way book at a bookshop today, you'll more than likely find a bookmark inside advertising a Gurdjieff and Ouspensky center. There are dozens of Web sites dedicated to "the work," the homely name given to Gurdjieff's system. Many of these are bogus, having no connection with Gurdjieff's original groups in Russia. Nevertheless, they show that Gurdjieff and his teaching have a much higher profile today than when I first became involved.

My first encounter with people actually practicing the system was at a public lecture at the Barbizon Hotel on sixty-third Street. I was surprised at the number of people who attended; apparently I wasn't the only person in New York who wanted to wake up. One speaker made a point of emphasizing the difference between "I" and "it"; he repeated a phrase several times throughout his talk: "Like what it does not like." "It" was our mechanical, habit-ridden self, which we mistakenly believe is awake. "I" was our true self, submerged beneath layers of sleep and automatism. At present "it" dominates us, and a brief period of self-observation shows how little free will we really possess. The aim of the work was to study "it," to learn its habits and character, while at the same time gradually making "I" stronger. I returned to my apartment excited by what I had heard, wondering if I should call the telephone number on the flyer handed out at the lecture.

The irony was that my entry into the work was much closer than I knew. A friend who was interested in spiritual ideas knew I was reading a lot about Gurdjieff. We had talked about a variety of things—Jung, Kabbalah, Hinduism, Buddhism—and when I mentioned the lecture to him, he showed great interest. A few days later he asked if I was really interested in getting involved in the work. I said yes. "In that case," he said, "call this number," and handed me a piece of paper. On it was a telephone number, but not the one on the flyer. "It's my teacher. I mentioned you to him," he said. "He's expecting you to call. I've been working with him for about a year, but I wanted to see how serious you were before telling you about it. If you are serious, I'd call soon."

I did. The man's voice on the other end was steady, deep, and to the point. Would I like to come next week and have a chat? Then he gave me the address.

The meeting place was a small apartment on the Upper East Side. A woman answered the door, and I was ushered into a small room and asked to sit down. The apartment was decorated in an Eastern fashion, with Persian carpets and wall hangings, Oriental ornaments and objets d'art. There were also many paintings; these, I later found, were the work of my host. After a few minutes the man I had spoken with came in and introduced himself. His name was Paul, and I later discovered that he was one of the principal teachers of the Gurdjieff "movements," the extremely difficult sacred dances that Gurdjieff claimed he had learned at the mysterious monastery of the Sarmoung Brotherhood. Whether this was true or not remains an open question, but a few years later, when I began practicing the movements myself, where they came from seemed irrelevant. What was clear was their ability to evoke unusual states of consciousness.

Paul was the most composed person I had ever met. I was impressed by his movements; he seemed relaxed yet alert and carried himself with an economy of action. He had presence. After introducing himself, he sat there for a few moments, untroubled by the nervousness most people feel in these situations and usually relieve through talk. Then he asked me about myself, what I did and why I was interested in the work. Although I was only twenty-four, I already had a few achievements under my belt. By that time I had left Blondie and started my own group. One of my songs had been Top 10 hit. I had been on television and radio and had been interviewed for magazines and newspapers. I was playing to large crowds and making a comfortable living. All this meant very little to Paul. He took it all in, nodded, and then asked why I was interested in joining his group. It was an unexpectedly difficult question. In the end I fumbled and lamely said that I wanted to wake up. "Yes," Paul remarked, "but that will take time." He told me how the work required seriousness and commitment, and he wondered if I could make that kind of commitment. I said I could. "Well," he said, "I have a group for beginners that meets once a week. You can come to that and we will see." He wrote down the address and handed it to me, then said, "Please come on time."

Paul's group met in a basement apartment on a side street between Lexington and Park Avenues. That first meeting set the pattern for the rest. The group sat on hard wooden chairs in a bare room, the only other furnishing being a wooden table on which rested a vase of flowers, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Paul sat in front of us; occasionally there was another chair beside his and another teacher would join him. There was no lecture. We sat in an uncomfortable silence until someone found the courage to speak. General questions were frowned upon; remarks had to be focused on practical matters, relating to the exercises Paul had given.

The group had been given an exercise, and after that first meeting, Paul taught it to me as well. It was called sensing your body. The instructions were to sit in a chair with your legs slightly apart and your hands on your knees. Then sense your right arm, starting at the shoulder and working down to your fingers. Continue with the right leg, then left leg, and left arm, and then start again, this time with the right leg, then left leg, and so on. After completing a cycle and returning to the beginning, you sense the top of the head, then the face, then the neck. Finally, you were to sense your whole body. It was difficult at first to understand what was meant by "sensing," but after a time I experienced a curious tingling, as if a slight drizzle were falling on me. After some weeks, I was told to end the exercise by standing up and taking a few steps, while maintaining my sensation.

Although Paul tried to keep us focused on the exercise, people would invariably bring up personal matters during the discussions. One of the reasons Gurdjieff emphasized the need for groups is that he knew different personalities would grate on each other, creating the friction he believed was necessary for work. I was often impatient when people brought up some personal crisis and subjected the group to a long monologue about it. I realize now that this was probably why Paul let them do it: It provided an opportunity to see our own shortcomings. After one such meeting my displeasure must have been very evident, because Paul took me aside and in true Gurdjieffean fashion gave me a brisk talking to, informing me that I would never get anywhere as long as I thought I knew better than anyone else. Sadly, I've failed to profit as much from this advice as I might have.

I practiced sitting in the morning, and self-remembering during the day, making appointments with myself when, no matter what I was doing, I would try to feel a full awareness of myself. This may sound easy, but it wasn't. In the midst of going about your affairs, to suddenly pull yourself out of the stream of events and remember that you are here requires considerable effort. Gurdjieff's basic idea was that we do not "remember ourselves," that we are habitually sunk into a kind of half-dream state that we mistakenly accept as consciousness. This being so, it was difficult enough to remember my appointments, and even harder to work up a real sense of my being, especially when I was with someone else.

People in the work celebrate Gurdjieff's birthday on January 13, and for my first celebration I was invited to a gathering in a house outside the city. Along with a few other people, I drove out with my friend who had introduced me to Paul. I was impressed by the house — it was more a mansion —and by the number of people. It was an odd gathering; although there were many people, the atmosphere wasn't festive. Neither was it solemn, although there was certainly an air of seriousness. After someone took our coats, we were invited to move into a large room and to take a seat. Then I was introduced to Gurdjieff's ritual of toasts, accomplished with powerful vodka. We were each given a tumbler and, after an appropriate toast, were obliged to empty it. This happened several times. I hadn't eaten yet, and the effects came on quickly. This added to the oddness of what happened next. Someone announced that in honor of the occasion, we would be treated to a special performance of the Babylonian epic Gilgamesh. That in itself was unusual, but no preparation for what followed. I looked to the center of the room where a small stage had been erected and recognized the actor Bill Murray, from Saturday Night Live. I had no idea that he, like myself, was interested in Gurdjieff's ideas, nor that he was involved in the same organization that I was. I enjoyed the performance, but it was difficult after my toasts to keep a straight face whenever I heard him say "Enkidu."

In 1982 I left New York and moved to Los Angeles, where my involvement with the work became deeper and more intense. I joined a group and also started attending "ideas meetings," where sections of In Search of the Miraculous or Gurdjieff's jawbreaker of a book, Beelzebub's Tales to His Grandson, were read and discussed. My friends and I were reading as much literature on the work as we could find: Maurice Nicoll, J. G. Bennett, Rodney Collin, and other fourth way writers. I also started attending work weekends. At a large house north of the Hollywood Hills, people from different groups would gather for intensive "work days." These would begin with a morning talk, followed by a new exercise, which we were asked to perform throughout the day. As Gurdjieff had done at his Prieure in Fontainebleau, students were given physical tasks to perform: gardening, cleaning, preparing meals, carpentry. The task itself and how well it was done wasn't the aim of the exercise; the idea was to remember oneself, to focus on the work at hand, and to perform what Gurdjieff called "conscious labor." A famous story about Gurdjieff's Prieure involved the editor A. R. Orage, who arrived there in 1923 expecting to receive words of wisdom from the master and was instead handed a shovel and told to dig. Orage dug until his back ached and he was in tears, and was then told to fill the hole in again. He wondered what madness he had got himself into until one day he found himself enjoying the digging and feeling no pain at all: He had forced himself beyond his artificial limits and broken through to his hidden reservoirs of energy. I received a milder version of the Orage treatment when, after spending an afternoon painting a long wooden fence, I was informed that it wasn't the right color and I had to paint it all over again. I was indignant until I realized that the painting wasn't the point, but the insights that I got while doing it. On another occasion, while raking leaves, I had what I believe to be an unalloyed moment of wakefulness. Reaching down to scoop a batch of wet leaves into a trash bag, I found myself staring at them in amazement, as if I had never really seen a leaf before. I remembered how fresh and clean the world had seemed as a child, and for a few moments I enjoyed that same clarity. It was then that the whole idea of sleep and mechanicalness became real to me, not just an idea.

It was also around this time that I started practicing the movements. At first they were impossible: The old game of trying to rub your stomach with one hand while patting your head with the other gives some idea of what's involved, but that is a hundred times easier. About a dozen students would line up in rows and, to the accompaniment of a piano, throw themselves into contortions, like puppets with their strings cut. Often I would drop out in disgust with myself. But one evening I persevered, and after ignoring my dismay I found myself doing the movements with ease and confidence. I experienced a sudden rush of power, and at the end I was so full of energy that I wanted to get in my car and drive nonstop to San Francisco, an eight-hour trip.

In the summer of 1983, a friend and I decided to set out on our own mini "search for the miraculous," taking a trip to Europe. Along with visiting Stonehenge, Avebury, Chartres Cathedral, and other sacred sites, we visited Gurdjieff's Prieure in Fontainebleau, then an abandoned château. In Paris we also tracked down the apartment on the rue des Colonels Renards, near the Etoile, where, during the German occupation, Gurdjieff conducted his secret groups and where he spent his last days.

It was on my return from Europe that my doubts about my place in the work began. I have always had an eclectic mind, and while absorbing all I could about Gurdjieff's ideas, I was also taking in a great deal of other material. Making comparisons was frowned upon, but I found it difficult not to put Gurdjieff's and Ouspensky's system in context with other thinkers' work. I saw no point in denying that many of Gurdjieff's ideas had parallels in the work of other philosophers and psychologists and that, although his presentation and practice were startling and very different, his basic ideas were not as unique as his more convinced students believed. There was something of the superman in the way many people in the work viewed Gurdjieff, and although he was without doubt one of the most remarkable men to ever live, he was not, I believed, infallible. More to the point, it struck me as dangerous to consider any teacher infallible, Gurdjieff or anyone else.

Other things too led me to feel less than eager to continue. For one thing, I found it difficult to understand why Gurdjieff treated Ouspensky, his best pupil, in the questionable way he had; in fact, the mystery about this remained with me long after I dropped out of the work, and twenty years later, I wrote a book about it. It was difficult not to be impressed with Gurdjieff, but I began to wonder about his motives. I was also less than unequivocal in my appreciation of his Beelzebub's Tales, the bible of the work. I found it unreadable and couldn't fathom why he would purposely make his ideas difficult to grasp. My other reading had raised many questions; although at first I was scornful of any criticism about the work, I now could see why many people whom I considered intelligent and insightful would be repelled by it. And although I had attained some results, I felt that after four years I was pretty much where I started. This seemed to be the case for with other people too, although it struck me that for many the work had become more of a lifestyle than, as it originally was for me, a means of achieving an end. And the teaching itself, for all its rigor and discipline, seemed curiously lacking positive content. The impetus behind "working" was the negative motivation of escaping from sleep. In other writers—for example, in the work of Colin Wilson — I found more positive, optimistic goals, but when I brought this up during meetings, I was advised that these were only ideas, simply another form of sleep.

These ideas, however, were giving me much more incentive than the now routine work repertoire. They provided a much-needed carrot to complement the Gurdjieffean stick, and I was not about to drop them. I stuck with it for a while and experienced some profound soul-searching, but in the end I thought it was dishonest to continue with so many reservations. After some weeks of indecisiveness, I announced to my teacher that I would be leaving. At first I felt at loose ends a bit, but soon a feeling of freshness and freedom surfaced and to this day I consider it the right decision. I had learned a lot from the work, and I have a lot of respect for its practitioners. But in the end it was not for me. It was not for Ouspensky either, at least in the form it was taught by his master, and in my book, In Search of Ouspensky: Genius in the Shadow of Gurdjieff (Quest Books, 2004), I have tried to understand why.

Originally printed in the November - December 2004 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Lile, Minor. "Transformative Qualities of Theosophy." Quest  92.6 (NOVEMBER - DECEMBER 2004):208 -211, 217.

By Minor Lile

Anyone who has looked at the influence of theosophy on Western culture since the Theosophical Society was founded in 1875 can readily point to the influential and transformative role that theosophy has played in the world. One need look no further than the first two presidents of the Society—Henry Steel Olcott and Annie Besant—to find individuals who were greatly changed by their exposure to theosophical ideas. Many prominent examples can be cited: Thomas Edison, W. B. Yeats, Rudolf Steiner, J. Krishnamurti, Henry Wallace, W. Kandinsky, Maria Montessori, Paul Klee, and many others were profoundly influenced and stimulated by theosophical ideas.

The modern theosophical movement has also inspired less prominent men and women around the world to transform their lives. My own story certainly serves as one such example. When I first became aware of the Theosophical Society at the end of the 1980s, I was living in Seattle. Unmarried, I had recently left a job that I had once valued highly and was struggling to come to terms with the death of my younger brother.

My exposure to the ideas of theosophy would quickly engender great change in my life. Yet could there have been less exciting way to have found the organization than by looking it up in the Seattle phone book?

My search for answers had gone in several directions and led eventually to my picking up a Quest book on a topic I was pursuing. The short statement of purpose that is included in these books (published by the Theosophical Publishing House) caught my eye:

a membership organization dedicated to the promotion of the unity of humanity and the encouragement of the study of religion, philosophy, and science, to the end that we may better understand ourselves and our place in the universe. The Society stands for complete freedom of individual search and belief. . .

"Hmm," I thought, "That sounds appealing. I wonder if there's such a group in Seattle?" Yes, they were listed in the phone book, at an address that I was astonished to see was near my home. In looking at the trajectory of our lives, there is rarely an easy explanation for why things happen as they do. Regardless of why, those steps that took me to the threshold of the Theosophical Society in Seattle set me upon a path that has changed me in many ways.

That first visit had the feel of a new chapter beginning in my life, as if a veil had been lifted or a curtain parted as my life took a new direction. When I look back over the journey, that sense is even stronger. I used to joke that I only set aside my initial caution and joined the TS after it became apparent that the organization wasn't secretly interested in taking anything from me. As it turns out, I've given my life to it instead! Fifteen years later, I'm married to the woman who was president of the Seattle Lodge at the time I joined. Together we are in our tenth year as the resident managers at Indralaya, the theosophical retreat center on Orcas Island, Washington. I've also served for five years as a member of the national board of the Theosophical Society. In addition to these external changes, I have found satisfying and meaningful answers to the riddles of life and death.

How is it that these sometimes obscure and always challenging teachings have proven to be so compelling and influential for so many people over the past 129 years? I'm not sure there is an easy answer. Ask any two members of the Theosophical Society to share their perception of what theosophy is and you are certain to get at least two different descriptions. While the exact nature of theosophy is a challenge to summarize succinctly, like all great spiritual teachings it has the capacity to deepen our perceptions and lift us out of our habitual selves. It offers ways of seeing the world that engender deeper self-awareness, thus enhancing our potential to be more fully human. Along these lines, the theosophical tradition offers certain general qualities that are fundamentally supportive of the process of self-transformation.

Theosophy Inspires

One such quality is that theosophy is inspirational. By imparting a resonant set of ideals and precepts, the theosophical tradition has the potential to lift us out of ourselves and broaden our understanding of what is possible for each of us as individuals and for humanity in general.

A good place to start in considering how these ideals are expressed is with the primacy of truth. Since the Society's origins, truth has been enshrined as its highest ideal. "There is no Religion Higher than Truth" states the motto of the Theosophical Society. Standing on their own, these words are just as thought-provoking and relevant to the modern day with its sorrowful burden of clashing fundamentalist and sectarian points of view as they were when chosen 129 years ago.

At the same time, when considering the original Sanskrit phrase from which the motto is drawn, "Satyam Nasti Paro Dharma," many students of TS history and philosophy have noted that the chosen translation of Dharma as "religion" limits the meaning of this statement. Dharma is one of many Sanskrit words that are difficult to translate directly into English. It has been variously defined as "an essential quality or characteristic," "that which holds together," "virtue," "law," or "path." The Bhagavad Gita characterizes dharma as the essential duty or purpose of an individual's life. If we consider the theosophical motto in this context "that there is no duty, no law, no path we can walk that is higher than the path of truth" we come closer to capturing the full meaning of the phrase.

Truth is the ultimate trump card. By its light and its pursuit alone should we guide our actions. There are, of course, the ultimate universal truths that lie behind the veil of illusion that beguiles us. To know these ultimate truths is indeed a high calling, one that only a few are truly capable of attaining at any given time. But to aspire to know these truths is a path available to all, and it is the path that theosophy encourages .On that quest, one is bound to come upon and work with relative truths that are also highly valuable. In various traditions there is the often-told parable of the boat that carries one to the far shore of the river. Just as that boat must be abandoned as one reaches the shore and continues the journey, one must also leave behind these various relative truths as they no longer serve our continued development.

The Theosophical World View is a wonderfully succinct and inspiring statement of theosophical premises. This modern statement was written by members of the American Section in the late 1970s. In addition to endorsing the high value of truth, it also enumerates several other inspirational ideals that are central to the theosophical tradition:

Recognition of the unique value of every living being expresses itself in reverence for life, compassion for all, sympathy with the need of all individuals to find truth for themselves, and respect for all religious traditions. The ways in which these ideals become realities in individual life are both the privileged choice and the responsible act of every human being.The Theosophical Society imposes no dogmas, but points toward the source of unity beyond all differences. Devotion to truth, love for all living beings, and commitment to a life of active altruism are the marks of the true theosophist.

At Indralaya, we often use the World View as a basis for discussion when introducing theosophy to program participants. It has always served as a touchstone and a source of inspiration to me.

Other sources of inspiration in the theosophical tradition are the well-known books Light on the Path (Mabel Collins) and At the Feet of the Master (Alcyone). These two little gems, along with H. P. Blavatsky's The Voice of the Silence are generally considered the great inspirational texts of modern theosophy. Many Theosophical Society members have also found great inspiration in the Bhagavad Gita.

Of all those who have written on theosophy, H. P. Blavatsky is without compare, the writer to whom many turn for inspiration and insight. There is some special quality to Blavatsky's works that makes returning to them especially fruitful. Most, if not all, of her works seem to be written on many levels, which reveal themselves as we are ready for them. The well from which she drew seems virtually bottomless. Recently our local theosophical study group spent a few weeks reading The Voice of the Silence. In a way I hadn't perceived quite so clearly before, this work is a profound yet quite subtle explication of Buddhist insight couched in poetic allusion.

Many others have written about how the very process of exploring Blavatsky's The Secret Doctrine can be a transforming experience. Anyone who has sweated through the study of that mysterious book and pried loose kernels of insight can be justifiably proud of their achievement. Her Key to Theosophy and Practical Occultism are two other resources that I have found to be particularly valuable.

Theosophy Gives Permission

Another transformative quality that the theosophical tradition offers is permission to explore, to experiment, to assess and value and develop one's own perspective. This quality of permission is an implicit aspect of the Society's resolve that no doctrine or teaching be binding on its members. Additionally, the vast dimensions of the teachings allow each individual to explore and find those aspects of the tradition and the teachings that are most relevant and meaningful in their own lives. For this reason, the inherent difficulty of defining precisely what theosophy is, which might seem initially to be a weakness, becomes one of its greatest strengths. All who find some resonance with the theosophical tradition are challenged and emboldened to explore where their interests might lead and find the truth for themselves. The essence of this quality is embedded in the Society's second and third objects, which encourage a spirit of inquisitiveness and exploration, both in looking within oneself and in examining the world around us.

This institutional encouragement to pursue varied interests has certainly played a valuable part in my own development. An interest in Jungian psychology and dream analysis originally drew me to the Theosophical Society. Over the course of the fifteen years that have passed since then, I have been attracted to many different areas of study and activity, such as interfaith dialogue (including attending the 1993 Parliament of the World's Religions and organizing regional interfaith gatherings), Buddhist meditation practice and mind science, the history and symbolism of the labyrinth, synchronicity and divination, the spiritual dimensions of leadership, and the relationship between dharma and karma, among other topics. Although everyone's specific pursuits will certainly differ, this range of interests seems to be more or less typical of those who are drawn to theosophical ideas.

Theosophy Provides Context for Our Daily Lives

The modern theosophical tradition is sometimes faulted for being too removed from the challenges of daily life. Without question, there are some highly arcane and abstract elements to the theosophical teachings. Nevertheless, at a deep level, theosophy offers a great deal that is directly applicable to life in the day-to-day world.

Theosophy offers a story of universal evolution that is capable of imparting meaning and purpose to our lives. From a theosophical perspective we are in the midst of a prolonged evolutionary journey—a great age, or manvantara—that brings us from the origins of the universe right down to this present moment. Theosophy teaches that we are in profound relationship with this universe, we are connected, we are one with all that is.

Notwithstanding the value that the theosophical tradition places upon individual freedom of expression and pursuits, it is these teachings about relationship that are potentially the most deeply transforming aspect of the theosophical tradition. We are grounded in an ultimate unity that binds everything together. As we all know too well, these teachings do not magically remove the challenge of living in harmony with each other, nor do they offer easy solutions to the problems of getting along with our family, friends, and neighbors. Despite our repeated failures to live up to the challenge they present, the teachings do continuously remind us of the reality of our connectedness.

Theosophy also teaches that this relational reality unfolds in the field of time and space and manifests in the interdependent relationship between the individual and the collective. Our essential self has been conditioned by experience accumulated over many lifetimes, as well as within this particular lifetime. As a result, we find ourselves in a certain place and time, immersed in life circumstances that provide the setting or context in which we have the opportunity to further unfold. In other words, each of us is influenced by the world we live in, and, conversely, each of us is also capable of influencing the world.

This relationship between the individual and the collective extends to the realm of thought. Indeed, it is a basic theosophical teaching that thoughts are things, with an energy and living quality of their own, somewhat independent of our own existence. Therefore we must learn to closely observe and govern our thoughts, for they are the breeding ground for our words and deeds. Indeed, it is only when thoughts gain sufficient energy through repetition that they are expressed in outer action. All of us are confronted by habitual patterns of thought that have been in place for a long time. Until we become aware and are able to change these habit energies, they can take us by surprise and compel us to act in unanticipated ways. No doubt all of us have experienced this.

Theosophy teaches that we have a choice. We can allow our thoughts to flow where they will and meander in the lowlands, or we can train our minds and bring our thoughts to bear on the higher aspects of our being, those noble attributes such as the development of compassion, selfless love, an ethic of service, and a life of active altruism toward which theosophy points as the foundation upon which to build our lives. This process of taming our minds and directing our thoughts is the birthing ground for our future evolution.

The teachings are also quite clear in describing how to train our minds. The proper way to do so is by acting without attachment or desire for any particular result or outcome. As Annie Besant writes in Karma, "Desire is the cord that binds us to the fruits of our actions." In the Bhagavad Gita Krishna advises Arjuna, "Do your duty always but without attachment. That is how one reaches the ultimate truth, by working without anxiety about results."

This anxiety about results is what the Buddhists call craving. We want this to happen, we don't want that to happen, and when we don't get what we want, our craving draws us away from the present moment. We are no longer in control of our thought processes, and we fall back onto those old reliable habit patterns that are responsible for keeping us locked in the jailhouse of our own making. You might say that we must guard our thoughts to avoid being jailed by them. As anyone who has worked at this process can attest, it isn't easy. It should be readily apparent, however, that this is a practice that can only be worked at from moment to moment, in the inescapable context of daily life. Put another way, this process of change or self-transformation is essentially composed of the seemingly mundane decisions and choices that are made in the midst of day-to-day life.

Why Are We Here?

In a collective sense, we are in profound relationship with the times we live in and the energies of those times that surround us. There is little question that at the dawn of what might be called the global era, when all of humanity is confronted by great problems and opportunities. Within us and all around us are competing clouds of hope, despair, fear, love, confusion, and aspiration.

It may be that at this juncture, perhaps more so than at any other time in the human story, we are being called upon to dramatically evolve psychologically. To paraphrase Albert Einstein, we can't hope to find a solution to the great problems that confront us by approaching them with the same level of consciousness that brought about the problems in the first place. The teachings embedded in the theosophical tradition are among the valuable resources available to humanity as we attempt to prevail over the challenges that confront us. Ultimately, this transformation, if it is to come, will rely on individual effort. Yet each of us, by successfully undertaking that challenge, also helps to transform the collective whole. In these times, there may be no greater calling than to try.

Originally printed in the November - December 2004 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Pym, Willamay. "Theosophy: Changeless Yet Always Changing." Quest  92.6 (NOVEMBER - DECEMBER 2004):218 -222

By Willamay Pym

The eternal parent, wrapped in her ever-invisible robes, had slumbered once again for seven eternities.
Time was not, for it lay asleep in the infinite bosom of duration.
Universal mind was not, for there were no celestial beings to contain it.
The seven ways to bliss were not. The great causes of misery were not, for there was no one to produce and get ensnared by them.
Darkness alone filled the boundless all, for father, mother, and son were once more one, and the son had not awakened yet for the new wheel and his pilgrimage thereon.

As the stanzas progress, we are taken from the One, through the development of a new manifestation, down to our present state of existence. To guide readers to an understanding of these stanzas and the book based upon them, HPB wrote a "Proem," including three Fundamental Propositions, of which she said, "Reading the S.D. page by page as one reads any other book will only end in confusion. The first thing to do, even if it takes years, is to get some grasp of the '˜Three Fundamental Propositions.'"

Those propositions, which have a fair claim to being changeless aspects of Theosophy, can be summarized as follows:

The Secret Doctrine establishes three fundamental propositions: (a) An Omnipresent, Eternal, Boundless, and Immutable Principle on which all speculation is impossible, since it transcends the power of human conception and could only be dwarfed by any human expression or similitude. It is beyond the range and reach of thought, "unthinkable and unspeakable." . . .
Further, The Secret Doctrine affirms: (b) The Eternity of the Universe in toto as a boundless plane; periodically "the playground of numberless Universes incessantly manifesting and disappearing" . . . "The appearance and disappearance of Worlds is like a regular tidal ebb, flux and reflux." . . .
Moreover, The Secret Doctrine teaches: (c) The fundamental identity of all Souls with the Universal Over-Soul, the latter being itself an aspect of the Unknown Root; and the obligatory pilgrimage for every Soul'”a spark of the former'”through the Cycle of Incarnation (or "Necessity") in accordance with Cyclic and Karmic law, during the whole term.

These Fundamental Propositions are the changeless aspects of Theosophy, from which all other important concepts can be derived. They are tenets that have been taught as long as humanity has been on the planet, to those who have been desirous of learning and whose minds have been open to all possibilities. They provide a framework within which to live our lives. It takes daily dedication and concentration to keep us focused on their importance to our growth. Of course, total success in following them is another matter. It would be nice to have conquered all the hurdles, but even without this accomplishment, it can be satisfying to be aware of what we are striving to achieve. We are told that our reach should always exceed our grasp.

Always Changing Theosophy

HPB agreed that the only thing that never changes is change itself. The truth of a changeless reality does not contradict the fact of ceaseless change. The Fundamental Propositions refer to laws of nature or rules of the game, which do not change and are not subject to democratic voting for their validity. What does change is how we view these laws and apply them'”how we play the game of life governed by the rules. We need only look at all the external changes during our own lifetimes to know how full of alterations the process is.

Change in our lifetimes has been most apparent in technology, especially transportation and communication. That change, which has greatly enhanced our physical well-being, also has a downside. We become so overwhelmed with each new discovery that we lose sight of what its effect may be on the overall quality of life. The computer, for example, offers so many new possibilities for the performance of daily routines that we are totally enchanted with it. It is too early to know what effect it will have on our relationships with one another. Personal, face-to-face contact is basic to how we treat one another. A massive decline in this contact is bound to change our lives'”how, we do not yet know. The rules of the game for how humans develop have not changed, but how we apply them is in a constant state of flux.

At the time the Society was started, the powerful basic ideas of the Fundamental Propositions were largely unknown to Western cultures or were considered to be nonsense. For that reason and because a basic purpose of the Society was to integrate Eastern and Western philosophy, HPB decided at the outset that she needed to gain attention by producing phenomena. She and Henry Steel Olcott had been assigned the task of getting these ideas out to the Western world but were given no directions about how to proceed.

The challenge of leading a theosophical life appeared early. We know what the goal was'” awareness of the universal brotherhood of humanity, implicit in the first Fundamental Proposition'”but the creativity and intuition to reach that goal had to be devised day by day. By producing phenomena to demonstrate the existence of nonphysical realities, HPB and her colleagues hoped to convince materialists that such realities needed consideration for their hidden implications and fundamental importance. Later in her life, however, she questioned the wisdom of their early procedure and regretted the practices she had employed. We will never know what would have happened had she not used her powers of clairvoyance, ability to materialize objects, and other parapsychological powers to show that everything is not necessarily what it seems.

Many of the ideas the Society presented in its early days were viewed as mysterious and esoteric, a view that was not necessarily a compliment then, any more than it is now. One of those was the existence of spiritually evolved teachers who sponsored the organization. The path by which such beings develop has been the subject of much theosophical study, including the Olcott summer sessions of 1999, entitled "The Path: Rules of the Road." The existence of such adept teachers and the role they play in the ongoing evolutionary process are basic to theosophical thought and is implicit in the concept of spiritual evolution alluded to in the third Fundamental Proposition.

In the early years of the Society, when there was personal contact between those teachers and some theosophists, their stature and its significance were integral to the theosophical view of the goals of humanity, and individuals were concerned with how they could play a useful part in achieving those goals. As years went by, members tended to shift their attention to matters with which they felt more closely connected. Today most members seem more interested in how to apply of theosophy to daily life than in how its concepts came to the modern world or how to serve the work of those sponsoring teachers.

Applied Theosophy

Because our human family at present is experiencing so many problems, most of which seem to be a direct result of human behavior (how we are "playing the game"), maybe we theosophists should realize that our time calls for extra consideration of the big picture and that assistance to prevent us from destroying our so-called civilization is badly needed. In this changing world, we seem to have forgotten how to link ourselves with a greater, more potent force, which we know is available. Maybe we need to develop a modern-day version of spiritual practices that will restore this link. To help that restoration, we can offer our services directly to those beings who are continuously striving to help in the process. If we assume that we are not at the top of the evolutionary chain, beings or forces greater than ourselves must exist and be available for our support. Many would say, "But I don't know how to do that. I can't contact them (if they do exist)!" We will never know if we don't try.

I am not suggesting that we should seek personal contact but that whatever energy we can contribute toward the alleviation of suffering can and should be offered for use by the great teachers of humanity (Christ, Buddha, or whatever embodiments of wisdom and love we prefer to envision). If we send positive energy freely for the good of humanity as a whole, it will be accepted and used. The power of thought is tremendous.

Undoubtedly we have all had the experience of entering a room where there is such a heavy, oppressive air that we want to turn and run or, on the other hand, a place where the atmosphere is so beautiful that we immediately wonder at its source. In both cases, the thoughts and emotions of those present are responsible, although often they do not realize the effect they produce. If unconscious acts have such results, think what we can accomplish by purposeful dedication.

Each day we can afford to devote a few minutes of meditation to this end. By taking the great teachers of humanity into our daily thoughts and once more acknowledging them as the vital force in the life scheme, we can realize that the Society exists to carry on their work.

Another sort of change is implicit in the third Fundamental Proposition: "the obligatory pilgrimage for every soul . . . through the cycle of incarnation . . . during the whole term." We are all progressing, and progress requires change and cooperation. Many people's focus is on personal gain. They have been taught to ask, "What's in it for me?" Theosophy can show that there is often much deeper satisfaction from the accomplishments of a group than from those of an individual, the latter tending to isolate the achiever.

If we look carefully, we can see that it is better'”and more fun'”to share with others than to be alone. For the last few years, "team building" has been a well-touted management tool. Even business has acknowledged that the creative power of the group exceeds that of most individuals. As our awareness of our interdependence increases, the oneness of all life can be better understood. Modern scientific discoveries are reinforcing our awareness, for example, of what is happening on earth ecologically as a result of our destruction of the rain forests and pollution of the air.

Whatever change we experience involves karma: the law of action and reaction, of cause and effect, of spiritual dynamics, of compensation (as Emerson called it), of ethical causation (as The Secret Doctrine refers to it), or of balance. Sometimes we think of karma in a fatalistic way: "There is really nothing I can do about this circumstance; it's just my karma." All of our circumstances are really opportunities to plant seeds for future accomplishments, not retribution or reward for some past behavior. By learning from the experience, we alter the karma we are building for the future. Instead of saying, "Why did this happen to me?" or "I really don't deserve to suffer this way," a more positive approach would be: "What can I learn from this situation?" This is a difficult attitude to take when we are hurting or angry, but the long-term result will be amazingly more productive.

A related concept is dharma. Its most common definition is "duty," but there is much more to it than that. Other definitions include "righteousness" (the ethical standards by which we live), "self-transformation" (the process of discovering ourselves), "religion" (reverence and awe of natural law and knowledge of the cosmic significance of moral law), and even "yoga" (the search for rejoining what is fragmented). Dharma is our duty in that it contains all of our potentialities for accomplishment, but it is also the entirety of our present life. If karma is what got us where we are, dharma is what we do about it.

How we make our choices and define our goals indicates how clearly we see all the possibilities of our actions and their effects on the world around us. Whether we fulfill our dharma or do not is a result of our understanding. As we continue to grow in awareness, we will more naturally live every day in line with our duty to humanity and thus be the most we can be. This is certainly a practical aspect of theosophy, especially if we are looking for purpose in life. Every experience offers a learning opportunity, and our dharma will lead us to correct decisions if we continue with our quest for growth and understanding.

Threefold Theosophy

That quest has three aspects: study, meditation, and service. Study provides us with concepts for understanding life and its purpose. An important aspect of this is discrimination. We need to learn what is most worthy of our attention and what is less important. This is not always easy, because each person's path is individual. We do not all learn the same things at the same time or with the same speed. But whatever we learn by study has to be absorbed and applied, and that brings us to the next two aspects.

Meditation is just as important as study. As with study, there is no single right way to meditate, so each individual must find the best approach through trial and, sometimes, error. The basic purpose of meditation is to change our center of awareness. Meditation is the path to self-awareness and self-understanding. It is a method of applying what we have learned in our study to ourselves and our roles in life. It is getting in touch with that aspect within each of us that is part of the Oneness of all manifestation. Some of us do well to devote ten or fifteen minutes a day to a concentrated effort; others manage at least two or three periods of complete quiet during their routines. One definition of the goal of meditation is to be completely aware at every moment of what we are doing and thinking'”and why.

The third aspect, service, probably receives the least attention from most people. We are so busy with our own problems caused by life's complications that we tend to ignore what is happening to others. We may be full of sympathy but fail to see any need for direct involvement. Yet, if life is truly One, what happens to each of us is happening to all of us and involvement is essential. Obviously, we can't all be a Dalai Lama or a Mother Teresa, but every day presents us with chances to help someone or something, and, no matter how small the act of service may seem, it is important. H. P. Blavatsky said:

True Theosophy is the "Great Renunciation of SELF" . . . It is ALTRUISM . . . "Not for himself, but for the world, he lives" . . . He who does not practice altruism . . . is no Theosophist!

One final consideration of change is Krishna's statement to Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita: "However men approach Me, even so do I welcome them, for the path men take from every side is Mine." Truth has many sides, as the blind men and the elephant remind us. Theosophy teaches that life is a continuous learning process, and to cease in our search for wisdom would be to deny our need for continuous striving and to assume that growth has been completed. Our philosophy has both changeless and changing aspects. We need to try to see what they are as we continue our journey on the Path.

Willamay Pym is a second-generation Theosophist who, at various times, has filled most of the offices of Seattle Lodge; worked at Camp Indralaya on Orcas Island (where as a child she saw its founding); served as national secretary of the Theosophical Society, Director from the Northwest, and second and first vice president.