Facing the Third Object: An Interview with Kurt Leland

Printed in the  Spring 2018  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Price, Leslie, "Facing the Third Object: An Interview with Kurt Leland" Quest 106:2, pg 17-19

By Leslie Price

Kurt Leland is a familiar figure to members of the Theosophical Society in America. In addition to his work as a national speaker, he has contributed to Quest more than once. An interview with him appeared in our fall 2013 issue, and his article “The Rainbow Body: How the Western Chakra System Came to Be,” based on his book Rainbow Body: A History of the Western Chakra System from Blavatsky to Brennan (Ibis Press, 2016) appeared in our spring 2017 issue.

In the fall of 2017, Leslie Price of the Theosophical Society in England conducted an email interview with Kurt focused on the vexed topic of the Society’s Third Object: “To investigate unexplored laws of nature and the powers latent in humanity.” The interview appeared in part in Insight, the TSE house journal, and in full on the Insight website.

Leslie Price: You have published a new edition of C.W. Leadbeater’s book The Chakras (Quest, 2013) and edited Invisible Worlds: Annie Besant on Psychic and Spiritual Development (Quest, 2014). Besant was a supporter of Third Object work in the Theosophical Society. How can the Society today take the Third Object—“to investigate unexplained laws of Nature and the powers latent in humanity”—forward today?

Kurt Leland: During the first fifty years of the TS’s existence, Third Object studies focused on learning more about the universe of possibilities for intuition, thought, feeling, and action opened up by Theosophical teachings, such as those concerning subtle bodies and planes. After the deaths of Besant and Leadbeater in the early 1930s, the focus seems to have shifted away from accumulating such knowledge to proving that powers of clairvoyance and healing were latent in humanity and could be developed for the benefit of others and as a contribution to science. These goals were pursued by the Theosophical Research Centre, headquartered for many years in London.

Throughout the entire history of the TS, there have been struggles between experiencers and nonexperiencers of such powers over how to integrate such knowledge into sensible governance of the TS. Numerous schisms have left their scars, including distrust of people in the movement with claims of psychic and spiritual abilities. Nonexperiencers have been somewhat fundamentalistic about interpreting H.P. Blavatsky’s cautions against mediumship as a universal ban on such practices (whereas she actually said, “Subjective, purely spiritual ‘Mediumship’ is the only harmless kind, and is often an elevating gift that might be cultivated by every one”: Collected Writings, 6:329). A climate of fear, distrust, and discouragement of the development of psychic and spiritual abilities has arisen, based on the notion that such abilities are potentially dangerous to oneself and to the well-being of a group (as in cases in which charismatic individuals with claims to such powers try to take over an existing TS group).

In my role as national lecturer for the TSA, I’ve taken the following steps to rehabilitate the Third Object. First, I admit the potential dangers of development of psychic and spiritual powers—but I also point people toward the writings of Blavatsky, Besant, Leadbeater, and others within the movement that indicate how such development may be safely undertaken. There’s much wisdom of this sort in Theosophical writings, and it deserves to be better known, both within the TS and beyond.

Second, I encourage people to share their inner lives with each other within the context of TS gatherings—which may include dreams, out-of-body experiences, near-death experiences, mystical experiences, contact with deceased relatives, and so on. Such sharing deepens our connections with each other and builds lasting communities. There is too little such sharing in our society—and where better to make space for it than in the TS, where so much literature is devoted to understanding such experiences? I’ve been told that when I lead a meeting along these lines, no one wants to leave when the time is up, whereas when a meeting of the same group is engaged in intellectual discussion of Theosophical concepts alone, people run out the door when the hour is over.

I’ve come to realize that nearly everyone who is attracted to the TS has had at least one spiritual or mystical experience of some sort. Honoring that fact and encouraging further study of the theoretical basis of such experiences would go a long way toward encouraging visitors to join and groups to retain members.

Finally, I keep in mind something I learned from my training as a musician, which required many years of study of musical theory. When I was able to see the application of musical theory to a piece I was performing or composing, I experienced a moment of illumination that not only justified such study, but also revealed the composer’s practice in a new light and suggested ways of communicating what I’d learned to an audience.

Why shouldn’t our study of the Third Object do the same? The theory is amply presented in the works of Theosophical writers who were gifted with clairvoyance and other psychic and spiritual powers. TS groups contain members who have had such experiences. The art is to create a safe context for people to share such experiences and then suggest ways in which Theosophical theories, and writings, about subtle bodies and planes explain them. Then the teachings come alive.

Thus my recommendation for exploring the Third Object is not to create groups to try to prove anything about the existence of psychic or spiritual powers, or to lead people directly into the development of such powers, but to create a safe environment for discussing such things. The chief means of creating such safety is to distinguish between selfish and unselfish sharing. Selfish sharing is self-promoting: it tries to impress others with one’s spiritual status and tends to erode the principle of brotherhood. Unselfish sharing is made as a contribution to human knowledge and tends to support the development of brotherhood.

The failure of the TS to support Third Object studies in recent decades may have been the result of a loss of understanding of how these studies contribute to practice of the First Object of the TS, universal brotherhood. Even if we go no further in the development of our psychic and spiritual abilities than to empathize with the suffering of animals and our fellow human beings, we have taken an important step in linking the basis of all psychic and spiritual powers—the unity consciousness associated with the principle of buddhi, which Besant and Leadbeater called spiritual intuition—with the principle of universal brotherhood.

It is not perhaps a large step beyond that to realize there may be other, less tangible realms and beings who may also experience suffering as a result of human ignorance, to feel empathy and brotherhood with them, and perhaps through that fellow feeling, to embolden them to show themselves to our inner vision. It’s my belief that the emphasis on universal brotherhood in the TS encourages the development of unity consciousness and the principle of buddhi, and that there’s no safer way for our psychic and spiritual abilities to unfold than through constant immersion in unity consciousness in our thoughts, feelings, and actions.

Leslie: C.W. Leadbeater remains a controversial figure in the TS. As one of the few persons to produce a scholarly edition of one of his books (the best-selling The Chakras), can you see how we can come to a balanced appreciation of his contribution?

Kurt : I’ve come to see Leadbeater neither as a saint (an often encountered assessment in certain TS circles) nor as a “monster of depravity” (to use his own words to sum up reactions in some sections of the TS and beyond), but as a flawed human being trying to master socially and spiritually pernicious motivations—allegedly including pedophilic tendencies—and not always succeeding. Let me be clear that it is the pedophilia and not necessarily the homosexuality that I consider pernicious, and that I use the word pernicious only with regard to behaviors that were damaging to himself, others, and the Theosophical movement. The various exposures and scandals helped to keep him in check and could be seen as karmic interventions, perhaps even motivated by the Masters, to make sure that a valuable worker did not wander too far astray and to remind him that too much was at stake to be sacrificed for mere personal pleasure, especially when the psychological and spiritual well-being of his young male charges and the reputation of the TS were at stake.

As a society, we have learned since his time that it is always wise to make sure that there is more than one adult about whenever adults are supervising children. And with regard to persons of spiritual authority, we have also learned the detrimental effects of creating an air of superior knowledge and a charisma that bewitches people’s common sense and allows them to be manipulated or abused. Certainly unmerited claims of social or intellectual status or of wonderful if not miraculous physical or spiritual adventures—for example, the many untruths Leadbeater told to enhance his position in the eyes of others—have accompanied the establishment of spiritual movements preceding, contemporaneous with, and following Leadbeater’s involvement with the TS. Such things are important considerations for understanding the development of spiritual and religious movements within academia.

When we have set aside these personal and historical elements, what we have left is the value of Leadbeater’s teachings. I believe we are unwise if we accept them without acknowledging the personality flaws, but equally unwise if we reject them wholesale because of these flaws. Through studying various other movements, I’ve come to the conclusion that the clearer the information that is available to a teacher, the more likely it is that that teacher will fall as a result of personality flaws. They fall so that their followers are forced to take back the spiritual authority they gave up by joining such movements. This is a natural evolutionary process, and Leadbeater simply represents an expression of it within the TS. The larger teaching is that it isn’t safe or helpful for us to accept what any spiritual teacher says without examining its validity and usefulness for ourselves. We must develop discernment as well as reliance on our own internal spiritual authority.

Much of what Leadbeater taught has passed into New Age lore without question or challenge—though the people who pass it on are often unaware of its origins and may have developed or improved upon it. I think current scholarship should make those origins clear. Much of what has not been perceived as useful in Leadbeater’s teachings—for example, the voluminous information on the past lives of various TS members—has been forgotten, and probably rightly so. In general, I think the principles he taught are often valid and useful, but the details used to illustrate them may be subject to personal and cultural limitations. They can’t be taken literally, but they shouldn’t be entirely dismissed. Thus rehabilitation of Leadbeater would require extracting the principles from the historical and personal context in which they’re embedded. I’ve sometimes thought that a reader’s guide to Leadbeater’s writings might demonstrate how that sorting could be done, not only as a lesson in the development of discernment, but also as a means of assessing his legacy and influence on later developments in spiritualist, Theosophical, and New Age thought.

Leslie: At 50 Gloucester Place in London (the headquarters of the English Section) we have just had an international conference devoted to Annie Besant, with papers from several countries and the launch of a new biography: Annie Besant: Struggles and Quest by Muriel Pécastaing-Boissière. What research is now most needed into Annie Besant’s work?

Kurt : I’ve noticed as I travel to various TS groups around the United States that Theosophical lecturers and discussion groups focus on certain texts, such as The Secret Doctrine or The Mahatma Letters, or on certain ideas, such as karma or reincarnation. There is little historical consciousness, except with respect to those works. There is also perhaps a tendency to choose texts accepted by most Theosophists as authoritative. The result seems to me to be an unacknowledged leaning toward fundamentalism.

Given the vast scope of Theosophical literature produced after the death of Mme. Blavatsky in 1891, especially by Besant and Leadbeater, much of what it contains of personal and perhaps global value (especially in consideration of Besant’s powerful writings on universal brotherhood) is being passed over. Thus, within the TS itself, I would like to see an emphasis not merely on Theosophical teachings, but also on historical context within the movement—and especially on the development of skills of discernment in reading controversial works or writers to discover what may be of value, what may be outdated and require rethinking, and what may be questionable and require further investigation or should be set aside as unhelpful or pernicious.

In reading Blavatsky’s Collected Writings, I came to the conclusion that she was as much if not more interested in presenting Theosophy as a method of intellectual and spiritual inquiry than as a body of spiritual beliefs. The TS no longer seems to emphasize this method, though it would be of great help in evaluating problematic works and authors, and would perhaps be one of the most useful traits, besides universal brotherhood, for Theosophists to carry with them into the outside world, where religious and political fundamentalism is flourishing.

As far as academic scholarship is concerned, my wish is that equal attention be placed on Besant’s involvement with the TS and with Indian politics as has already been placed on her pre-Theosophical work for the free-thought movement, and laborers’, women’s, children’s, and animals’ rights. The latter subjects are academically fashionable and have led to a skewed perspective on Besant’s motivations and an implication that she went off the deep end when she joined the TS, rather than that she saw in Theosophical teachings a broader and more integrated platform (“the synthesis of science, religion, and philosophy,” as Blavatsky put it) from which to do the same work, not only in England, but in India.

Both within academia and the TS, I believe that researchers are limited in perceiving the full scope of Besant’s work by the large amount of material she produced, not only her 600 or more books and pamphlets, but also many presently unknown lectures, articles, editorials, and journals. Though a Collected Writings seems in order, the initial work of collecting her writings has not been done. There are enormous gaps in our understanding of her political work in India because the daily and weekly papers she produced there from 1914, New India and the Commonweal, are largely unknown. There are also many lectures and articles produced for the Esoteric School of Theosophy that are unavailable to nonmembers. This policy makes it difficult for historians to assess the development and scope of Besant’s clairvoyant abilities and activities.

Finally, I must admit to a personal bias against Besant’s World Teacher agenda on behalf of J. Krishnamurti. I have little confidence in most of her work produced after 1914, when she devoted herself so entirely to that agenda. And I think there are some Theosophists who dismiss her entire oeuvre on such a basis. However, I have recently been researching this phase of her life in depth and have begun to better understand her motivations. Such study has allowed me to bring a modicum of tolerance to my view of what she did. I no longer see her as simply mistaken, but as providing an object lesson in the dangers to spiritual organizations of certain beliefs and certain styles of leadership. We could all learn valuable lessons from her case.


 

Leslie Price is secretary of the Theosophical history conferences, held regularly at the Theosophical Lodge in England since 1986. He is also associate editor of the journal Theosophical History.

 


Magical Realms of the Imagination

Printed in the  Spring 2018  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Lile, Minor, "Magical Realms of the Imagination" Quest 106:2, pg 13-16

By Minor Lile

Theosophical Society - Minor Lile served as executive director and resident manager at Camp Indralaya for nearly twenty years, and serves on the national board of directors. His interests include looking for the often hidden presence of the wisdom tradition in contemporary culture.Over the years since I joined the Theosophical Society in the late 1980s, I have been fortunate to be in the presence of teachers who have enabled me to deepen my understanding and relationship with the subtle or inner realms. These might be defined as the region where beings dwell who are not visible to the physical eye.

For the last decade or so, this aspect of my spiritual practice has involved studying these realms under the tutelage of R.J. Stewart. R.J.’s teachings are rooted in what he terms the sacromagical traditions of Britain, which is composed of various elements, including the Arthurian and Arimathean Grail legends (having to do with Joseph of Arimathea, who, according to legend, migrated to Britain with the Grail after the resurrection of Christ); Celtic and classical mythology; and the Western Kabbalah, as well as traditional folktales, stories, and music of the British people.

R.J. is a prolific author, with more than forty titles in publication. He conducts workshops and classes, both in person and online, with student groups in the U.S., England, and Israel (see www.rjstewart.net for more information). In his writings and workshops he incorporates an extensive array of sources, including the classical Greek philosophers ranging from Empedocles to Plato, more modern writers and scholars such as Rudyard Kipling, Dame Frances Yates, Aryeh Kaplan, and William Sharp (writing as Fiona Macleod), as well as stories from his own experience and that of his teachers and mentors, particularly the twentieth-century British occultists W.G. Gray and Ronald Heaver.

Both in his writings and workshops, R.J.’s work centers on engaging and reawakening the imagination. He characterizes magic as an artistic science that develops the imagination in ways that can expand one’s individual consciousness and also engender change in the outer world. As I have experienced it, this is not a magic of casting spells and the haphazard raising of potentially uncontrollable elemental forces. It is a practice of utilizing the imagination to engage and collaborate with the myriad beings of the subtle realms.

The Theosophical Society has a somewhat vexed relationship with magic and magical traditions. The writings of H.P. Blavatsky are representative of the difficulties. On the one hand, she wrote numerous articles extolling the accomplishments of Hermetic philosophers and mages throughout history and describing their work as scientific applications of the hidden laws of nature. At the same time, her writings include numerous warnings against the dangers of being seduced by the allure of ceremonial magic and coming under the sway of those whose work in the occult realms is rooted in self-advantage and ego.

The early history of the TS also reveals a fascination with magical acts, particularly acts of conjuring. Henry Steel Olcott’s memoir Old Diary Leaves is filled with such stories. The rituals and practices of the Liberal Catholic Church and the orders of Co-Freemasonry, both closely associated with TS leaders such as Annie Besant, C.W. Leadbeater, and George Arundale, can be construed as forms of a magical practice.

More generally, the Theosophical tradition assumes that there is an esoteric and occulted aspect to life that merits exploration. This is essentially what the Third Object of the Theosophical Society—“to investigate unexplained laws of nature and the powers latent in humanity”—is about. Yet there is no denying the dangers and risks inherent in such explorations.

A key issue seems to be temptation. The glamour of esoterically manipulating nature can lead to sorcery, which is its own distinct form of magical practice. Blavatsky said in fact that sorcery was the cause of the downfall of the ancient civilization of Atlantis. Others have since pointed to the parallels between our times and the end times of Atlantis.

There is also the relationship between magic and science to consider. Blavatsky herself wrote that science devoid of an ethical or moral foundation is a form of black magic. It is an open question whether humanity has the psychological or physical capacity to control the energies unleashed in the nuclear age. In this sense, the stories of the demise of Atlantis seem relevant regardless of whether one regards them as historically valid or mythological.

Many technological marvels of our time can be perceived as a form of magic in the sense that they are based on arcane knowledge that only a select few can comprehend and manipulate. How many of us understand how an instantaneous video conversation with another person halfway around the world actually works? Or how I can send a document through the ethers to my printer on the other side of the room? There are those who do understand, of course, or this technology wouldn’t be available, but for most of us, the mechanisms that make such things possible are arcane and esoteric.

In any event, there is no denying that Western magical developments over the last 150 years owe much to the doors that were opened by members of the Theosophical Society and others who were influenced by its teachings, such as the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, in the late nineteenth century.

In my view, there is a distinction to be made between the practices of the sorcerer and those of the magician. The sorcerer’s works are generally aimed at self-aggrandizement or the accumulation of power. The magician, on the other hand, works for the betterment of the world. In an archetypal sense, the magician represents the capacity each of us has to bring things into manifestation through the exercise of will—purpose rooted in compassion—and the aspiration to be of service in the world.

In popular culture, we can perhaps see this distinction by comparing Gandalf and Saruman in The Lord of the Rings. Both are wizards, but Gandalf can be understood as a magician of the highest order, who is transformed from being cloaked in gray to white because of his commitment to the well-being of Middle Earth. Saruman, on the other hand, has fallen into sorcery and ultimately experiences the downfall represented by the Tower trump in the Tarot.

Perhaps there is also some confusion between notorious practitioners of magic, such as Aleister Crowley, and our own individual potential for safe exploration and accumulation of experience in the subtle realms. While no spiritual activity should be considered entirely risk-free, there are those who offer teachings that can provide a meaningful but relatively secure and protected experience.

These teachings are rooted in guidelines that are simple and logical: stay within your bounds, avoid rough neighborhoods, be aligned with that which is good, and practice appropriate psychic hygiene. Nearly all of R.J.’s books and workshops include some discussion of self-protection rooted in an ethical framework like that espoused by the Theosophical Society. The well-known spiritual philosopher David Spangler is also very good at providing a framework for exploring the subtle realms (www.lorian.org). Another valuable resource is William Bloom’s 1997 book Psychic Protection.

What does such an exploration look like? Maybe it would be informative to share a recent personal experience of working in these realms. It takes place over a nine-month period from mid-January to mid-October 2017, and is illustrative of similar experiences I have had over the years.

Shortly after the start of the new year, I arranged for a divinatory reading with R.J. using his Merlin Tarot, a deck that he created in collaboration with the artist Miranda Gray in the late 1980s. The intention for the reading was to see what the cards had to say about the year ahead. I’ve done something similar for many years, most often with the I Ching, but also from time to time with the Tarot. While I tend to hold the results lightly, I also endeavor to engage and work with the potentialities that present themselves. Often the prognostications do seem to correspond with how life then unfolds.

One card that came up showed a woman with regal bearing and flowing black hair, sitting outdoors on a wooden throne. With her left hand, she holds upright a green shield that is balanced on her lap. At her feet stands a young bear. In the background, somewhat obscured by a wintry treescape, is the entrance to a cave. In the Merlin Tarot, this figure is the Queen of the Beasts (equivalent to the Queen of Pentacles or Coins in a traditional Tarot deck; pictured TK).

There are various ways of working with Tarot imagery. One traditional practice is to imagine oneself stepping into the scene on the card and engaging with what one finds there in a way that brings the scene to life. This is like active imagination as often used in Jungian dream analysis, during which the individual reenters the dreamscape in a meditative waking state and reengages with the dream content.

Along these lines, in early spring, I decided to enter the scene in this card. After a brief meditation to center and orient myself, I imagined my way into the card’s landscape. At the beginning, the Queen was seated pretty much as she is depicted, while at her feet the bear cub was napping. After exchanging some preliminary courtesies, I asked the Queen for permission to enter the cave. She nodded her consent. She then awoke the bear and indicated that she would like it to accompany me into the cave as a guide.

After entering the cave, the bear and I walked for some distance, generally continuing down and around to the right. Eventually we came to a small, dimly lit cavern or room that had been carved out of the living earth in some time long past. On the floor in the middle of the room was a small chest. It was apparent that the chest contained something for me, so I went over and opened it. Inside was a golden key. As I reached inside and took the key, I heard a feminine voice say, “This is the key to your heart.” This information was repeated two or three times, at which point this chapter of the story came quickly to an end. With appreciation for the gift, I made my way out of the cave, and returned to the outer world.

Over the course of the next several months, this experience would occasionally come to mind, and I would wonder where or when more might be revealed, and where I might find the lock into which the key fit.

The answer to these questions eventually arrived in mid-September, at the time of the autumnal equinox, during a program that was led by R.J. and his coteacher Anastacia Nutt. The setting was Indralaya, the Theosophical center on Orcas Island in Washington state, where my wife and I were residents and managers for nearly twenty years. R.J. and Anastacia have led annual workshops here for the last seven years, exploring an array of topics in the magical tradition.

One of R.J.’s great gifts is a capacity to draw material from many sources found throughout the Western esoteric tradition and weave a compelling story that establishes a thematic framework for the imaginal journeys and exercises in the workshop. The theme of this weekend gathering was “The Magical Art of Story.” Its premise was that our stories are meant to be engaged with and lived into rather than being perceived as mere entertainment.

On the first afternoon, participants were asked to find a quiet space somewhere on the grounds of Indralaya and to carry a question with them to the crossroads for exploration. In R.J.’s teachings, the crossroads is a place of peace, where beings from all dimensions and realms can gather to share information and work together.

In the course of studying with R.J., I have made numerous imaginal visits to the crossroads. For me, it often appears as two dirt roads that intersect with each other and form a balanced crossing pattern aligned with the cardinal directions of north, east, south, and west. I usually find myself standing alongside or in the middle of one of the roads a short distance (maybe eight to ten feet) from the intersection. Sometimes the crossroads are in the middle of a forest; other times they appear to be in open country. The setting is generally pastoral or natural. (I have never, to my recollection, experienced the crossroads as a busy city street, though I have heard others tell of encounters at such places.)

This time the crossroads were in open country, and I sensed that I was facing east. A large oak tree was located to the north and east of the intersection. Immediately upon my arrival, three emissaries came forward to greet me. They were humanlike in appearance, though somewhat smaller in stature. Their appearance was familiar to me and has an association with the fairy or nature-spirit realm. They were carrying with them a locked chest that they placed at my feet. Suddenly I remembered the key I had been given and realized that it happened to be in my pocket. So I took it out and opened the chest.

Inside was a wristwatch. The words “a timepiece for you” arose spontaneously in my mind.

This was not at all what I had expected. I resisted the idea that something as ordinary as a wristwatch would be the object that I would find. But that’s what it was, so I stayed with the experience and accepted the gift that had been given.

As I held the watch in my hands and looked at it more closely, I observed that its face was opaque and unreadable, as if there were secrets about the nature of time or of this time that were yet to be revealed. Soon afterwards, I realized that the watch face looked somewhat like the disk or shield that the Queen is holding on her lap.

I then noticed a small fellow gesturing to me from alongside the nearby oak tree. He was familiar to me from my previous journeys as a representation of the oak as a species. This time it was apparent that he wanted me to join him near the tree. After I did, he led me around behind the tree and showed me the “back door” of the oak, and he indicated that I could open it with my key and enter if I chose. 

In response, I placed the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door, which turned inward. Beyond was a short landing, and beyond that was a stairway carved into the trunk of the tree that spiraled down and to the right. The stairway was maybe fifteen steps in length and led to a small, warm, well-lit room that had contained a sitting area with a single comfortable chair, a side table, and a table lamp. A bookshelf that held a few books and some other items was carved into the opposite wall. Behind the chair were some drawers that were carved into the trunk, a countertop of sorts, and another couple of shelves. Beyond the chair and table, against the far wall, was a large grandfather clock. Its ticktocking filled the small space with sound.

As I stood in the room and looked around, I could feel the timepiece on my right wrist. There seemed to be a certain resonance between it and the grandfather clock. There was also an awareness that in some way this was my room, a place that I could return to, utilize, and benefit from at any time.

Shortly after this, the time at the crossroads seemed to come to a natural conclusion, and I opened my eyes and returned to the outer world of Indralaya. It could well have been a form of cognitive dissonance, but it was astonishing to me how many conversational references there were to time during the rest of the day.

The following day, R.J. led another visualization exercise, during which we visited the island home of Morgan le Fay, the healer goddess of ancient Celtic tradition. In setting the scene, R.J. described the qualities that the earliest tales told of this powerful goddess. In those stories, she is both formidable and admirable. He also told of how in medieval times her reputation had been deliberately sullied by Christian interpretations of Arthurian legend that were intended to undermine older religions and practices.
In the visualization, we were led to Morgan le Fay’s place of healing, which was located at the base of a great oak tree. Once there, each of us was invited, if we chose to do so, to approach the Goddess and receive a gift of healing. When my turn came, I stood in her presence, and she reached out and placed her hands over my heart. As she did so, a feeling of well-being arose within me, accompanied by a sensation of release, as if some long-forgotten or neglected issue that had been troubling my heart had been mended.

We were then bidden to offer her a gift in return. Suddenly the golden key was again in my hands, and after a moment’s reflection, I offered it to her as my gift. Although my initial reaction was to feel a sense of regret, in the same instant I also recognized that it was the only true gift that could be given at this moment. It had fully served its purpose and could now be returned to the mysterious place from which it had come. With that realization, I held the key out to her, and she nodded her acceptance. I nodded in return and stepped back from her presence. Shortly thereafter, we returned once again from the visualization experience to the outer world.

Over the next several weeks, I returned to the room beneath the oak tree several times in my meditations and gradually became more familiar with its feel and contents. At times I could also feel the subtle presence of the timepiece on my right wrist. When I considered it in my imagination, its face continued to be opaque, but there was a sense that at an appropriate time more would be revealed.

Eventually that moment arrived. Again the revelation was surprising. It came during a morning discussion at the Krotona School of Theosophy in Ojai, California. The speaker had made a reference to the oracular injunction “Know thyself.” Coincidentally, this theme had also become prominent in a very spontaneous way during a workshop I had led at the school a week earlier. Suddenly I felt the weight of the watch on my wrist and looked at it in my mind’s eye. On the watch face was imprinted the word “NOW.” Suddenly the weeks of reflection on the quality and nature of time seemed to culminate with this reminder that past, present, and future all come together now, in this very moment, and that now is the only moment in which any of us have the opportunity to know ourselves.

In sharing this experience, I have tried to share an example of what one might encounter in awakening the imaginative faculty within oneself and exploring the inner realms. I have found that there is often an affirming quality to these experiences that can be of great benefit in discerning whether or not one is on the right path. If you wish to begin your own explorations, I very much recommend finding a respected and trustworthy guide or mentor to work with, either in person or through some form of correspondence. This will not only help to safeguard your experience, but can also provide appropriate orientation to whatever you encounter along the way.


 

In addition to having served as executive director and resident manager at Camp Indralaya for nearly twenty years, Minor Lile is a national lecturer for the Theosophical Society in America and serves on the national board of directors. His interests include long-distance walking and looking for the often hidden presence of the wisdom tradition in contemporary culture.

 


From the Editor’s Desk

Printed in the  Winter 2018  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Smoley, Richard, "From the Editor’s Desk" Quest 106:1, pg 2

 

As you know, myth conveys truths that cannot be expressed in ordinary language.

Here is one of the most ancient and universal myths. Once there was a cosmic being, who lived on a plane of existence on a much grander scale than our own. Something happened: a fall. We are not sure what this was—a deliberate choice, an act of rebellion, a fatal mistake, perhaps even a felix culpa: a “fortunate fault” that appeared to be a sin or an error but was in fact necessary for some unknown purpose—the acquisition of knowledge perhaps.

Of course this fall cannot be connected with anything on the timeline of history, even the history of the cosmos. That is because time and space—the background against which history takes place—are themselves the result of this event. We might be tempted to identify it with the Big Bang of physics, but I would be reluctant to do so, if only because ten or twenty or fifty years from now, physics may well change its mind (as it is entitled to) and decide that the Big Bang did not happen after all.

Often this being is imagined as a cosmic human that is composed of all men and women. But this fall caused this being to shatter into billions of tiny fragments, each of which believed it was alone and independent and forgot that it had ever been—and still was—united with a greater whole.

Each of these fragments is one of us. We imagine ourselves to be isolated and autonomous, but actually we remain inseparably connected to this universal human. We even know this truth at some level, although usually unconsciously. H.P. Blavatsky is quoted as saying, “ Universal brotherhood rests upon the common soul. It is because there is one soul common to all men, that brotherhood, or even common understanding is possible.” (Blavatsky, Collected Writings, 8:408).

Although the details vary, we can see this myth at the core of the tale of the biblical Fall of Adam, the Hindu descent of Purusha into avidya or obliviousness, and the dismembering of Gayomart in the Zoroastrian tradition, among many others. Indeed Adam, Purusha, and Gayomart are only a few of the names that have been given to this cosmic human over the course of time. I believe that this idea is also the central message of Finnegans Wake, the cryptic masterpiece by James Joyce.

To continue with the myth, even in this cosmic shattering there were some fragments that did not forget that they were part of this whole, or, if they did forget, remembered comparatively soon. They recognized, and recognize, one another, just as two people who are awake in a roomful of sleeping people soon become aware of each other. And they also understood that they had to awaken all the sleepers, not merely as a virtuous action, but because this was the only way that the cosmic being could be restored to his pristine state.

There are names for this group of people who are at least relatively awake. One of the best-known is the Brotherhood. (Of course the term is not gender-specific; it includes men and women equally.) The Brotherhood cannot be associated with any specific organization or tradition, no matter how much some may want it to be. It is not an organization. At street level, it is simply the collection of people who recognize their common origin and work to restore their common life. Beings on higher levels, which some identify with the Masters, are part of the same movement, but in other realms. We do not know much about these realms.

Some in the street-level Brotherhood are esotericists; many, no doubt most, are not. Their qualifications come not from any external initiatory rites (although these may take place) but from their awareness of their purpose and their commitment to fulfilling it. To invoke the theme of this issue, this Brotherhood can be seen as the divine seed that will bear fruit in the ultimate restoration of this cosmic being.

The Theosophical Society was almost certainly formed with some understanding of these ideas. That is very likely why its First Object is given as “to form a nucleus of the universal brotherhood of humanity” (note the word brotherhood here). Again, of course, the Theosophical Society cannot be equated with the Brotherhood in any simplistic way. It is, like all the others, merely a branch of something much larger that will never and can never be organized in the form of a company or foundation. (I note in Vic Hao Chin’s article “Brotherhood” in the Theosophical Encyclopedia that originally the First Object was “to form the nucleus of the Universal Brotherhood of Humanity,” but in 1896 was changed to read “to form a nucleus.”) But we may believe that it remains connected to this larger entity and will continue to serve its purposes.

Richard Smoley


Preparing the Meditation Ground

Printed in the  Winter 2018  issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Oliver, Lucy, "Preparing the Meditation Ground" Quest 106:1, pg 24-25

By Lucy Oliver

 Many years ago I read the following description of meditation and shivered slightly. Apprehension? Inspiration? Hard to say. 

As a darkened chamber in the high desert when all is still before the dawn. That word, too fast to be followed, too slow to be comprehended, so powerful to shake even the depths, so gentle and immovable, both speaker and listener, cause and end. Who understands it understands nothing, who declares its likeness lies; who knows it is ignorant; who does not know is ignorant. He who knows it as his centre lies, who does not know it as his centre is mistaken, for it is high noon in the busy city. (Davies, 71)                          

There’s the scene—darkness in an enclosure in the desert, apparently grappling with unearthly paradox. Seems that meditation is not for the faint-hearted! The darkness is sensory, for the meditation ground requires withdrawing from normal sensory engagement with outer objects in order to apprehend more subtle, inner sensations. Sense objects include thoughts, for the mind is classified as a sense in Buddhist metaphysics. The mind seems indissolubly wedded to its relationship with thought until, with experience, a meditator is able to take a stand in the darkness from ordinary mind, and know a different kind of perception.

Then, with senses darkened, an inner chamber is created, an enclosure, an ark in the desert of interactions with the world. It’s not a low desert of depression and inertia, when life loses meaning and emotions run dry, but a high desert, when those kind of meaningful interactions are consciously suspended. Their absence creates a desert of sense, poised and still, just on the edge of dawn—on the edge of meaning, awaiting illumination from a yet hidden sun.

Meditators in all traditions, no matter what the method or context, should recognize the description, having had some experience of those moments when “the grinders cease . . . and those that look out of the windows be darkened.” And then perhaps “he shall rise up at the voice of the bird (Ecclesiastes 12:3–4). Commonly, during or after a long course or retreat, the experience of this kind of potency can feel like a world away from the daily hubbub. It is when your eyes are clear and still, and see into people and situations instead of grazing across the surface. It is the meditation ground prepared and waiting, but at the same time, it is not merely preparatory: it is meditation. It is what we meditators have in our hearts when we start out, and what we have to hold on to through the years when circumstances, routine, or disillusionment threaten our practice.

The task of preparing the ground for meditation involves tilling the soil on a daily basis, and depends more on consistency than on some sort of Herculean effort. Weeds may be quick to grow, and especially in the early stages, the grass in the other field always looks greener. (“Perhaps I should be . . . ? And how is it that other people seem to have reaped a wonderful crop of something—ideas, writings, followers, prestige  . . . ?”)

A desert, by definition, would appear to be a poor ground for growing anything. But somehow, in the “high desert, when all is still,” none of this matters. Not even the questions: Will the dawn come? I’ve worked and I’m waiting, but will I see dawn?

Expectations of fruition, the payoff, arrival, enlightenment are the driving force behind many a determined meditator. Yet we can never know what any dawn will bring. Triumph or tragedy, daylight simply declares it all. Ideally, the true scope of meditation will slip beyond our grasp at some point, because if it did conform to our expectations, however grandiose, the real potential would be limited and circumscribed by our fantasies or beliefs.

Nonetheless, the ground is workable, and it’s entirely reasonable to expect that with proper attention, care, and consistency, conditions can be set up to know a field of potency, of peace. What is more, it’s not that difficult, and every dedicated long-term meditator will have tasted it.

But is it ground for a seed to grow, a divine seed, which is creative, transformative, living, emerging from the potential of the ground to become realisation of a new kind of life? Where would such a seed come from? How is it planted? What is its nature?                                                                                                         

The Seed

With the understanding that ground and seed in this metaphor are not two things, but a unity of aim, practice, and experience, let us examine the seed aspect. The “word” in the passage above is one such seed, and belongs in the tradition of the via negativa, or neti, neti, “Not this, not this.” Whatever can be said of it is wrong, and yet it is “powerful to shake even the depths.” It is never the truth to say what it is, but pursuing descriptions of what it is not creates a potent vacancy in the middle of the conceptual field. All conceptions generated by mind turn inward and genuflect, and mind itself comes to rest. In this vacancy or emptiness, the seed germinates.

The Word or Logos as a symbol for the creative seed has a long tradition in both East and West. In the singular, it has a specific meaning, not just the general “word of God,” as teachings or scripture, but the ultimate symbol of something very small which contains limitless creative power and meaning: a word, mere sound, vibration. In Christianity, Christ as Logos is an embodiment of creative truth, incarnating otherwise intangible truths into the limitations of flesh. In the context of meditation, the Word is an object of attention used to focus meditation, particularly when it is sound-based, as in mantra.

Some examples of sound in meditation:

From a Western source is the instruction in the classic fourteenth-century text The Cloud of Unknowing: “Take a short word of one syllable” and “hammer the cloud and the darkness above you” (Cloud of Unknowing, 69). Here the word is like a lance, aimed to pierce through the darkness of not-knowing, or to “pierce heaven,” as the author describes it, and so the smaller and sharper the word, the better.

The Sepher Yetzirah, an ancient text from the Jewish Kabbalah, says that the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet can become sound combinations and used for meditation, while you “hold your mouth from speaking and your heart from ruminating, and if your mouth runs into speech and your heart begins to ponder return to the foundation. . . . on this recognition is the Covenant based” (Sepher Yetzirah, 159).

The Vedic tradition has a well-developed system of seed-syllables, called bija. Each Sanskrit syllable, mostly composed of a consonant, vowel, and nasalization, is designed to create an energetic vibration in a particular center of energy or chakra in the subtle body. The position of the tongue and breath create a particular vibrational frequency. As a meditation technique, the mantra syllable is repeated continuously, and, interestingly, is said not to depend on conscious attention for its efficacy. Mantra repetition can be a background to conscious awareness, a never-ceasing stream of sound sustained by conditioning set to automatic, while allowing the everyday mind to get on with other things. Details of the specific correspondences in this Indian system are readily found. One version is:

LAM for muladhara, the base chakra

VAM for swadhisthana, the sacral chakra

RAM for manipura, the solar plexus chakra

YAM for anahata, the heart chakra

HAM for vishuddha, the throat chakra

AUM for ajna, the third-eye chakra

AH for sahasrara, the crown chakra

 It’s wise to note, however, that any stylized symbolism lends itself to gross handling—that is, to materialistic and superstitious suggestions that rewards can be obtained by a coin-in-the-slot approach: select the chakra you want to activate, repeat the appropriate mantra, and open sesame! A brief glance at the Internet or some of the literature will reveal that the naive literalist approach is always with us.

Repeating a mantra supplants internal chatter, and when it becomes automatic, a subliminal unified foundation replaces the scattered involuntary meanderings of the mind. It’s possible at the same time to think, speak, or engage with the environment, or, in meditation, to engage with silence while the sound is still present. The wave nature of sound permits vibrational energy to be sustained, aloud or silently, until the actual sound-quantum drops away. At this point paradox enters, for it is “not this; not this.” Or, in contemporary symbolic language, both wave and particle are present.

It seems that a child in the womb responds to sounds, so the hearing sense is operating before birth, and hearing is the last sense to be extinguished at death. The first and last engagement with the sensory world is sound, penetrating the chamber of the womb and fading with external conscious awareness at the ending of life.

Besides language and sound-based meditation, of course the breath, image (yantra or mandala), evocation, and a variety of other foci for attention are common seeds. The effects are slightly different for each, but the ground has to be prepared in the same kind of way—with psychological and physical discipline, attitude, consistency, and silence.

In the passage at the beginning of this article, which comes from the tradition in which I have practiced most of my life (High Peak Meditation), the seed-word is described as “both speaker and listener, cause and end,” and thus transcends the duality of a subject and object. You, the meditator, speak the word and hear it; are active and passive simultaneously. Although paradoxical, it’s not just a neat trick. Finding the kind of balance that is neither one nor the other, neither this nor that, is the essence and deepest aim of any true form of meditation. It does not matter whether it is a “busy” form, with lots of precise instructions and visualizations, such as certain Tibetan types, or the simplicity of Zen, just sitting or following the breath. When the scattered mind is unified, and all conceptual threads are pulled into a single focus, presence is different. Being is different. If one knows this, no other justification is needed.

It’s true that not every technique called meditation has the same aim. Some are highly manipulative and product-oriented. However, if you want to uncover the potential of a divine seed as mantra, you have to let go of the wish to manipulate, to send the sound here or there, and to make it work for you. A seed is a living thing. The germinating principle within it is mysterious, not visible when you cut it open. If you plant it, you are invoking the life within it—its life, not yours. You can see the structure, the mechanism, but you cannot see within it the mysterious germinative force that will propel into existence a tiny violet, let alone a giant redwood tree.

In some way, every word spoken or written is a carrier of information, a symbol, conveying meaning, which germinates in the recipient to a greater or lesser extent. Communication is really a transaction between information clouds, or meaning clouds, surrounding the words. So, given that we are effectively trading in cloud formations, should we be surprised how often they get scrambled and we misunderstand each other?

However, if you take and repeat a sound or syllable that has no conceptual meaning in any particular language—not just any old sound, but one designed consciously, as, for instance, vowels found almost universally—you are using an abstract seed. The advantage of abstraction is that it avoids the cloud of associations round a word, and therefore it forestalls any unintended consequences and involuntary associations from past experience which routinely surge up when one’s guard is lowered, as it must be to meditate deeply.

As mental activity dies down, repetition will create a vibration from the shape of tongue, breath, and lips, and the subtle body responds, which may release emotional knots. Systems with an abstract infrastructure, for example combining letter-sounds according to certain principles, utilize the penetrating power of pure sound without the burden of meaning, making it easier to settle into silence as the breath becomes finer and almost ceases. Such systems directly invoke the high desert.

A true mantra or sacred word/syllable is precise. The seed will germinate a particular kind of life, if it grows at all. How can this happen?                    

Transmission: The Mystery of the Seed

The mystery of the seed is more than the technique. Whatever form it takes, tradition has it that a mantra imparted by a guru or a realized teacher has power and efficacy in a way that selecting a mantra for oneself does not. Transmission, passing on or awakening inner growth in another person, bestows the precious germ of life, and has an impact on many levels of psyche. It can be sudden and life-changing, or a ritualized handing-on, but the principle is simple: if one person inhabits and knows inner silence and is present with it, someone else can pick up the resonance, as a singing-bowl resonates when it is struck. Consciousness speaks to consciousness, “deep calleth unto deep” (Psalm 42:7), so a mantra given this way has a powerful penumbra and is a living seed. Deeply planted, with the power of conscious intent, it will go on resonating its significance so long as its life is tended, but the instructions and teaching to support it are also essential if it is to flourish. Ongoing guidance puts a hoe in your hand for preparing the ground and keeping it clear.

Despite the mystique and awe associated with it, the practical reality of oral transmission is not as arcane or rare as esoteric legend suggests, although its value cannot be overestimated. One form of transmission is simply the effect of human contact—to enliven and motivate, as if the field of another’s presence interacts with one’s own personal field and the resonance awakens a response. Personal interaction is always different from reading words or even hearing at a distance. In this way even a humble practitioner through their own dedication can transmit the lineage of their training. The lineage contains the power, not the individual; indeed a personal ego is an impassable block to the process. Naturally, the more directly and clearly someone is able to see into original nature, the more powerful is his or her influence to awaken the same in another. The basis of receiving as well as initiating transmission is the development of a true faculty of discernment, and so, by both education and practice, becoming sensitive to those echoes from Infinity in the Word “too fast to be followed.”

Time is also needed. Maybe a lot of time, for reading, study, focused discussion, and debate to help nurture that little seed. Personal guidance is possibly the most important part of the transmission process. All too easily circumstances can freeze, burn, or uproot the seed, or forgetfulness can allow it to wither. On the one hand its existence is fragile, “so gentle and immovable” but on the other “powerful to shake even the depths.” And so the intangible power of the word-seed is poised against the fragility of human resolve.

Yet, in age after age, inner knowledge has been preserved and passed down. Seeds have different shapes and sizes, as lineages and methods differ, but every tree in a forest is different, and no two roses are exactly the same. In each individual form is a common life, a center that is both known and not known, and with the unfolding power of discernment, dawn in the desert morphs into “high noon in the busy city.”

The meditation ground can be located anywhere. The chamber travels with you, and the stillness before dawn is always present, for it is high noon, the hour of transition when the bells of the Angelus used to ring in Christian Europe to remind man, woman, and beast to lay down tools and take a breath, honoring and remembering the spirit—the seed within.

Then it was back to field and plow, and back we go to the busy city.

Sources

The Cloud of Unknowing and Other Works. Translated by Clifton Wolters. Harmondsworth, Middlesex, U.K.: Penguin, 1961.

Davies, W.G. The Phoenician Letters. London: Mowat, 1979.

Sepher Yetzirah: Book of Formation. Translated by Gila Zur and W.G. Davies. Unpublished ms., 1976.

Lucy Oliver has been a teacher and practitioner of meditation derived from Western oral tradition for over forty years. Her book, The Meditator's Guidebook (Inner Traditions), has been in print since 1996. She lives in London, and her research into sacred symbolism at Oxford University became Symbolic Encounters, a method of pointing out the symbolic roots in language on a path of knowledge (www.meaningbydesign.co.uk/). She was a founding member of Saros Foundation for the Perpetuation of Knowledge and of High Peak Meditation, established in the United Kingdom in the 1970s as a systematic approach to meditation based on the sounds and symbols which underlie language, and on the principle that the direction of meditation is towards the source of one’s being, common to all humanity regardless of religion or belief.


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