Quest Magazine

by Betty Bland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Cherry Gilchrist

Originally printed in the MAY-JUNE 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Gilchrist, Cherry. "The Russian Spirit of Place." Quest  96.3 (MAY-JUNE 2008):97-101.

THE IDEA THAT THERE IS SUCH A THING as "spirit of place" is very much a central element of Russian culture. It seems this has always been the case and it is certainly still true today, as we find this concept embodied both in traditional art forms and the Russian way of life. A strong element of it is based on a sense of the relationship between earth and sky. It can be argued that its underlying roots are in shamanism, the animistic and indigenous cosmology which has now evolved into different forms, but can still be found in its old forms in Siberia.

My own experiences in Russia have shaped this perspective on the Russian spirit of place. I could not have assembled these reflections from books alone; it was the real life contact with the country itself and seeing firsthand what the spirit of place means in terms of creativity and culture that have given me real and genuine insights.

Shrines and Shaman

In the summer of 2004, I set out on my fifty-sixth visit to Russia. I had been travelling to and from Russia since 1992, studying traditional art and craft; however, I had never visited Siberia before. It had been a long-cherished wish and finally, all the variables came together and I was able to spend some time in Tuva and Khakassia, two provinces bordering Mongolia to the south and adjoining the Altai region to the west. It was August, and while England suffered from rain and storms, my group basked in temperatures of 25^oC (77^oF). The landscape was a striking mixture of open steppes broken up by round, rolling hills and jagged mountain ranges capped with coniferous forests. In between were green hillside meadows, carpeted with alpine flowers and graceful larch trees. Most people think of Siberia as either a snowy wasteland or a monotonous stretch of plain and tundra, and although temperatures in these southern areas plummet to forty degrees below zero during winter, the beauty during the other half of the year is breathtaking.

In much of Siberia, shamanism is the predominant religion. Although it was largely suppressed in Soviet times, it is now making a very strong comeback, and in Tuva and Khakassia, it is the primary belief system, along with resurgence in Buddhism. Shamanism is principally an animistic religion, in which spirit and spirits are known to inhabit the world around us. It is the opposite of the dead, mechanistic universe proposed by Newtonian physics; however, it is not a blissful, idyllic vision of life, as spirits of animals, mountains, and departed ancestors can be angry and vengeful, as well as wise and helpful. The shaman is an intermediary between humans and spirits acting as a channel for healing and an agent of empowerment. It is this model of Siberian shamanism that is thought to have been the blueprint for early Russian culture, and many of its elements are still present in Russia today.

Much of Siberian shamanism relates to the spirit of place, and a striking feature of southern Siberia is that there are shrines everywhere. Gaunt branches, thrust into small cairns of stones, garnished with colored ribbons and rags look like strange skeleton spirits themselves. Every significant place has its own shrine: hilltops, rivers, rocks, wells, as well as the visitors' yurt camp where we stayed. Siberian cosmology differentiates between places which are especially sacred and those that have less significance. Although animism means that the world in general is perceived as alive, not every single feature or object is important. In a mound of pebbles, for instance, only certain stones will be seen as embodying a powerful spirit. Therefore, the landscape's spiritual contours, peaks, and hot spots are often marked with shrines.

The ribbons and rags adorning the shrines represent prayers, offerings, and wishes, and opportunities to make wishes are plentiful in Siberia. At one shrine, near a cult stone, everyone in our small group was presented with a red ribbon and invited to tie it to a twig on the shrine's branches while making a wish. As I began to tie my ribbon, I realized that the making of a wish was not necessarily a simple affair. The shrine was acting as witness to my act, to my own integrity and my clear-sightedness or perhaps, my foolishness in defining what I wanted. What did I really want after allo The sharp shock as I considered the possible consequences of fixing my desire on a certain goal brought its own insights, that reverberated and remained with me for weeks to come. The shrine can test one's honesty and commitment.

Siberian cosmology is a three-fold system with our immediate, earthly world in the center, a world of spirits and sky above, and an underworld below, sometimes referred to as settlement, sanctuary, and cemetery respectively. These fundamental divisions are common to shamanic or animistic belief systems in other parts of the world, and have remained at the heart of Russian traditional culture. But the Siberian shamanic view builds on this basic concept to create a worldview of extraordinary complexity. According to the type of shamanism and the ritual that is being practiced, the perceived number of levels or divisions of the universe may increase to seven, nine, or as many as sixteen worlds. It is a fluid cosmology, and although highly structured, it can be viewed in different ways depending on place and purpose. Adding to this complexity, spatial dimensions are not fixed, and vertical and horizontal may be interchanged, so that the perceived sacred river of life may be seen as flowing from both east to west and above to below. Siberian cosmology is a disorientating experience, with dizzying perspectives that are, perhaps, the equivalent of modern attempts to understand the relativity of time and space.

This cosmology is also an intrinsic part of the landscape and thus contributes to the sense of a spirit of place. An entrance to the underworld may be a specific cave where the spirits of the deceased may congregate, having been led there by an elk or other significant animal spirit. Features of the landscape can be entry points to another world, and sometimes there is a mirroring of one world and another, this world and the other world reflecting each other, but in reverse. For example, a glass broken here appears whole and ready to drink from in the underworld.

But at the center of the shifting perspectives of Siberian cosmology is the axis of life, linking above and below. The axis running between the two poles of creation is a steady concept. Sometimes this is represented by a sacred mountain, or it may relate to a cult stone, such as the Starushka or "Old Lady" stone at the shrine where we tied our red ribbons. In Tuva and Khakassia, many of these shrines have been in common use since the Bronze Age. Women still commonly trek to the Starushka and make offerings to her, seeking her help particularly in cases of infertility. At another site known as the "White Stone," we tried out the local practice of walking three times sunwise around the stone and then holding it gently for a short time—being close to it for too long is said to be dangerous because the energy is powerful. Our guide told us that teams of scientists have measured the stone's unusually potent radioactive energy field on three separate occasions.

In the shamanic cosmology, the world axis is not found in a single permanent location, but can be present in different places or called into being for the occasion. One common representation of the axis is a "World Tree," a small birch tree or ladder that a shaman, in trance state, ascends to visit higher realms. He or she may be helped in this flight by a spirit guide that takes the form of a horse, eagle, or crow.

While in Siberia, I took the opportunity to have a private session with Herel, a Tuvan shaman. Nowadays, many of the shamans work in clinics, a designated room hung with animal heads and skins, bones, ribbons, whips, drums, patterned cloths, and other items of power. Herel offered healing and divination, and after drumming and chanting, gave me his prognostications for the year ahead and also a spirit pouch for good fortune in the form of a little cloth bag stuffed with grain, to be hung up high in my bedroom by its braided thong and requiring regular feeding with oil or melted butter.

He also advised me to make contact with the spirits of the hills and rivers where I live. "If you have them," he added. I was perfectly at ease with visiting shrines and sacred mountains and attending shamanic ceremonies in Siberia, but in Englando On the tame hills above Bath, could I possibly find the equivalent spirits of placeo I decided to be open to the possibilities. But where was this spirit of placeo Perhaps it had been overlaid by our so-called civilized outlook, and I suspected that this was not so much the rational, scientific viewpoint, but more the romanticized, eighteenth-century view of the countryside, that encourages us to see nature as a sympathetic medium in which to experience our own personal feelings, while marvelling at her beauty. The Siberian spirit of place, to me, was something more raw, vital, and powerful.

For several months after my return, I walked the hills above the city of Bath each morning and tried to pick out points in the landscape which might be powerful constellations of energy. Gradually, I realized that this was not a kind of sentimental endeavor, but that connecting with the spirit of place was about extending one's awareness and being receptive to other forms of intelligence and life. Even though we might always clothe such interpretations in our own cultural imagery, I discovered that it is still possible to find spirit of place near to home, not only in exotic, unfrequented Siberian landscapes.

The House as Microcosm

Much of the rich realm of Russian folk culture derives from the original animistic or shamanic belief system which is thought to have extended over the whole of northern and central Russia in ancient times. The tripartite cosmology of sky, earth, and underworld so prominent in Siberia is identified in many fairy tales and folk art motifs, and is also embodied in the plan on which Russian wooden houses are usually built. Traditionally, each house is seen as a microcosm of the cosmos, and although awareness of this symbolism may have waned, practically every village house is still built in a similar way today. The ground floor, which is often an open-plan heated living and sleeping area, represents the earth and the everyday world that we know. The cellar, usually reached through a trapdoor in the floor and used primarily to store food for winter, is the underworld where the spirits of the dead ancestors may reside. And the attic, unheated and therefore used largely in summer, is the place of the sky spirits. Horses, sun symbols, and peacocks may be carved on the gable ends to symbolize the protection of the celestial forces.

Other features play their cosmological role. The Red Corner, traditionally situated in the main living room opposite the doorway, is the holy place where the family icon is placed on a high shelf, draped with a white linen towel (a long band of cloth) embroidered in red. Red has the significance of beauty in Russia, with the words for red (krasni) and beautiful (krasivi) stemming from the same root. The icon, which is ideally painted under strictly prayerful conditions of Russian Orthodox belief, is considered a medium of divine grace. It receives the prayers of the family, watches over them, and blesses them. During the anxious wait for news of survivors from the Kursk submarine disaster in August 2000, an old woman sobbed as she told a television reporter that their icon had just fallen from its shelf, a terrible omen for her grandson trapped onboard.

The Orthodox religion, adopted by Russia in the tenth century, has co-existed peacefully with the indigenous belief system that is an evolution of the earlier shamanic practices, and often described as a nature religion. Russia was known as the country of two faiths, and it is not surprising that we find this polarity of Christianity and paganism embodied in the cosmology of the home. While the Red Corner represents the Christian pole, the bathhouse, usually outside in the garden, is often considered as its opposite pole, the repository of earlier beliefs and customs. Here a bride might spend her wedding eve with girlfriends along with a koldun or local wizard conducting the preparatory rites. And here too, babies were born and then presented to the stars outside by the midwife.

In the center of the home stands the sizeable stove, that can perhaps be considered as the reconciling force between the two religions. It is known as "mother," and is the provider of warmth, cooking and drying facilities; its flat upper surface is often used as a bed for the night. Whatever the religion, no one can do without that basic comfort and sustenance from the welcoming, maternal stove.

External protection is provided by the carved wooden fretwork around the windows which is said to repel evil forces trying to enter the home. Another purpose is to frame young girls attractively as they sit and spin, thus increasing their chances of getting a husband.

Spirits are also present in the microcosm of the home. Every home in Russia is said to have its domavoy, or guardian spirit. However, like many of his kind, he is not entirely benevolent and is given to waking up at midnight and banging about the house. He lives behind the stove, perhaps representing another internal polarity in the cosmology of the home, as a male prankster contrasting with the stove's maternal warmth, and he has to be kept in good humor for the well-being of the family, often with gifts of porridge. Like many nature spirits, he is a shape-changer who may often be seen as an old man wearing a shaggy hat and a red sash, but who can just as easily appear as a horse, a snake, a hen, a magpie, goat, cow, or a fir tree within the territory of the homestead. Beliefs in nature spirits are now considered by some to be merely interesting folkloric data of a largely bygone era. But to say that they have vanished would be far from true. People still speak of encounters with nature spirits, they are painted with reverence by the lacquer miniature artists, and their presence is recounted in all kinds of tales and legends.

The Firebird: The Quest, Art, and the Spirit of Place

The Russian Firebird (always female) is the symbol of inspiration. As a sky spirit, she gives to the earth her revelation of blazing light, often initiates quests in fairy tales, and, in real life, is seen as the source of new artistic endeavor. She appears in many Russian tales which are known and loved by people of all ages. In Russia, fairy tales are taken seriously and are considered a profound element of the cultural heritage. As artist Nikolai Baburin told me in an interview, "They carry the wise thoughts of poor people." One of the finest examples of the Firebird quest is found in the well-known tale of Prince Ivan and the Firebird, in which the young prince sets out in search of the Firebird after he discovers her stealing the golden apples from the trees of his father's orchard one night. He manages to grasp one feather from her tail before she escapes, a feather whose light is so brilliant that he cannot rest until he sets out in pursuit of her. Ivan undergoes many ordeals. He even suffers death at the hands of his jealous brothers, but his trickster friend Grey Wolf despatches two ravens to the otherworld to fetch the Waters of Life and Death to bring him back to life again. After many adventures, Ivan captures the Firebird and returns to the palace with a new horse with a golden mane and tail and a beautiful princess for his bride. Although he has consistently disobeyed instructions and ignored good advice, he comes through it all, returning in the end to the place from whence he came, a wiser and wealthier man.

The Firebird can therefore inspire a quest involving a challenging journey that eventually takes the hero full circle back to the place of origin. But this place and the hero's relationship to it will never be the same again. After the trials and revelations of the journey, material rewards are gained, but love, wisdom, and enlightenment are often the real prizes.

The Firebird in Slavic Russia is also the inspiration for art. "Wherever a feather of the Firebird falls to earth, a new artistic tradition will spring up," goes the saying. Tradition also says that such a feather fell upon an area known as Khokhloma, inspiring the creation of lacquered and painted wooden-ware. The Firebird, it is believed, was directly responsible for giving local craftsmen the idea of decorating wooden platters and cups with stylish designs in black, red and gold, and then lacquering them over to produce a durable finish. With Khokhlomaware, the golden and red feathery, delicate swirls of the painted patterns may remind us of that initial Firebird's feather that drifted down to earth; though a closer look reveals that the motifs are often drawn from the natural world of berries, flowers, and ferns. The colors create a vibrant and even fiery effect, resulting in an art that springs from a combination of celestial inspiration and earthly beauty. As with the other craft forms, the mythic dimension and symbolic attributions are taken very seriously; the Khokhloma colors are interpreted as black for compassion and suffering, red for energy and beauty, and gold for hope and eternal life. Although they may have humble mundane uses, Russian crafts are created with consummate skill and artistry, and are imbued with rich symbolism, some of which dates back to ancient times.

When an artistic or craft tradition becomes established in a particular place, a strong sense of the spirit of that place builds up. The artists' love of their village merges with their pride in the art itself. The first time that I set eyes on a Russian lacquer miniature depicting a scene from the story of Prince Ivan and the Firebird, I felt that there was something of the soul of Russia embodied in it. Each of the four different villages where this art is practiced—Kholui, Palekh, Fedoskino and Mstiora—has its own style of art, its own character and atmosphere, as well as a workshop, training school, and museum with breathtaking displays of miniatures. My first visit to the villages had a sense of the mythic about it and I regarded my trip as something of a pilgrimage. I could not imagine who these semi-divine beings were who created such magical miniatures. Of course, as it turned out, they were simply people—warm-hearted, sensitive, intelligent artists whose magic was that they combined the practice of fine art with an earthy, traditional life, where planting the season's potatoes might be just as important as putting the finishing touches to delicate gold ornament on an exquisite miniature. Artists in all four lacquer miniature villages are immensely proud of their art and the place that gave birth to it. Each village vigorously affirms its own identity, the superiority of its own spirit of place, while paying respectful tribute to their colleagues in the other three villages. The character of each village becomes enshrined in the art too, since the graceful white church of Kholui appears in many of the miniatures' landscapes, as do the winding river of Fedoskino, the fair at Mstiora, and the scenes of mushroom and berry picking at Palekh. As well as being a symbol of artistic inspiration, the Firebird is present in the art in the miniatures and she is stamped as a trademark on boxes from Palekh and Kholui.

My visits to the villages were often idyllic, though as time went on, I learned that the compelling spirit of place is not just about picnics in the forest and parties in the snow. I discovered that Russians' merry-making, as well as their permanent quest for art and beauty, is often a counterbalance to the harsh life in a social climate where medical resources are poor, early death is a distinct possibility, and the vagaries of changing times create terrible financial pressures and lack of security. But I also recognized that the mixture of joy and tragedy with which their lives was so often marked, was also distilled into their work and it colored, too, the spirit of the place in which they lived.

Russia is an enigmatic and mysterious country, that has survived many harsh regimes and political upheavals. It cannot be understood simply by reading the history books or watching reports on the media. One can only touch on the enduring spirit of Russia by studying the relationship of its people to land and sky, and becoming absorbed in the culture that this generates, whether it is shamanism or the fine art of a lacquer miniature. The perception of this relationship can be responsible for fashioning the construction of the home, evoking a landscape inhabited by spirits, and producing a creative and colorful range of craftwork. It is this spirit, imbibed to some degree by practically every visitor to Russia, that leaves most foreign visitors feeling uplifted, enthused, and energized as they return home, despite the sometimes grim political and urban conditions they may encounter. The Russian spirit of place is perhaps the prime element that ensures the continuation of Russian culture, and the survival of Russian people during difficult times.

References

Afanasiev, Aleksandr. trans. Norbert Guterman. Russian Fairy Tales. New York: Random House, 1973.
Gilchrist, Cherry. Russian Lacquer Miniatures. Bristol: Firebird Publications, 1999.
Haney, Jack V. An Introduction to the Russian Folk Tale. Armonk, New York & England: M. E. Sharpe Inc., 1999.
Hilton, Alison. Russian Folk Art. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1995.
Ivanits, Linda J. Russian Folk Belief. Armonk, New York & England: M.E. Sharpe Inc., 1992.
Krasunov, V. K. (ed) Russian Traditions. Nizhni Novgorod: Kitizdat, 1996.
Milner-Gulland, R. The Russians. USA: Blackwell, 1997.
Rozhnova, P. A Russian Folk Calendar. Novosti, Moscow, 1992
Ryan, W. F. The Bathhouse at Midnight: Magic in Russia. Stroud: Sutton Publishing Ltd., 1999.
Warner, Elizabeth and Alexander Koshkin. Heroes, Monsters and Other Worlds from Russian Mythology. Oxford, UK: Eurobook, 1985.

Cherry Gilchrist has published widely on mythology, traditional culture, and inner traditions. Her books include The Elements of Alchemy, Stories from the Silk Road, and Divination. Cherry has visited Russia more than fifty times in search of beautiful lacquer miniatures and the rich folk heritage of Russian lore and craft. Cherry is also a lecturer, and teaches Life Story writing. Her latest book The Soul of Russia: Magical Traditions in an Enchanted Landscape is now available (Floris Books, UK) and will appear in the United States under the title Russian Magic: Living Folk Traditions of an Enchanted Landscape, (Quest Books 2009). The author's website is www.cherrygilchrist.co.uk.

VOLUME 96, NUMBER 3

Along the Way
By Betty Bland

One Woman's Journey Around Mount Kalish
By Tracey Alysson

A Pilgrimage into Light: Discovering Islamic Theosophy
By Edward Mathew Taylor

The Russian Spirit of Place
By Cherry Gilchrist

Sacred Sights on Santorini
By David R. Bishop

Explorations: A Pilgrimage of Silence in the Land of John of the Cross and Teresa of Avila
By Robert Trabold

By Edward Mathew Taylor

Originally printed in the MAY-JUNE 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Taylor, Edward Mathew . "A Pilgrimage into Light: Discovering Islamic Theosophy." Quest  96.3 (MAY-JUNE 2008):93-95, 107.

MY ADVENTURE OF DISCOVERY BEGAN in 1987 in Seattle, Washington, when I joined the Seattle Lodge of the Theosophical Society and began studying the Theosophy of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky and Tibetan Buddhism. Like many people who are new to Theosophy, I felt it advantageous to begin a practice in meditation.

Having just gone through a divorce, I had been attending a church in Seattle where everyone seemed too happy. No one could give me an intelligent explanation for why things fall apart. Although I appreciated the need for maintaining a positive attitude, I was still doing damage assessment and trying to understand my role in what had happened.

I sensed Theosophy might offer some answers. Theosophy begins with self-examination and understanding the Laws of Karma: cause and effect or, put another way, what goes around comes around. I could see that I was the cause of much of my own sorrow. At the same time, I became intrigued with finding the Lost Horizon—the Pure Land—the closely held secret teachings that made Tibet the quest of spiritual inquirers throughout the centuries.

I learned about the Masters who had instructed H. P. Blavatsky. I, too, wanted to find "the jewels," so I started studying Buddhist meditation with a couple who had lectured at the Seattle Lodge of the Theosophical Society. It was harder than anticipated. No one could show me how to quiet my "monkey mind" while attempting to meditate.

My lessons in Tibetan Buddhism in Seattle were suddenly cut short in 1989 when my company transferred me to Dallas, Texas. Seven years later, while still in Dallas, an unprecedented opportunity came my way. An acquaintance recommended that I travel to Houston to meet a Tibetan teacher who was assisting with writing a book at Rice University. He represented the Bön religion, which predated traditional Buddhism in Tibet. (He is its world teacher and is now based in Charlottesville, Virginia.) I did not know anybody in Houston, so I found a hotel room and simply showed up for the teachings.

As was the case with other sects of Tibetan Buddhism, Bön was decimated after the Chinese invasion of Tibet. Many Bönpo practitioners came to America for help in rebuilding what was lost, but unlike the other sects of Tibetan Buddhism that have been in the United States for decades, the Bönpo have only been here since 1989 when the Dalai Lama officially proclaimed Bön as the fifth school of Tibetan Buddhism.

Tibetan Bön traces its origin to a Buddha, Tonpa Shenrab, who lived some 18,000 years ago, making this one of the oldest spiritual traditions on the planet. Its place of origin may not have been Western Tibet, but a "lost kingdom" further west in Central Asia. The highest teachings of Bön are the Dzogchen teachings and the attainment of the Rainbow Body in which practitioners experience a metamorphosis of flesh, literally transforming into light—an altogether different definition of enlightenment. For the Bönpo, the term represents a literal, physical transformation of the human body onto a higher evolutionary photonic platform.

I could not believe what I was hearing. These were the jewels of the lost horizon! My experience in Seattle had led me to believe that I would have had to be a trusted practitioner for many years before I would be entrusted with something like this. Yet here I was—a complete stranger!

I shared my amazement with the people in the audience. One person said Bön wanted to differentiate itself from the other Tibetan schools already in the United States. I expressed my doubts about whether most Americans could appreciate something like this. Another person suggested that the teachings protect themselves, in that people who are not prepared for the teaching simply will not make a long-term commitment to it. I counted my blessings and immediately began a daily practice of structured breathing; concentrating, with eyes wide open without blinking and focusing on a luminous rainbow circle on a stick at eye-level, surrounding the Tibetan letter "Ah."

The next landmark in my pilgrimage was a sudden introduction to Islam. Like most Americans, Islam suddenly entered my awareness on September 11, 2001. I knew absolutely nothing about Islam, but the event motivated me to take an unread copy of the Qur'an off my library shelf and read it. Reading the Qur'an, I was stunned by how it was written. The angel Gabriel is instructing Muhammad in the present tense. Consequently, when reading the Qur'an, it is as if the angel is speaking directly to the reader.

Islam ties the teachings of the Hebrews and the Christians together in one final prophecy. I had read both the Old and New Testaments of the Bible, and this made sense to me. I was also looking for something that could connect Western and Eastern thought. Perhaps this was it. While the Arabic culture seemed quite foreign to me, I could accept the Islamic teaching of an eternal, all-encompassing, unimaginable One, who has no partners, progeny, or anthropomorphic characteristics.

Nine months later, I decided to make a commitment to Islam. At that time, I worked for a technology company where many Muslims were employed. I asked a Saudi Arabian project manager I had come to know how one becomes a Muslim. He arranged for me to attend the local mosque and, on the day I took early retirement from my company, I declared the Shahadah: "Ash-shadu an la ilaha illallahu wa Muhammadur rasulullah" (There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger), and became a Muslim (one who surrenders to Allah, the all-encompassing One).

In reference to the events that occurred on September 11, 2001, I should note that I have never heard any Muslim advocate violence against innocent people. The Qur'an is very specific in teaching that killing innocent people is a seriously grievous sin. As one of my Muslim friends explained to me, this was clearly an extremist political act and not in any way a religious one.

Six months later, after moving to San Francisco, California, I shared my conversion to Islam and my experience with Tibetan Bön with a Persian professor I had met from the University of California in Berkeley. I was stunned by what he brought me the following week. It was a book, The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism by Henri Corbin; a presentation of The Wisdom of Illumination formulated by Amirak as-Suhrawardi, the reviver of the Hermetic Gnosis in Islam in the twelfth century. The book is an exegesis of the teachings of Light Body enlightenment in Islam.

I felt as if the Lost Horizon had opened and from this point on, became preoccupied with seeking an answer to an altogether new set of questions: Where did the whole concept of light body enlightenment originate? And how on earth did it find its way into Islam?  Indeed, this appeared to be the Rainbow Bridge that links the East with the West—Buddhism with Biblical tradition—another set of priceless jewels.

Originally written in French, only a fraction of Corbin's writing has been translated into English. In The Man of Light, Corbin suggests that the photisms of light that one can naturally see within the eyes in darkness are soul-generated. In Tibetan Bön, one learns through meditation exercises in the dark, called Thogal practice, to rest in the natural arising of these inner lights, and not grasp at them when they occur. One encounters these visions in seven-week "Dark Retreats," where one waits for these visions to appear in a room with no light. Food and water are provided through a light-proof closet. Originally, these Dark Retreats were practiced in caves in the mountains of Tibet.

After death, similar visions appear in the Bardo—the intermediary state between death and rebirth. If, having practiced Thogal, one has learned to naturally rest in these visions and not grasp them when they appear in the Bardo, the cycle of rebirth will be broken. They become a Rainbow Body, or a Body of Light. According to Corbin, similar meditation exercises existed in Islam as well as in Buddhist Tibet. Corbin calls this physical metamorphosis into light the ultimate "Theophany."

In The Man of Light, Corbin summarizes the teachings of Najm Razi, an Islamic master-teacher who offers an entire hierarchy of subtle organs of light and color that reside in the human body that he associates with the Prophets of Islam and calls the "Seven Prophets of Your Being."

The first of these organs is called the'subtle body,' or the embryonic stage of the'new body.' This is called the Adam of your being. This is white light, the sign of Islam [surrendering to the all-encompassing One].

The second organ corresponds to the'human soul,' and is called the Noah of your being. This is yellow light, the sign of the fidelity of faith.

The third organ corresponds to the'heart,' and is called the Abraham of your being. It is dark blue light [indigo], the sign of benevolence.

The fourth organ corresponds to the'secret threshold of superconsciousness,' and is called the Moses of your being. It is green light, the sign of pacified soul.

The fifth organ corresponds to the'spirit,' and is called the David of your being. It is azure blue, the sign of firm assurance.

The sixth organ corresponds to what might best be described as the 'theophanic witness' [arcanum], the Holy Spirit of God [this is not viewed in Islam as a separate entity from Allah], and is called the Jesus [Isa] of your being. It is red, the sign of mystical gnosis, or'theosophical knowledge, the Nous, or Active Intelligence.

The seventh organ corresponds to the'divine center of your being,' and is called the Mohammad of your being where one becomes the mouthpiece of God. It is black light, the sign of passionate, mystical love (107, 124, 126).

In Tibet, it is the Rainbow Body. To me, these seven organs suggest the physiology of color of Goethe, while the seven colors bring to mind the work of Sir Isaac Newton.

According to Corbin, this gradation of color reflects the process of this Theophany. Corbin suggests that one can evaluate one's progress on the path by identifying the predominant color of the internally generated photisms one is able to witness during these meditation practices in the dark. (Corbin actually goes so far as to suggest that, subconsciously, these colors are reflected in the favorite colors of the clothing people wear.)

The key to attaining this kind of Theophany, according to Corbin, is to declare one's poverty (the root meaning of the word "dervish"). In the Tibetan schema, this might constitute affirming one's essential emptiness. To experience these photisms, one must be open and cease to grasp or attempt to appropriate them when they occur. Corbin references Islamic text to this effect: "Renounce seeing, for here it is not a question of seeing." It is a process of surrendering; of releasing into bliss. This process of photonic metamorphosis has remarkable similarities to the Dzogchen teachings of Tibet.

How did the Light Body teachings enter into Islam? Corbin does not specifically address this question in The Man of Light, but he does provide some hints in his book, History of Islamic Philosophy. According to Corbin, during the thirteenth-century Mongol invasions, Islamic scholars who were situated in Central Asia, known as Outer Persia fled westward to Iran. It is possible that the medieval Persian influence in the area could mirror the current Islamic footprint, which extends into Kashmir and approximates Bön's place of origin.

Najm Kobr, an Islamic master-teacher, was among those who fled Central Asia to Iran. It is possible that Najm Kobr and others may have documented the teachings and practices of Tibetan Bön and introduced them into esoteric Islam. Finding an Islamic teacher familiar with this was the next stage of my journey.

In 2005, soon after completing my graduate studies in San Francisco, I befriended a software consultant who translated the Arabic sermons at the local mosque into English. This was a man I trusted completely, and when he mentioned that he and his wife were thinking of making the annual pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia, I surprised him by asking if he would take me with him. He surprised me when he agreed.

The journey required a great deal of rigorous preparation. There were specific prayers I needed to memorize in Arabic and we had to chart out certain rituals that needed to be done on specific days without fail. We contacted one of the many firms that offer Hajj (pilgrimage) packages with hotel accommodations, meals, and transportation included. They would guide us every step of the way and, at that time, I had the necessary funds to be able to make the trip.

Over a period of time and through serious spiritual investigation, my trip to Mecca three years ago was an unprecedented outward expression of what has become a deeply-rooted inner reality. I simply do not possess the ability to describe what it is like to hear the Adhan (the Islamic Call to Prayer) ringing over loudspeakers all throughout the streets of Mecca, in a sea of over three million people—men and women—dressed in white robes, all concentrated in the same place, lined up in ranks to pray, foot-to-foot, kneeling on the cut marble flagstones of the Grand Mosque of Mecca—Al Haram (the Sanctuary)—bowing their foreheads to the floor. It was an experience that has been forever branded into my audio-visual memory store.

The Grand Mosque of Mecca is about the size of an American professional baseball park. It has spiritual significance for Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike. It is the place where Hagar, the first wife of Abraham, took Ishmael, Abraham's firstborn son into the desert.

In the Biblical account, Hagar traversed between two hills looking for a well. Her tracks have long since disappeared from the long concourse that stretches along the back of the Mosque, but the two hills, Safa and Marwa, are still there, and the fabled well, the Zamzam spring, still produces water after all these years.

According to the Muslim version, Abraham designed and built the Ka'ba, the focal point of all Muslim prayer around the world, on a spot that God designated by sending down a stone from heaven. Abraham implanted the Black Stone in the corner of the Ka'ba where it remains to this day. Pilgrims journey to Mecca to see and touch the Ka'ba and to circumambulate the structure seven times in a counter-clockwise direction (the same direction in which the Bönpo circumambulate their stupas). Many people do not realize that the ultimate destination of the Muslim pilgrimage is not Mecca, but Arafat, a hilltop far out in the Saudi Arabian desert, where Abraham received his calling as a prophet on the Mount of Mercy. Five days of the Hajj are spent out in the desert, journeying to and from Arafat.

The purpose of the pilgrimage is not to simply visit these places. The intent is for each and every pilgrim to experience in some way what Abraham and Hagar experienced: a calling to serve the eternal, all-encompassing One, who has no partners, progeny, or anthropomorphic characteristics. Those who debate the legitimacy of the pilgrimage simply do not appreciate the value and purpose of the journey.

Six months after we returned home to San Francisco, my friend and Hajj companion was transferred, ironically, to Houston, Texas. Thus, our journey to Mecca was a window of opportunity that was opened to me for only a brief while, and I was wise enough to take advantage. As I resumed reading Henri Corbin, I learned that the cave in the mountains above Mecca where Mohammad received his revelations is referred to by many Muslims as the cave of the lights of prophecy. "Allah guides to his Light whom he wills" (Qur'an, 24:35).

The Theosophical perspective considers life itself to be a sacred journey. If we approach our experiences in this way, then even the small and mundane can become touched with divinity. This is a gift we can share with everyone we live and work with, especially our own children and the younger generations.

References

Corbin, Henri. The History of Islamic Philosophy. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006.
———. The Man of Light in Iranian Sufism. New Lebanon, NY: Omega Publications, 1994.

Edward Mathew Taylor has been engaged in a personal, experiential inquiry into the world's revealed religions and became a member of the Theosophical Society twenty years ago. After retiring from the corporate world, he returned to school to pursue a Master's degree in Fine Arts. Taylor has developed an artistic portfolio of over one hundred pencil drawings and several written manuscripts. He lives and works in San Francisco, California