Touching Enlightenment

by Reginald A Ray

  And many meditators, especially those drawn to Vajrayana, feel an overwhelming thirst toward experience, not simply to find openness in their minds, but to taste and touch the relative phenomena of their lives in a completely naked, unconditioned, and boundless way. This overpowering thirst to experience anything and everything fully, with no barriers but with absolute nakedness, is an expression of awareness seeking its own completion. There is an intelligent hunger within awareness itself, a passionate knowing, that only by fully engaging relative experience and uniting with it, may it come to its own final fulfillment. This thirst is, finally, a thirst to meet, befriend, and unite, not just with what lies in shadow, but with the totality of the darkness that stands behind. What hungers and thirsts in this way is nothing other than the body itself, the buddha nature.

  Within the perspectives of Tibetan yoga, the “shadow” is multilayered and potentially all-inclusive. It can include, as the Jungians emphasize, negative qualities that contradict the positive qualities of our self with which we most strongly identify. But the shadow can also manifest aspects that are further afield, that may have little or no apparent relation to the person we think we are. Beyond that, the shadow can include layers and dimensions of experience that stand outside of basic cultural expectations of what is possible or what reality is like. Finally, it can bring depths and subtleties of experience that lie outside of any kind of recognizable human experience at all: incredibly, there is even a shadow side to our human assumption that time and space are real.

  (17) Jolande Jacobi, The Psychology of C.G. Jung (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), 109. back

  FORTY-EIGHT: The Personal Body

  It is interesting how the process of intimate communication, communion, and union with the vast realm in shadow unfolds in a gradual, progressive, almost systematic manner, from surface to depth and from depth to greater depth. By way of suggesting this process, this and the next few chapters consider the layers of the shadow mentioned previously, those corresponding to the Tibetan “three yanas” description of the unfolding process, which include the “personal body,” “the interpersonal body,” and the “cosmic body.”

  As we enter the body work, typically we first meet those aspects of ourself that lie in shadow because they are in immediate contradiction to our current self-image. As we consider this first phase, it should be kept in mind that it provides the ongoing foundation of our work. In this sense, we will be engaged with this level of our shadow from this point onward into the indefinite future. This is because, until attaining full realization—whatever and whenever that may be—we will always tend to personalize everything that happens to us, to try to create individual psychological territory, a renewed self-concept, out of whatever happens in our life, including the occurrences and insights of our somatic spiritual work. This being the case, as we continue with our body-centered meditation, we are always going to be confronted with the ways in which we are trying to withdraw from the ever-evolving nature of our existence and to freeze the current situation as a bulwark against the natural cycles of life, death, and rebirth. None of this is any problem or mistake; it is just part of the creative process of our journey. At the same time, though, we always need to identify these freezing patterns—as indeed we will be forced to do by the body—let go of them, and allow ourself to move on.

  This first phase of our work, then, is meeting those aspects of ourself that are in immediate contradiction to qualities with which we have composed our current self-image. This first phase itself unfolds in steps. In the initial step—which is itself, again, ongoing—we become aware of the most superficial and obvious inaccuracies of our fabricated self-concept. This is our social persona, those aspects of our self-image that are simply reflections of what we think others want us to be, the social mask that we put on for the world. To the extent we have come to think that we are the same as the social mask, the body work confronts us with painfully contrary information. As we begin relaxing the most surface layers of tension, we begin to see all kinds of things about ourself that do not conform to the mask. We may notice that, while we present ourselves as thoroughly competent, there are parts of us that are lazy, sloppy, and irresponsible. Again, if we are trying to keep up an image of a loving and committed parent, we may begin to uncover a deep layer of resentment, anger, and mistrust, and fantasies of escape from our children. Whatever our mask, we begin to see that we are actually both less and more.

  As we progress in the body work, we find ourself noticing further aspects of ourself—in the form of qualities, characteristics, feelings, and even thoughts—that are more disturbing: aspects that we may find quite unacceptable and even shocking and morally reprehensible. This deeper dimension of our personal shadow is no longer simply in contradiction with the perceived expectations of our social sphere; it runs counter to what we think is right, good, and necessary for us to be in order to be acceptable to ourself, even on the most minimal level.

  For example, we may think of ourself as fair and impartial toward other people and then see that we are actually constantly playing favorites based on our own personal hunger and neurotic needs. We may think of ourself as kind and compassionate, then find that we are actually irritated with people much of the time. We may regard ourself as nonjudgmental, but then observe that, on a subtle level, we are constantly judging people and everything they do. We may feel that we are quite an open person, but then see that we are always wanting something from others and that that incessant, unconscious demand actually underlies our “openness.” Again, we may think of ourself as quite present, but then notice a deeper layer where we are actually continually tuning out and turning away from situations.

  Even beyond this, the financially struggling accountant may see how very easy—and tempting—the prospect is of embezzling money from his company. The courteous driver, when cut off by a rude and reckless one, sees the very realistic possibility of becoming a murderer. The loving husband finds, one day, he actually doesn’t care about his partner at all. The well-behaved suburbanite discovers insane jealousy and rageful fantasies in relation to next-door neighbors. It isn’t just the others who have criminal and psychopathic tendencies. It’s all in us and it’s all real.

  And so it goes, on and on and on. As we continue with our somatic exploration, these things, formerly in shadow, reveal that what we have been thinking about ourself is partial and extremely one-sided. As the work becomes part of our ongoing life, we begin to find that every time we try to think something about ourself—“I am this way”—we immediately see that this other, opposite thing is also true, at the very same time.

  For example, perhaps we are a teacher—always, we think, willing to see our shortcomings. Suppose we just taught a class that we think was good, clear, helpful for the students. Perhaps we are not so crass as to actually think the thought “Wow, I am a good teacher.” But we may be dwelling in a more subtle version of the same thing, resting in a kind of pleasant, slightly dulled-out self-satisfaction. Perhaps we receive some “positive feedback,” which just reinforces our smugness.

  Present to our body and making itself known through our somatic work, immediately the shadow counterpoint and correction begins to flow to us and through us. We suddenly recall a terrible talk we gave a few months ago. “I certainly am capable of that, at any time.” Then we begin remembering other muddy, aggressive, demanding, or needy lectures we have given. Next we receive a note from a student saying how “off,” confusing, and disturbing he or she thought our presentation was. All of this may then reveal how much we want to think something good about ourself, how we are trying to wring confirmation, solidity, security, and pleasure out of this situation. This kind of information may be irritating, sickening, or disturbing, but it is always informative and always deflating. What is being deflated is any type of substantial self-concept that we are in the process of trying to form. And, always, it lands us back in the body, with our totality.

  It is interesting t
hat the deflating information continually arising from our somatic awareness is not always “negative,” at least not in the way that we usually think. We may, at a certain time, be invested in thinking negative things about ourself, in feeling dejected, discouraged, and depressed. We may be feeling very sorry for ourself indeed and be quite creative in working all our experience into this “negative” self-concept. At such times, there is always this other thing nagging us, information that is saying something quite different. This could be simply knowing on some level that, in fact, we are not as bad as we are trying to think. It might be recollections of our positive capacities and gifts, genuine inspirations that keep trying to surface, or perhaps other people willing and able to suggest ways to work in and through our morass. Such experiences may be met with irritation, denial, or anger, but they serve, once again, to call into question what we are trying to think about ourself, the self-concept we are trying to consolidate and maintain.

  Of course, in our search for some kind of solid, consistent self-image, we might take the contrary information that led to our deflation and try to turn it into a reference point of some kind. If our initial fixation was on our positive qualities, then we could flip over our thinking into self-hatred: “See, I really am no good; I really am a complete fraud and have always been one.” If our initial fixation was on our negative qualities, we could take the contrary information of the body and begin to develop a grandiose version of ourself: “I am really great after all; the negative things were never true.” But to enter into this kind of thinking is, once again, to disconnect and abandon the body, exiting into the thinking process. Once the demise of whatever we were thinking has occurred and landed us back in the body, our job and task, the discipline of the practice, is to remain where we have landed, in the emptiness and plenitude of our somatic being, just feeling and sensing how it is for us just then.

  Thus, the more deeply grounded we are in our body, the more every attempt to secure our idea of ourself is met with contrary information. We are living in a situation of continual ego buildup and breakdown, formation and dissolving, all happening rapidly and without cessation. With this kind of thing going on all the time, we find ourself unable to arrive at a self-concept that is static, substantial, ongoing, or consistent. When our ego concept is constantly being challenged, eroded and dissolved, we find that we aren’t anything that we can think for any length of time at all. Rather, we are just all these things, all these thoughts and contradictory qualities and experiences, which are rushing toward us and changing in an unending succession. Feeling that we are nothing definite, solid, or continuous often leads to a feeling that we are nothing identifiable at all. In this way, our intimate dialogue with the shadowy aspects of our being keeps landing us back in the very big space of our own inner silence, the primordial stillness and openness of our own body.

  We continue with our somatic meditation, quite aware that—at least from the ego’s standpoint—there is something decidedly suicidal in the process. The more we practice, the deeper we go, and the less able we are to form a self-concept that is static and continuous. At the same time, we find that the practice itself reveals that there is no need for us to react to this inability with the dejection, depression, or despair that may be more habitual to ourself and others. Of course, we can react with such feelings; but we also see that there is another choice: rather than fall back into abject depression or into scrambling for conceptual ground—which are, after all, just further attempts to regain ego territory—we can step forward into the light. Such dissolving of the ego concept can lead us directly to the freedom we seek, if we can just stay in our body and with the somatic process.

  As we continue in ever-deepening relation with the body, we notice that something basic is changing in us. On one level, of course, each somatic exploration yields deeper relaxation, more direct connection, and a more intimate dialogue with the shadows. But on another level, we begin to see that our basic relationship with the darkness has shifted in some fundamental way. We see that we are now operating differently as a person. We seem to be living in a kind of no-man’s land, a borderland between the light and the darkness. Our ego now seems to have moved into the role of mediator, continually looking into the shadows for what is life-giving, and willingly—and even cheerfully and with humor—mediating and mentoring that to consciousness.

  Now living much closer to the domain of the body and its precincts, falling into its mystery as needed, we find ourself strangely unconcerned that we have lost the solid sense of self that we used to identify with life itself. In fact, we are no longer striving to locate ourself with a “self-concept” as such; instead, we seem to be identifying with what we might call a “self-process,” the continual formation, dissolution, and rebirth of our idea of who we are. We are finding that, through the body work, we are becoming not just a different person, but a different kind of person, much closer to what we have always wanted to be.

  FORTY-NINE: The Next Layer: The Interpersonal Body

  As we have accumulated much experience and have come to more sophisticated ideas about our body, still, in the encounter with our somatic “other,” we have to continuously let go even of these. Each successive journey into the darkness of our body reveals that it is truly “other,” always more than anything we have been thinking. In fact, over time, we begin to suspect that our body may not have any limits at all, that its very nature is continually to lead us through and through, and beyond any and all definitions and limiting conceptions.

  At a certain point, we realize that even the idea of “our” body is somehow questionable. There is something haunting us, some nearly imperceptible, yet unavoidable, sense of inadequacy in our feeling of strict personal “ownership” of our body. There is something in the shadows that wants to be communicated about our assumption of separation from others. We are meeting the shadow that calls into question our body as strictly personal domain and personal territory. This shadow is nothing less than the bodies of others.

  The fact is, the more we descend into our body, the more we uncover a very vast and expanding interpersonal world of connections with other people. It is not that, becoming more somatically and emotionally present and aware, we form new connections with others. Rather, the more somatically and emotionally subtle we become, the more we discover connections with others that have already been there, perhaps “forever,” presenting themselves as fully formed, in their existence pre-dating any discovery of our own.

  We discover, then, that to have a body is already to be in intimate and extensive connection to others. As we explore this developing awareness, we find that our “body”—far from being restricted to “me”—is actually, in some strange way, inclusive of the other embodied ones, the other people in the world. We discover that our own body is, at a more subtle level, actually an interpersonal body—our embodiment, this body of ours, has, inherently, a vast, perhaps unlimited interpersonal dimension.

  We can see this in the way that the more embodied we are, the more aware we are of other people. When we are dwelling largely in our concepts, when we are disconnected from our body, other people appear in our life as objects. We really do experience them as separate and have little feeling for their life, their being, as a subject. Abiding in our mind, we treat them with the same casual disregard and disdain with which we treat our own person. They fall prey to the same predatory behavior that we unleash on our own physical and psychological selves.

  The closer and more easily present we are to the darkness of our body, however, the more we sense and experience others as inseparable from ourself. When we meet another who is afraid, we find that fear already resonating in us. Someone else’s depression speaks within us as a heavy, leaden hopelessness. Somebody’s paranoia fills us suddenly with a kind of lurking threat. Another’s over-brimming happiness may likewise be felt within as a kind of somatic gladness, filling our senses blissfully. The more we know of our body, then, the more we find that our own embodi
ment actually includes others and the more easily we are able to be in them and as them. We see that the idea of any clear separation does not apply.

  Our interconnectedness with others can also manifest in a less direct way, as a delayed reaction. Sometimes when we are with someone else and ask them how they are feeling, they may claim and believe that they are not feeling anything in particular. But then, afterward, we are literally hit with a wave of feeling, such as anger, despair, self-hatred, or unbearable loneliness, that we know is not ours, in a personal sense. If we are sensitive, we realize that we are experiencing the unacknowledged feelings of the other. This kind of experience is possible for any of us at any time but is perhaps most common among therapists, body workers, and other health professionals. We feel what the other is feeling because, ultimately, there is no hard-and-fast boundary between us. It is almost as if, because they were unable to admit the shadow of their own feeling into consciousness, the emotional charge built up to the point where it had to break through somewhere, and it broke through in us. It found expression through us. Our own openness to their denied experience, strangely, may help them feel much better, without their even knowing precisely why. But they may say, “I felt seen; I felt heard; I felt held.” Little may they realize how somatic and how connected our knowing of them was.

  Particularly if we are healers, the ability to dwell at the level of the interpersonal body can be extraordinarily beneficial for our patients. Consider, for example, someone with recurrent bronchitis who has come to her healer for help. She and her healer perhaps both suspect—because, in alternative healing lore, grief is often said to be held in the chest—that her chronic bronchial problems are connected with inadequate love from her mother in early childhood and subsequent grief. But how to find healing?