A Wider Intelligence

Feeling for the Way

There’s a wonderful story about the Tibetan Buddhist yogi Milarepa. Having only recently begun a solitary retreat, he was in his cave preparing tea when he heard a steadily intensifying racquet just outside.  A host of demons had arrived and were gnashing, wailing and agitating.  Milarepa invites them in:  “I’ve been expecting you”, he says.  “Come on in and have a cup of tea.”

In his Letters On Yoga[1] Sri Aurobindo writes:

It is a fact always known to all yogi’s and occultists since the beginning of time, in Europe and Africa as in India, that wherever yoga or Yajna[2] is done, there the hostile Forces gather together to stop it by any means.  It is known that there is  a lower nature and a higher spiritual nature – it is known that they pull different ways and the lower is strongest at first and the higher afterwards.  It is known that the hostile Forces take advantage of the lower nature and try to spoil through them, smash or retard the siddhi. [3]

In our more modern idioms, we’re inclined to explain the assaultive and agitating activities of these demons or hostile Forces in terms of internal, psychological processes.  However we attempt to account for these activities, though, most of us are familiar with these sorts of attacks, intrusions, disturbances, resistances and provocations that upset our best intentions and aspirations.  Sri Aurobindo is indicating that this opposition becomes particularly forceful when we seriously take up the work of transformation, the work of purifying the lower and cultivating the higher nature.

Our usual tendency is to try and reject or overcome disturbing thoughts and feelings.  And while such efforts are sometimes successful, they may inadvertently strengthen and render more persistent the very disturbances that we’re trying to distance ourselves from.  Sometimes these disturbances will temporarily retreat, only to reappear later when we’ve relaxed our efforts.  What they cannot abide is a quiet and calm presence.  Their nature, as it were, is to stir and be stirred.  They seem to feed on entanglement and drama.

Now I’m aware that in speaking this way, when for instance I suggest that “they feed” on upset and disturbance, it would appear that I’m personifying these processes.  Without much thought we’re inclined to assume that the “demons” who visit Milarepa are really psychological events, spoken of here in the archaic, metaphoric language of those times.

Sri Aurobindo may be more puzzling in this regard.  He was a modern philosopher, poet and mystic.[4] Educated at Cambridge, he was well versed in Western thought, including at least some familiarity with Freud and hence with the endeavor of modern psychology to exorcize all hints of demonism from its explanatory schemes.  When Sri Aurobindo speaks of the hostile Forces, he isn’t talking metaphorically.  He means to indicate, as the above-quoted passage plainly says, that there are conscious forces at play in our lives, and these forces make use of the movements of the lower nature in order to inhibit, entangle, obstruct and mislead us.

I want to quote the Author’s Note that appears at the outset of his epic poem Savitri.[5] He writes:

The tale of Satyavan and Savitri is recited in the Mahabharata as a story of conjugal love conquering death.  But this legend is, as shown by many features of the human tale, one of the many symbolic myths of the Vedic cycle.  Satyavan is the soul carrying the divine truth of being within itself but descended into the grip of death and ignorance; Savitri is the Divine Word, daughter of the Sun, goddess of the supreme Truth who comes down and is born to save; Aswapati, the Lord of the Horse, her human father, is the Lord of Tapasya, the concentrated energy of spiritual endeavor that helps us to rise from the mortal to the immortal planes; Dyumatsena, Lord of the Shining Host, father of Satyavan, is the Divine Mind here fallen blind, losing its celestial kingdom of vision, and through that loss its kingdom of glory.  Still this is not a mere allegory, the characters are not personified qualities, but incarnations or emanations of living and conscious Forces with whom we can enter into concrete touch…

A number of years ago I came across a very interesting paper by the psychoanalyst Thomas Ogden.  The paper was entitled “The Concept of Internal Object Relations.”  Object relations is a technical term that refers to the purportedly relational structure of the mind, a sort of internal family or community.  These inner processes or objects are considered parts of oneself, though they behave more or less autonomously.

For example, the notion of an inner child could be considered an internal object.  And analysis indicates that an inner child is always in relationship to others, e.g., parents, other adults and children.  According to object relations theory, these relational configurations make up the matrix of the mind.

What I found particularly interesting in Ogden’s paper was his effort to account for the autonomous activities of these inner parts or objects.  For they behave as though they have minds and wills of their own.

First he reviews various psychoanalytic explanations and demonstrates how they are fundamentally flawed.  He then proceeds to offer an explanation that he considers more coherent.  There’s some urgency.  For he’s trying to explain the apparently autonomous nature of these internal objects while avoiding the appearance of demonism.   That is, he wants to assure that these objects can be accounted for without thinking of them as conscious, intelligent and intentional beings in their own right.  Having shown the inadequacy of other psychoanalytic explanations, there is some compulsion to offer a more adequate one in order to avoid the specter of demonism.

While I wasn’t persuaded by his argument, I was intrigued by the project to construct an explanation that would avoid the appearance in question.  Demonism, in this sense, is the notion or sensibility that what, in psychological terms, are called internal objects or parts of one self are actually autonomous, separate intelligences.  His use of the term “demon” is already prejudiced in its negative connotations and it would probably be more accurate to use the more benign term daimon (or daemon).  At any rate, I found myself particularly interested in his effort to avoid that appearance.

In his book The Spell of the Sensuous, philosopher David Abram suggests that “magic…in its most primordial sense, is the experience of existing in a world made up of multiple intelligences, the intuition that every form one perceives – from the swallow swooping overhead to the fly on a blade of grass, and indeed the blade of grass itself – is an experiencing form, an entity with its own predilections and sensations, albeit sensations that are very different from our own.”

He continues:

To be sure, the shaman’s ecological function, his or her role as intermediary between human society and the land, is not always obvious at first blush, even to a sensitive observer.  We see the sorcerer being called upon to cure an ailing tribesman of his sleeplessness, or perhaps simply to locate some missing goods; we witness him entering into trance and sending his awareness into other dimensions in search of insight and aid.  Yet we should not be so ready to interpret these dimensions as “supernatural,” nor to view them as realms entirely internal” to the personal psyche of the practitioner.  For it is likely that the”inner world” of our Western psychological experience , like the supernatural heaven of Christian belief, originates in the loss of our ancestral reciprocity with the animate earth.  When the animate powers that surround us are suddenly construed as having less significance than ourselves, when the generative earth is abruptly defined as devoid of its own sensations and feelings, then the sense of a wild and multiplicitous otherness (in relation to which human existence has always oriented itself) must migrate, either into a supersensory heaven beyond the natural world, or else into the human skull itself – the only allowable refuge, in this world, for what is ineffable and unfathomable.[6]

It’s not my intent here to argue in favor of “multiplicitous otherness” over against the purely psychological and/or neurological models.  I suspect that the attempt to resolve this difference in one way or another will lead me into an entanglement from which there is no exit.  As was the case in Ogden’s superb paper, the nature of mental consciousness is to define or establish a position by way of exclusion.  In this instance, the model of internal object relations is established through the exclusion of, and opposition (we might even say aversion) to, a sense of animate otherness that cannot be reduced to human psychological operations.  But as with so many other oppositions and antinomies, if we can resist the temptation or compulsion to have it one way or the other, and if we can come to not only tolerate but perhaps even enjoy the opening and spaciousness we find in the absence of apparent mental certainties, our lives, and indeed the whole world, appear to be marvelously ambiguous.  And it’s this ambiguity that I want to honor.

This much said, let me now follow an imaginative thread that I’ve been exploring.  It proposes to approach sensations and feelings, particularly what are sometimes called the “afflictive emotions”, as a kind of other.  In this exploration, we try to feel our uncertain way between rejecting or repressing feelings and sensations, on the one hand, and what is sometimes called “owning,” or identifying with them, on the other.  Rather, we enter into relationship with them in a soft and spacious way.  Out of this relationship, something unanticipated often arises, something new and alive.

The challenge, of course, is to approach feelings and sensations with this sort of poise and openness.  Just as we find ourselves repelled by certain persons and situations, so it is with uncomfortable feelings and sensations.  In fact, from a certain angle, it appears that our lives, to no small extent, are organized around avoiding them, or at least keeping them at bay.

Recently I found myself in a reaction to a difficult situation.  A power struggle had developed within our community, a struggle between the small group of insiders and one person in particular who felt, and indeed was, on the outside.  The more this person pushed for inclusion, the more she was marginalized.  As feelings of anger, fear, contempt and resentment escalated, both the coherence and vibrancy of the group began to suffer.  There were a host of contributing factors, and all attempts at resolution had only compounded the distress and apparent hopelessness of the situation.

As the situation became increasingly desperate, the members of the inner circle asked Cynthia and me to step into the fray.  As relative newcomers, and with a background in relationship counseling, maybe we could help move things to some resolution.

With several meetings and many lengthy phone conversations, we seemed to be making a little progress when someone threw the proverbial monkey wrench into the mix.  Up to this point, when I’d found myself caught up in the drama and affect of the situation, I was able to quickly return to a place of calm by way of my familiar practices.  But this was different.  I was swept into a vortex of anger and contempt that was unyielding.  I sat quietly with these feelings and sensations, welcoming them with softness and acceptance as best I could.  My chest and diaphragm were painfully contracted, periodically punctuated by sharp pains in the area of my heart.  The thought “is this a heart attack?” insinuated itself, and was quickly followed by a strong urge to get up, move, shake off the intensity of these sensations.  This happened more than once.  I’d sit through the urge and it would pass, as would the stabbing pain.   But the grip of contraction remained more or less constant, fading a bit at times only to emerge again with a vengeance.

Uncomfortable as this was, I’d become interested in the autonomy of these feelings and sensations, and began to explore other ways of entering into relationship with them.  These included various forms of movement, ritual, chant and song.  But every gesture I ventured felt flat and leaden.  It’s also true that in all of these exercises there was still some effort and intention to get rid of, or shift, the discomfort.

Eventually I gave up trying.  Night had fallen and I was sitting in a darkened room, my guitar on my lap, more for comfort than anything else, without direction or purpose.  As I glanced up, I saw the full moon out the window, rising through the trees, and something gently quickened in my chest as the first two lines of an upbeat but unfamiliar song entered my mind.  It was so different from any music I listen to or play that I dismissed it as one more mental distraction from the  discomfort.  But I did try to attend the quickening as I continued to gaze at the moon.  It quickly faded, however, and once again I found myself burdened with that heavy, angry feeling.

Then, in a while, those same two lines occurred again, along with the quickening sensation.  This time I did tune in, yielded to the unfamiliarity, to the otherness of it, and a song emerged unlike any other I’ve written or received.  It’s called Mr. Righteous, and is spoken/sung a cappella, accompanied by finger snapping in 4/4 time.

Mr. Righteous

Mr. Righteous came round today,

didn’t even bother to knock.

Mr. Righteous came round to say:

somebody he’s gonna

sock-it-to,

tell ‘em

a thing or two,

give ‘em a few

choice tidbits

of his superior

mind.

Old Mr. Righteous

he ain’t feeling

very kind.

 

Mr. Righteous, oh he’s stirred up,

Come and grabbed me in the heart.

Mr. Righteous, he’s spilled his cup,

gonna crash the party,

gonna cry “foul play!”

gonna make sure

you don’t

get your way

if he’s got anything

to say

about it.

Ain’t got no interest

in seeing

what lies

behind.

Old Mr. Righteous,

He’s been done a

Dirty crime.

 

Hey Mr. Righteous won’t you come on in,

how about a cup of tea?

Oh, Mr. Righteous, let’s have a little dance,

just yourself and me.

We can go round to

the lightening rod,

we can hold on tight

we can pray to God,

the Supreme Delight,

Celestial Light,

Lordy it’ll be

so fine.

Hey, Mr. Righteous,

won’t you be a friend

of mine?

 

Mr. Righteous, let me introduce you

to Mr. Coyote Man.

Mr. Righteous, I bet you’re gonna find him

one of your biggest fans.

You can get with the rhythm

you can get with the tune

you can shake

you can shimmie

you can sing to the moon,

i can feel it now

down in my bones

oh, man

i can see you

cast your stones

in the waters of life

i can see you really shine.

Hey Mr. Righteous

we can cross the borderline.

Yea Mr. Righteous,

won’t you be a friend of mine?

 

Oh Mr. Righteous, have you heard the word

of old Mr. Tater Head?

Dear Mr. Righteous, maybe give a listen

to every little word he’s said.

Oh, the things he knows

and to your surprise

every where he goes

man he’s on his toes

yes, he’s very wise

no, he never lies

and as you surmise

you can have the prize.

Dear Mr. Righteous,

won’t you be a friend

of mine?

Hey Mr. Righteous,

we can cross

the borderline.

Oh Mr. Righteous,

you know its gonna

be so fine.

Yea Mr. Righteous,

won’t you be a friend

of mine?

Together, Mr. Righteous

yes together

we will really

shine, shine, shine…

As I’ve found on several previous occasions, when I followed the lead of the emerging song, the painful feelings and sensations completely transformed, not only within but around me.  The physical and energetic contraction and heaviness gave way to an expansion, to a lightness and brightness that found expression in the playfulness of the song.  It’s as though the contraction was a doorway to expansion.  But the doorway only became accessible by following the lead that came from elsewhere.

Well then, who is this Mr. Righteous anyway?  Is he a part of myself, a split off part of the ego or personification of repressed, unconscious contents?  Is he a concrescence of affects and other unprocessed material within the community that became temporarily concentrated in me?  Is he a representation of a being in its own right, a daimon come to disturb and upset or else to help the limited consciousness make a little progress?  Or perhaps to find expression, manifestation or healing in our world?  Might this be a glimpse into a vast intelligence whose ways and weavings are beyond the mind’s grasp, but with whom we can nonetheless enter into meaningful relationship?

It’s not a question that I want to linger over, for as I’m given to imagine it, any number of cogent, coherent and competing explanations can be given from several quite different angles.  And to me, this discloses the world as marvelously ambiguous.  Who we are remains a mystery.  And as it’s been said, a mystery isn’t a problem to be solved or explained.  It simply is what it is.

The important point for me, and it’s an eminently practical one, is this:  we can learn to navigate this mysterious and ambiguous world by carefully attending what crosses our path and enters our field of experience.  When we meet this otherness with welcoming respect, with openness and freshness, a door will often open.

Guidance, reliable guidance, is here for those with ears to hear, hearts to feel and eyes to see.  And when our lives are oriented by way of this guidance, a different center of being begins to appear, not an egoic center but a wider consciousness in which everything belongs.

Several years ago I came across a passage form the Tao te Ching, though I’ve not been able to identify the translation.  So with apologies to the translator and a nod to the old sage, I quote:

There is a way of moving in this world unaided by certainty.
With mind wide open, and closed to answers,
Feel for the Way.

When we bring a welcoming, attentive and curious presence to whatever crosses our path, particularly as it appears in our body, be it the afflictive emotions, illness and pain or joy and good fortune, when we sensitively feel for the Way, an opening will often happen which is so different from what we had anticipated that the mystery of otherness, even within what we unreflectively call our own thoughts and feelings, can shine through with a luminous, incomprehensible clarity.

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[1] Letters On Yoga, Vol. 3, “Opposition of the Hostile Forces.”

[2] Yoga literally means “to yoke”.  It is the discipline of the union of the soul with the Divine, and may or may not employ the physical postures with which many associate the word.  Yajna refers to the sacrifice or offering of oneself to the Divine.  The word sacrifice, in this sense, retains its original connotation, to sanctify, to make sacred.

[3] Siddhi: powers, particularly occult powers that often spontaneously develop in the serious practice of yoga.

[4] Sri Aurobindo, 1872-1950.

[5] Sri Aurobindo: Savitri: A Legend and a Symbol.

[6] David Abram: The Spell of the Sensuous, pp 9-!0.

Copyright 2008. Michael Flowers. All rights reserved. No reproduction in any form without written permission from the author.