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Posts Tagged ‘mysticism’

When I started blogging in 2009, I thought I was embarking upon something radically different from anything I’d ever done before. Now I am fairly sure that was not the case.

Recently I went back to my journal entries of 1982 because I wanted to read through the notes I had taken from Peter Koestenbaum’s book New Image of the Person: Theory and Practice of Clinical Philosophy. Because I wanted to catch all the quotations, I read through the pages of my journal more carefully than I usually do when only checking out a date or a name. It didn’t take long to show that it had taken me over a month to read the book, and my notes are interspersed with personal, psychological, existential and spiritual reflections, with groups of quotations from other books I was also reading at the same time thrown in, including Albert Camus’s The Plague. A very familiar pattern that clearly hadn’t started with this blog.

Basically, my diary was where I did all my thinking before I transferred part of it to my blogging. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose! The only real difference is that my diary was not in the public domain.

Levels of Consciousness 

In looking at my Koestenbaum notes I find many things I will want to come back to in due course. The first thing that is perhaps worth flagging up, given the themes I have explored on this blog, is the section of notes about levels of consciousness.

If you had asked me on oath where was the first place I had read about this idea I might have said Jenny Wade or Jeremy Rifkin, with a possible nod at Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs. I’d know it couldn’t have been  Ken Wilber or Kazimierz Dąbrowski, neither of whom I read on the subject till much later. It would never have occurred to me that Koestenbaum was even in the mix, let alone the first person to run those words past my brain.

What does he have to say about levels? Well, part of the reason I still resonate to some of what he says is that it is rooted in the process he calls reflection, which I have dealt with at length on this blog. This basically involves separating consciousness from its contents to the maximum extent possible, a process he tracks through various stages.

Koestenbaum’s model boasts six levels. He explains these over half a dozen pages or so (pages 77 -82).

The first stage, our starting point as it were, is where there is ‘no experienced distance between consciousness and object… we call this condition of consciousness the animal consciousness.’ The act of stepping back brings you to the second level: “eidetic or abstract consciousness,” in short to the ability to think. Next we reach “individual consciousness… [t]his level of consciousness thinks of itself as an individual and isolated self…’

This is where it really begins to get interesting.

The next ‘deepened level of consciousness is called the intersubjective or intimate consciousness… Two people do not feel like two individuals in one bipolar field, where each individual consciousness is an object to the other; they feel like a combined subjective core to which a world of objects is given in common.’ He uses the analogy of two space modules docking: “when they finally lock into each other, a common door is opened, their space is stretched and expanded, and a larger and communal inner space is created.”

What I am going to say now is extremely subjective. I’m going to say it anyway. When I was working well as a therapist, how I experienced the interaction between the client and me is almost exactly captured by those words. I felt as though I was in a quasi-meditative state which had opened an airlock, to borrow from his metaphor, in between my consciousness and the client’s, and the client had reciprocated. All sorts of factors could interfere with that process either on my side or on theirs, however it happened sufficiently often to make effective therapy possible.

As I reflect on this thought now, it seems to me that for consultation in a Bahá’í sense to work (something I have also explored at great length on this blog), something analogous has to happen at a group level. This is where he goes next, I think.

The fourth stage he labels ‘social or communal consciousness… It is the experience of unity with a large number of conscious centres over a long period of time.’ I don’t think by this he necessarily means the hive effect Haidt describes in The Righteous Mind. That promotes not wisdom but instinctive groupthink, or on a larger scale harmless collective, or sometimes even dangerous mob behaviour, rather than reflective cohesion of any kind.

I can again subjectively attest to something like this happening when I worked over a period of 25 years with a small group of others sincerely attempting to make decisions about all kinds of matters from the mundanely practical, through the highly emotional to the deeply spiritual. The group changed its members one or two at a time over the years as a result of an annual electoral process, but this did nothing to impair the sense of collective consciousness, one which, far from creating mindless conformity, encouraged the honest expression of diverse opinions while containing such differences within an ultimately harmonious frame.

The next two levels I have no personal experience of myself, but feel that the mystical literature testifies to something of this kind, including at points the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh.

The fifth stage is ‘cosmic consciousness’ where ‘the social consciousness becomes now the object of our consciousness… With this reduction we have reached the experience of universality.’

This may be at least in part what Bahá’u’lláh is describing when, in the Seven Valleys, He writes (page 18):

[The wayfarer] looketh on all things with the eye of oneness, and seeth the brilliant rays of the divine sun shining from the dawning point of Essence alike on all created things, and the lights of singleness reflected over all creation

He explains that differences are in the eye of us as beholder. He describes how the light we see is affected by the object it falls upon (page 19):

. . . colours become visible in every object according to the nature of that object. For instance, in a yellow globe, the rays shine yellow; in a white the rays are white; and in a red, the red rays are manifest.

This does nothing to detract from the pure whiteness of the original light itself, its inclusion of all differences in one. I absolutely believe in the reality of this level of awareness, even though it has eluded my consciousness so far. The essential unity of all things is hard to discern behind the material differences.

And the sixth and last level is even further beyond my reach. It is ‘the eternal now… when even space and time become the objects of the intentional stream of consciousness. The subjective core which has succeeded in making an object of cosmic consciousness experiences itself outside of space and time.’

Rovelli has managed to explain lucidly how at least one theory of physics suggests there is such a realm wrapped inside quantum reality.

He believes that the evidence as we best understand it, from a loop theory point of view (he’s not a fan of string theory), is that matter is not infinitely divisible and there comes a point where it cannot be divided anymore at the quantum level. When he is talking about space, the quanta he is concerned with are the quanta of gravity, which constitute space itself (page 148): ‘the quanta of gravity, that is, are not in space, there are themselves space.’ What is crucial is the relationship between particles, their interconnections. He clarifies this by saying (page 150):

Physical space is the fabric resulting from the ceaseless swarming of this web of relations. The lines [between quanta] themselves are nowhere; they are not in a place but rather create places through their interactions. Space is created by the interaction of individual quanta of gravity.

This is how space disappears. Now for time (page 158):

We must learn to think of the world not as something which changes in time but in some other way. Things change only in relation to one another. At a fundamental level, there is no time. Our sense of the common passage of time is only an approximation which is valid for our macroscopic scale. It derives from the fact that we perceive the world in a coarse-grained fashion.

I think all this may go some way to explaining why I found Koestenbaum so fascinating in the first place and why I feel moved to revisit the notes I took all those years ago. Also I feel that my previous habit of restricting my quotes from his book to those relating to reflection only has rather sold him short. This is the beginning of my attempt to make up for that.

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Folk who write poetry are interested in stress-testing the language almost to destruction, to determine the poundage it can bear before it cracks.

(From John Glenday‘s Poetry Hero in the Autumn 2011 issue of the Poetry Society‘s Poetry News)

Sometimes I feel that my literary tastes are locked into the Nineteenth Century and before. My recent post on Farley and Roberts’s book Death of the Poets has reminded me of my problem with modern poetry, something I’ve been avoiding recently. I may have to take another look: until I do, this republished sequence explains clearly where and why I got stuck before. This is the first of four relatively brief posts on the subject.

After examining briefly some possible reasons for supposing a puzzle is good for a poem and looking at the risks that being too puzzling entails, in this sequence of posts I am going to consider one or two examples of where, for me, the puzzles destroy the poems.

The two earlier posts on the experience of poetry indicate clearly that I’m with Glenday when he writes (ibid):

The way to inspiration lies through an intuitive examination of the physical world because everything means helplessly more than itself.

He quotes the poet Charles Wright in support:

To look hard at something, to look through it, is to transform it,
Convert it into something beyond itself, to give it grace.

(Looking Around III)

This sits well with mystical ideas such as those in the Writings of the Bahá’í Faith:

Every created thing in the whole universe is but a door leading into His knowledge, a sign of His sovereignty, a revelation of His names, a symbol of His majesty, a token of His power, a means of admittance into His straight Path. . . .

(Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh: LXXXII)

(The link to the post below on A World in a Grain of Sand explores this further)

But can the wrenching of language he refers to, which is presumably meant to serve this end, go too far?

John Fuller, a poet I have greatly enjoyed reading, discusses this problem in his engaging book Who is Ozymandias? (and other puzzles in poetry). He helped me to see where my problem lies though I do not share his exact point of view.

He has a very positive take on puzzles (op cit: page 3):

We know very well that most obscurities in poetry soon or eventually begin to respond to the light of the reader’s intelligence, and that it is an intrinsic part of the pleasure of’ poetry to be able to unravel difficulties and to solve puzzles.

He does though acknowledge that this comfortable relationship with such puzzles as poetry poses can break down rather badly (ibid):

Despite this comforting principle, there are a few problems about wilful obscurity in poetry, and I shall deal with some of them in the course of this book. For the moment it remains to examine a little further the reader’s relationship with the poet who is responsible for the puzzles that for a time confound him. Is the poet in some sense a superior person to the reader, leading him on just for the sake of it? Is it possible that the poet sometimes doesn’t know what he is doing and is asking for some sort of mindless complicity on the reader’s part? Is it all serious and worthwhile or is it a pointless game? Such needling questions are often, I believe, lurking behind the reader’s occasional impatience with poetry, and though they may be irritating to poets, it is important that they be addressed.

When I am confronted by much modern poetry, these questions rarely go away for me and I am often irritated. I experience what he describes as ‘brick wall moments’ more often than he does, it seems (op cit: pages 10-11):

Still, the puzzles in Thomas are often enticing enough to require our attention. If we can find more meaning in them than we suspected was there, we dignify the poem. If it is in some sense more our own meaning than the poet’s, we are usually generous enough to wish to share it with the poet, as though we could let him know that his own half-conscious instincts have been successful. In the matter of intention, we want to give the poet the benefit of all doubt. And he, in turn, is felt to sanction our interpretation. Until, that is, we encounter the brick-wall moment when we may temporarily concede the puzzle. The reader will probably recollect experiences of this unhappy state of affairs, perhaps with the work of early Thomas or late Hill, perhaps much of the time with John Ashbery (though these are by no means extreme cases).

It may be no coincidence that I gave up doing the Guardian Crossword at more or less the same time as I resumed an intense interest in poetry. I’m pretty sure I went to poetry for satisfactions altogether different from those provided by crossword puzzles.

Fuller discusses many poems. In the next post, I’ll take one of those poems, one that isn’t hugely puzzling but where, apart from its bleak theme, the puzzle seems to be its main attraction, before moving on, in the the third post on this issue, to another poem where the puzzle seems about all there is to the poem. Neither example is as taxing as those written by the poets he singles out above. Incidentally, I’d add Basil Bunting to my list of brick-wall poets: interestingly, Fuller doesn’t even mention him.

I’ll throw in a good poem in each post just to ease the pain a bit, but be ready for a headache none the less. Bring an aspirin.

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. . . . psychotic symptoms exist on a continuum even in healthy individuals (Stefanis et al., 2002). This, too, seems to be explicable if psychosis is a way to cope with existential distress – as psychosis would be quantitatively, rather than qualitatively, different from normal.

(Psychosis as Coping by Grant S Shields – page 146 in Existential Analysis 25.1: January 2014)

There is growing interest in the idea of that ‘psychotic’ crises can sometimes be part of, or related to spiritual crises, and many people feel that their crises have contributed to spiritual growth. A number of clinical psychologists have also explored the interface between psychosis and spirituality. Some believe that at least some ‘psychotic’ episodes can be transformative crises that contain the potential for personal, including spiritual, growth. Many people who believe that there is a spiritual element to their experiences find support from others with similar beliefs invaluable, for example within faith communities.

(From Understanding Psychosis and Schizophrenia published by the British Psychological Society – page 55)

In the last post I began to look at a paper (pages 41-49, from the British Journal of Clinical Psychology – 2012 – 51, 37-53) by Charles Heriot-Maitland, Matthew Knight and Emmanuelle Peters on the subject of what they call Out-of-the-Ordinary-Experiences or OOEs.

Where their findings became even more intriguing from my point of view was when their discussion used terminology with clear spiritual implications that are held in common across NDEs, mystical states and meditative practices. They write:

Another subjective phenomenon reported by both [clinical] and [nonclinical] participants was the sensation of ego loss, what essentially seemed to be a breakdown of the normal psychological relationships between mind-body and/or self-others.

A fear reaction was frequently reported and ‘is likely to have largely come from the unfamiliarity of [the] experience . . . . It is possible that more prolonged absorption was caused by the emotionally fulfilling roll of the OOE in a psychological problem-solving process.’

This was followed in their report by more of a spiritual nature concerning the discovery of deeper meaning:

This symbolic, deeper meaning perhaps reflects the quality of awareness that is not filtered or confined by the conceptual boundaries of ordinary day-to-day experience… If the ego breaks down, then it may be that perception of the world becomes unbounded and limitless . . . .

This, in their view, paves the way for a shift in consciousness:

Following on from the previous theme, which conveys an awareness that is free from the influences of a ‘conditioned’ conceptual framework, this theme suggests the implementation of a new conceptual framework, or a new way of looking at the world.

levels-of-consciousness v3Where their work maps onto that of Jenny Wade is in the idea that, when our old models of reality cease to work in new situations, a state of uncomfortable dissonance is created that leads to a breakthrough to new levels of understanding:

It could be that the initial psychological crisis arose in many participants due to an inadequacy of their existing conceptual framework in making sense of their emotional experience. . . . . . It may be that a new way of thinking was the necessary, adaptive ‘solution’ to the crisis; that the old conceptual framework had to be replaced by a new one for the emotional experience to become integrated.

Dabrowski's TPD diagramWade’s model maps closely onto Dabrowski’s Theory of Positive Disintegration in key respects. She analyses, in a more close-grained fashion than Dabrowski, which kind of conflict and discomfort spurs us to move up from the comfort zone of our present level of consciousness to the next step up the ladder of awareness. Dabrowski, as I have explored elsewhere, correlates this most strongly with an intensity best described as suffering.

The next point the paper makes is crucial:

[T]he fact that, apart from existential questioning, there has been no notable difference up to this point in the OOEs of [clinical] and [non-clinical] groups implies that this problem-solving process is neither pathological nor indicative of clinical psychosis.

The real issue lies somewhere else altogether. They explain in a particularly important passage:

More of the [nonclinical] participants received validating/accepting responses from others, and more of the [clinical] group received invalidating responses, as these quotes illustrate:

‘[I] relayed this experience to psychiatrists in the [hospital] and was sent for EEG tests, was told that I was hallucinating – this guy just didn’t listen to, just obviously haven’t heard anything really that I’d said . . .’

‘Somebody came up to me and said “well, you know, we really need to hear from you. That’s a very powerful message to people, and they need to hear that message.” And that did matter to me.’

For the individual who is, perhaps, already slightly hesitant about how best to incorporate their experience into their social worlds, the difference between these two social interactions could be immense.

All non-clinical participants demonstrated some prior understanding or interest in their OOEs, which are generally described as ‘life-enhancing.’ Furthermore, ‘These life-enhancing qualities, which were reported by the majority of participants, add further support to the psychological problem-solving hypothesis. Not only did the OOEs provide many participants with relief from emotional suffering, but they also added a dimension that enriched other life domains. . . . . The medical (illness) explanation clearly presented barriers to similar reflections in the clinical population . . .’

The blame for why some people’s experiences are eventually experienced as dark, negative and ultimately inescapable seems to lie with the negative approach adopted by others, especially the medical profession:

More [non-clinical] than [clinical] participants viewed their experience as a temporary stage or process. . . . . . [I]f the causes and subjective nature of OOEs are no different between [non-clinical] and [clinical] groups, then it seems misleading for professionals to inform one group that their OOEs signal ‘the end,’ [ie they are stuck with them] while the other group continue with their (enhanced) lives.’

dancing-past-the-darkThis has echoes for me of how the reaction of others determines how the experiencer responds to distressing NDEs, which also has an impact on their future mental well-being. Nancy Evans Bush writes (Dancing Past the Dark: Kindle reference 2502-05):

Experiencers have told many sad stories of going to a professional for help in understanding their NDE, only to find themselves caught up in the medical model, pathologized by a diagnostic label and the NDE dismissed as meaningless. . . . . . . People have also told of being dismissed by their rabbi or pastor as well, for in a secular society much awareness of deep spiritual process is lost or distorted, even within religious institutions themselves.

Stephanie Beards and Helen Fisher, in a 2014 paper (Social Psychiatry Psychiatric Epidemiology 49: 1541–1544), shed further light on the dynamics of this. They write (page 1542):

It has been proposed that negative core schemas [ingrained patterns of thought or behaviour that affect experience] are formed early in life and may result from adverse experiences in childhood. If an individual experiences further trauma later in life, these schemas could become (re)activated, leading to emotional changes which may not only cause the development of psychotic experiences, but alter the appraisal of these anomalous occurrences, further increasing distress, and preventing a benign explanation from being concluded.

Even so, such experiences do not need to cast a shadow over the rest of a person’s life. The experiences themselves, as the current British Journal of Clinical Psychology study demonstrates, are not significantly different between the two groups, nor are the potential explanations they develop. Nearly all participants gave some acknowledgement of the link between psychotic and spiritual experience.

Because the OOEs of all participants seemed, at some level, to fulfil a psychological purpose, they were interpreted as being a part of an adaptive psychological problem-solving process, which frequently involved the breakdown of conceptual ego boundaries, and the formation of a new conceptual outlook.

However, regarding group differences (my emphases), they write:

[T]here was a sense that [non-clinical] participants were better able to incorporate their OOEs into their personal and social world. This was partly due to more [non-clinical] participants having prior conceptual knowledge of, and in some cases, open attitudes towards, there OOEs; however, the more prominent reason seem to be that more [non-clinical] participants received validation and acceptance from others.

The saddest point of all perhaps is this:

It would seem that the more OOEs are associated with clinical psychosis, the less chance people have of recognising their desirability, transiency, and psychological benefits, and the more chance they have of detrimental clinical consequences.

They draw some very strong conclusions from this:

An important clinical implication is that psychotic experiences should be normalised, and people with psychosis should be helped to re-connect the meaning of their OOEs with the genuine emotional and existential concerns that preceded them. . . . . . However, the current findings suggest that the argument for normalisation goes far deeper than just its clinical usefulness; they imply that a more ‘radical normalisation’ approach is needed, when normalising OOEs becomes an intrinsic formulation and treatment principle.

During my decluttering, I also came across a number of journals which describe current approaches to creating psychological descriptions of a patient’s problems, known as formulations in psychobabble. Nowhere, for any patient group, did I find reference to any kind of spiritual dimension, though the word ‘cultural’ was thrown in from time to time, and might have concealed an entrance through which such considerations could possibly have infiltrated the consultation process.

When it comes to psychosis, where the default first-line treatment is medication rather than therapy (or meditation), there is an additional problem:

Unlike antipsychotic drugs, which can suppress the emotional expression, this approach [of accepting the validity of the emotions underlying the OOEs] would validate and encourage the emotional expression, whilst working on building a more helpful conceptualisation or narrative about the emotional concerns.’

The authors do not regard their paper as definitive. They are all to aware of its possible limitations, shown, for example, by their reference to methodological caveats concerning small sample size and possible confounding variables not having been picked up at screening and thereafter controlled for.

I do not think those caveats constitute reasons for ignoring or minimising the significance of their findings, but rather they should be a motivating factor for the generation of further work on this issue. In the meantime, even in advance of further findings, we should be spurred to introduce into the clinical setting a far greater sensitivity to the emotional and spiritual meaning of such experiences.

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The Buzzing in our Brain Cells v5

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After so many rather sad poems of death, it seems appropriate to republish a few poems offering more hope. This is the first.

A Light that does not Blind v3

 

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When I set up the post of the poem this morning, I suddenly remembered this one, suggesting that I might just have a weakness for Arctic imagery! This poem is the only poem I have ever written triggered by a prompt. I was attending a workshop on spirituality and how a deeper sense of our spiritual connectedness could change the world. The key word suggested was ‘enkindlement.’ This poem was the result. It poured out breathlessly and has seemed a bit of a mystery to me ever since. Anyway here it is again.

Enkindlement v5

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