Quest Magazine

Originally printed in the July - August 2003 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Burnier, Radha. "The Urgency for a New Perspective." Quest  91.4 (JULY - AUGUST 2003):146-148.

the view from adyar

By Radha Burnier

"The world is too much with us," exclaimed the poet, and what people feel is the world is, indeed, very much with them. It hedges them in with the problems and the demands of everyday life, with changes that are unexpected and perhaps unpleasant. The difficulties begin in early childhood, possibly because parents are unsympathetic or because they do not know how to help their child. Later, the problems multiply—in school and college, in the course of a married life, with the additional pressures of practicing a profession or administering property. Life consists of meeting numerous responsibilities—the demands of a particular situation, the people with whom one becomes involved, the family and professional colleagues. Thus the world pushes each of us into involuntary actions.

We may be under the impression that we have a certain choice—in marriage, for example, in the friends we make, or in the interests we cultivate. But the "choice" is often quite illusory. Marriage may appear to be the result of free choice but, in fact, circumstances bring us into contact with a very limited number of people and our inner urges, coming into play in that particular context and circle, create a "choice" that is no real choice. We more or less "fall into the arms" of the situation; if we are intelligent enough we make the best of the situation.

In any case, from early childhood, outside conditions mold us into a pattern and provide us with values that we assimilate unconsciously. They are the source of the hidden impulses that result in action. In the East, one talks about the "bondage of karma." Karma is not an abstruse law at work in the universe or an abstract process. It manifests in our lives because we are overpowered by our environment and by the conditions around us. We are driven to involuntary actions and pursuits because, from our earliest years, we absorb, like a sponge, the ideas and values that are prevalent around us. These values are of many kinds and we are often unconscious of their implications. We may alter them a little but, nevertheless, we accept the conditioning. Our pursuits, which appear to be freely chosen, arise from the soil of these notions we have absorbed.

What people call "the world" comprises many attractions. There is the attraction of success, of money, of power, and of pleasure. They are like glittering lights in the distance, and our lives generally consist in making our way towards them. But they are like the will-o'-the-wisp, with only a seeming existence. They correspond to the pursuits in our minds, which are based on unconscious or partially conscious notions, ideas, and values. Desire projects the objects of desire and we imagine these to have a real existence. Because many people see them, they acquire an illusory reality; but it is only the desire that makes them into objects. For example, a woman, in herself, is not an object of desire; she is what she is. But someone else's desire for her makes her into such an object. What is attractive to one man may not be attractive to another. There is no object, no attraction per se because the nature of a thing as it is makes it stand independently.

This is pointed out in a well-known passage of the Upanishad, which states that a wife is not dear because she is the wife nor a husband because he is the husband; they are each non-relationally what they are. Each thing is what it is, but desire projects it into an object for itself. From this arises pursuit, and behind each pursuit there is a value-notion, which maybe religious, political, or personal. The personal value-notion is a thought we each have of ourselves, and from that there arises the many attractions that we see "outside" and that make the world into what it is for us. We take up postures in relation to people, to things, to ideas: thoughts arise in us, we form affiliations, we suffer antagonisms. All this complexity of likes and dislikes, of hopes and fears, takes birth in our consciousness from the soil of the values we have assimilated. So we each make our way through life, for the most part unconscious of what is going on within ourselves, not realizing what we are pursuing or why we are pursuing it, imagining that the world contains objects for us to chase, and thus projecting an image of the world that does not correspond to reality. So, for each of us there is a mirage-like world that arises from hidden sources within ourselves and that we take to be the world as it is.

The essence of worldliness lies in unawareness (avidya) of what is happening to oneself, in unawareness that the "world" is constructed by one's mind, that it has its source within oneself. Worldliness arises from not knowing that what is projected by the mind does not correspond to what is. If one were not blind, one would not be worldly. People who see—people of intelligence—realize that what is hidden within themselves prompts them to a variety of actions, attitudes, postures, affiliations, and rejections, all of which seem to be free but are not so in fact. Unawareness of what is happening within is not only absence of intelligence but of freedom, because it permits the "world" to push the individual into patterns of thought, into ways of action, into grooves, and routines.

Though the world is "too much with us" in one sense, in a different sense most of us totally ignore it. We are not "in the world" because we are unconscious and uncaring about what happens to it. There is widespread and appalling poverty. Millions are starving. There is tyranny in the major part of the world, suppressing human beings, making them conform out of fear, eroding their dignity, depriving them of the possibility of awakening that, which is deep and subtle, in the human consciousness. The free world is a very restricted area indeed. There is the unimaginable cruelty that humanity perpetrates on animals and on its fellow men and women. Torture is accepted as a part of state policy by nearly every country in the world. As anarchy increases, the tendency is towards suppression, towards the monolithic state. But all this, which is part of the world, is not in the consciousness of the majority except as an occasional piece of news. And news of happenings that are terrible and pitiable fades away after a week or two because, for the newspapers, they are no longer news, which means that the readers do not care what is happening.

Thus, the world goes on with each of us on an island of our own, enclosed in our own particular preoccupation—our family, our anxieties, and our ambitions. We ignore the rest of the world with its beauty and its tragedies.

The present-day world is one of tremendous political, economic, and social insecurity. There are many causes for this. The growing population leads to decreasing resources and increasing pressures. People demand more and more things and feel insecure as they see resources shrinking away. Insecurity only breeds fear, and this is visible everywhere in agitations, strikes, and banding together of people to protect their own interests. So the world becomes more and more divided as people club together in order to overcome their insecurity and their fear.

When we are afraid, we feel threatened by what is happening around us, we each close up more within ourselves. In India, where, in the past, people suffered little from envy, where they looked upon those who had more than themselves with peaceful eyes and gentle contentment, one now finds an increase of aggression and jealousy arising from fear. When we feel threatened, we make our shell stronger and strengthen the affiliations we think will protect us. Our prejudices are also strengthened. When life is full of fear and pressure, the human mind loses its sense of perspective. In the absence of perspective there can be neither an understanding of what is happening nor the possibility of resolving difficulties. We cannot see danger ahead if our eyes are focused shortsightedly on the immediate area in front of us. If we are anxious about a little mud on the road and walk with our head bowed, we may fall over a precipice. The need of the moment that monopolizes the attention makes it impossible to see what needs to be seen, much less find an answer to the problem. The shortsightedness of our self-preoccupation cripples our vision and incapacitates our mind.

The age-old human problem requires for its solution a mind that has width, comprehension, and keenness of attention. The problem is how to live in peace and harmony with other people, with nature, with oneself, and to let all that is best within unfold into a state of beauty and perfection.

The present-day world abounds in symptoms of shortsightedness. Specialization is one form. When the mind moves in a groove, it becomes indifferent to other issues. The chemist who produces deadly chemicals is capable of being totally unconcerned with what happens when these chemicals are released. Animals and birds may be killed, the earth may be despoiled and the climate altered, but the chemist is interested only in the manufacture of the chemicals. A well-known nuclear scientist is supposed to have said that he was concerned only with making the bomb and did not care where it fell.

Another common expression of shortsightedness is the making of compartments. The secular, for example, becomes divided from the religious. The mind is satisfied with some religious activity such as going to a temple or attending a meeting, while the rest of life goes on unrelated to the prayers that have been recited or the lecture that has been listened to. Thus, the thought and the act, the preaching and the practice become divided. Social service, too, can be set apart from the quality of the personal life. A so-called humanitarian may be arrogant, conceited, even cruel in personal relationships. One can be kind to animals and hard on human beings, or kind to human beings and indifferent to animals and plants.

Yet another symptom of shortsightedness is that of living like a frog in a well. This exhibits itself in exclusive association with one's peer-group, whether composed of hippies, intellectuals, engineers, or something else. In India, the family becomes the circle within which all interests are concentrated—a group so important that nothing else matters.

Conceit arising out of being "modern" or "progressive" is another groove. The poet Kalidasa said that everything that is old is not necessarily good; nor is everything that is modern. Both progressives and traditionalists are carried away by petty notions that limit one's vision.

A mind partial to one thing or another cannot have perspective. The part to which it fixes itself may appear to be large, but it is still only a part. A mind that functions in bits and pieces, according to the expediency of the moment, is deluded because it cannot see the whole. To have a sense of perspective and to be aware of the wider issues means not only that the mind must not be partial, but that it must be sensitive. When there is insensitivity, there is shortsightedness. If the mind sees only the obvious, the concrete, if it cannot see what is subtle, what lies below the surface, if it cannot respond to the unsaid, to hints from within, surely it is "missing so much and so much." Wholeness requires that the mind and the heart become more sensitive.

As mentioned above, insecurity drives people into self-preoccupation. People relentlessly pursue objects of desire, whatever they can get, because they feel that in a little while these things may be lost to them forever. The drive towards pleasure, or any drive that is self-motivated, makes one insensitive. Insecurity makes one affirm one's position—makes it necessary to define oneself as a Muslim or a Jew or an Indian or something else. The identities which we give ourselves, the affirmations we make about our own personality, are all symptoms of shortsightedness born out of self-preoccupation and the self-motivation which creates insensitivity.

The true meaning of samnyasa is to abandon self-definition. The word samnyasa has become a mockery in the present day, a new form of self-indulgence, a game of putting on uniforms. But the true samnyasi does not define themselves in any fashion; they are not located in any particular spot; they can be of any nationality; they do not belong to any one religion. All forms of identity—all outward trappings and inner attachments—have to be put aside in order to be a samnyasi. Identity with a function, as a worker, an official, a rich man, a poor man, or identity with one's physical appearance arises, as mentioned earlier, out of certain conditioning factors that take place from birth. To be intelligent requires that one sees and discards all this.

The first object of the Theosophical Society speaks of forming a nucleus of Brotherhood without distinction of race, creed, caste, sex, or color. There are other distinctions it does not mention. It implies that one has to go deeply into oneself in order to negate all those values, ideas, and notions which, lying hidden within the mind, project the objects of desire and the many illusions to which we attach ourselves. To be a Theosophist means to be free, to learn to look intelligently, to find that state within oneself which is purity and austerity. If we can discard pursuits, if we cease to create illusions for ourselves, if we do not affirm our personality in any way, we achieve utter simplicity. Simplicity is not a matter of outer dress or of circumstance. It is a state that arises when we hold on to nothing. It is in this stage of simplicity, of samnyasa or austerity, that we can discover the wisdom to resolve the problems of humanity and make the world a better place. The urgency for bringing about such a change is beyond question.

Originally printed in the JULY-AUGUST 2001 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Tuttle, Will. "Shojin and Samadhi: The Journey Torwad Compassion." Quest  89. 4 (July-August 2001): 136-140.

By Will Tuttle

In 1975 my brother and I, 20 and 22, embarked on a pilgrimage across the eastern United States, venturing forth from our parents' New England home in the autumn. We lived on alms and walked fifteen to twenty miles daily on back country roads, heading first west, "maybe to California," but then turning south to stay ahead of the approaching winter. Our long walk thus took us out across Massachusetts and upstate New York, and then south through Pennsylvania into the hills and hollers of West Virginia and eastern Kentucky, and then down through Tennessee and finally into Alabama where we landed in early 1976 in a meditation center in Huntsville.

Our journey was not about seeing the country or having an adventure, though that's what people usually assumed. It was an expression of a spiritual yearning, and our days were filled with walking, meditating, and trying to find and question our invisible assumptions. I remember realizing clearly that it was the elusive state of inner silence, or samadhi, that I was searching for as we wandered south from state to state. We gave away all our money and reduced our possessions to two small packs, and we focused our minds and spirits as brightly as we could on what we felt was the most pressing task at hand: to attain spiritual liberation. We aimed to achieve this through mental discipline and inner inquiry into the meditation question posed by the great sage Ramana Maharshi: "Who am I?"

As we wended our way, young and vulnerable, through rural America, we plunged into our task and watched with amazement as miracles unfolded daily in our outer lives. I still remember the night we spent with a family in their little shack in Appalachia and how they insisted on sharing food with us, even though it meant they might go hungry. And the afternoon we were walking along a country road, penniless and famished, when we suddenly came upon two neatly wrapped fresh sandwiches by the side of the road, as if placed there just for us. And how people would sometimes approach us as we walked along meditating and insist on pressing a few dollar bills into our hands because a voice had told them to.

We experienced daily, in some way, the truth of the beautiful teaching,"Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven, and all else shall be added unto you."Food and shelter would somehow appear, and at times I thought I could feel the universe smiling on us, freeing us and encouraging us to deepen our meditation practice.

I first experienced the dietary harmlessness of shojin in some of the intentional communities we were guided to along the way: as part of their spiritual practice, people in these communities ate no animal foods. Some what surprised at first, I questioned them, for though I was dimly aware of the reasons for vegetarianism--chickens pecking each others' eyes out in abominably overcrowded cages, cows bawling in pain under the castration knife, pigs screaming in fear as they witness the bloody death that awaits them, and the workers' hands and hearts hardened by the dirty work of killing, maiming, and confining--at that point I didn't realize that vegetarianism was essential to the spiritual practice of many people.

I learned also how natural it is for humans to refrain from eating animals, that our bodies are, thankfully, decidedly herbivorous, and decidedly not carnivorous or omnivorous. We don't have the sharp fangs, hinged jaw,stomach hydrochloric acid, or the short and smooth-walled digestive tract of carnivores or omnivores. Instead we have the flattened incisors and molars of herbivores, with the herbivorous unhinged jaw for side-to-side grinding of grains and vegetables, ptyalin enzyme to easily convert carbohydrates to energy, and a long, highly convoluted digestive tract to absorb plant-based nutrients.

I began to realize that, despite everything I had been taught as a child, the animal protein in flesh, eggs, and dairy products is toxic to my body and goes against its basic design. If, for example, a cat is fed large quantities of meat, butter, and eggs, it gets absolutely no build-up of saturated fat and cholesterol in its arteries. If a rabbit or a human eats this, however, their arteries become increasingly clogged to the point of cardiovascular disease, stroke, and heart attack, and their body becomes more toxic and acidified, with increased rates of osteoporosis, cancer, arthritis, diabetes, kidney and liver ailments, and other problems, as many studies have demonstrated.

I began to deeply feel the rightness of shojin practice as I discovered that there is absolutely nothing that my body needs nutritionally that I cannot get from a plant-based diet; that if I were to dine on animal protein and fat, I would be directly causing suffering to animals, and would be bringing into my body all the by-products of the suffering of these poor creatures. So by the time we reached the Zen center in Huntsville, I was a novice shojin practitioner. The center offered weekly classes in meditation and in yoga, and it was here that we could finally stop the seemingly endless walking and devote ourselves wholeheartedly to sitting meditation. As the months went by while we practiced sitting meditation eight to ten hours daily, the link between the practice of shojin and the practice of meditation became clearer, and I began to understand more fully that cultivating inner silence means opening to the interconnectedness of all life.

It is significant that it takes five English words, "religious abstention from animal foods," to say what can be said in one word in Japanese: "shojin."Just as "samadhi," or "meditative absorption," seems somewhat foreign to western culture and difficult to express in English, so does shojin, and yet I have come to see that both samadhi and shojin are deep expressions of our human potential, resulting from and furthering spiritual maturity. Shojin purifies the body-mind,allowing, though by no means guaranteeing, access to samadhi.

Meditation teachings sometimes refer to two types of samadhi. "Absolute samadhi" refers to an inner state of one-pointed, relaxed and bright awareness in which the body, typically seated, is still. The mind is totally absorbed in the present moment, and the usual inner dialogue has ceased. In "positive samadhi," which is based on the experience of absolute samadhi, we are functioning in the world: walking, gardening, cooking, cleaning, with a mind that is completely present to the experience of life in this moment. This is similar to the practice of mindfulness, and to the Taoist practice of "wu wei,"or "non-action," in which the illusion of a separate doer has evaporated in the immediacy of fulfilling the potential called for by this moment. In Christian terms, this may be similar to "practicing the Presence" and to the practice enjoined by the admonition to "pray without ceasing," whereas absolute samadhi is akin to a state of profound at-one-ment with the Divine.

Although both absolute and positive samadhi are enriching, and heal the mind and body at a deep level, they are difficult to attain and practice. They require an enormous ongoing commitment. And while entering the profound inner stillness of samadhi is difficult under the most favorable circumstances, it is even much more difficult for a mind that is disturbed by its outer actions. This is why the spirit of shojin is so essential on the spiritual path. The spirit of shojin is compassion, and it is also freedom, allowing others to be free and also freeing oneself from the dictates of craving, attachment, and conditioning.

The spirit of shojin tames the mind, and to be effective, it must be actually lived. To make spiritual progress, it is essential to walk our talk; for otherwise our mind will be too disturbed to enter samadhi. The inner stillness of samadhi lies at the heart of meditative life and requires the inner purity of a clear conscience. It allows the old inner wall, splitting "me" here from "the world" out there, to be dissolved. With this dissolving, a deeper understanding of the infinite interconnectedness of all life can blossom.

Shojin is such a vital ingredient because it fosters the inner peace required for maturity. It is a form of inner and outer training that lays the foundation for meditative exploration. Without refraining from actions that are unkind and brutal, the mind will stay busy, avoiding the inner silence which births the understanding of interconnectedness. The mind will just not want to recognize its fundamental relatedness with those beings that it is killing and traumatizing, either directly or by proxy, and will therefore endlessly distract itself from the deep silence where it would naturally open to the truth of inter-being. This is why shojin is so essential to samadhi. These two fundamental components to spiritual awakening, outer loving sensitivity and inner silent receptivity, feed each other, furthering our spiritual development. Harming others hinders and disturbs us, damaging our inner peace and ultimately hurting ourselves the most, whereas authentic kindness and concern for others nourish our samadhi and awakening.

So even though the knowledge is actively suppressed in our culture, there are consequences to buying and eating animal foods. There is enormous suffering to the animals who are always brutalized; to the humans who must desensitize themselves to reduce the animals to meat, dairy products, and eggs; to the humans who starve because animal agriculture wastes about 80 percent of our grain as livestock feed; to the wild animals who are trapped or killed off by habitat loss and the environmental pollution of animal agriculture; to the animals who are tortured in tests for drugs to combat the flood of diseases caused by eating animal foods; to the humans who grieve over the sickness and death of loved ones who self-destruct by eating animal foods; and to the future generations of humans and animals who will suffer by inheriting an ecosystem that is daily traumatized by the egregious air, water, and soil pollution caused by animal agriculture, the deadly greenhouse effect, and the destruction of the precious forest, topsoil, groundwater, and ozone resources that are inextricably connected with it. All this, unfortunately, is still only a partial list of the consequences.

In the years since Huntsville, as the experience of both shojin and samadhi has deepened, I have come to realize how difficult it is for people who don't practice shojin to ever truly be relaxed or open enough within themselves to be able to experience the boundless joy, freedom, and peace that are available through the experience of samadhi. People have no appetite for knowing the true extent of the suffering animals face because of dairies, ranches, egg production facilities, factory farms, slaughterhouses, and fishing operations.As was the case 150 years ago with black slaves, it is far more serious than most would want to imagine. I have become convinced that the most serious ongoing problem today is the brutality towards animals, other humans, and future generations caused by our penchant for, or addiction to, animal foods. And I've found that while in the beginning shojin appears to be a discipline, before long it is natural to practice it and to truly delight in practicing it.

In failing to practice shojin, we inevitably end up eating the suffering we cause in the negative emotional energy that permeates animal foods, as well as the toxic chemicals, hormones, and waste products that concentrate in them. We cannot reap happiness and freedom by sowing seeds of needless misery and bondage with our plates and wallets, and thankfully that is not necessary because we have been given the precious gift of bodies that truly require no animals to suffer for their feeding.

Compassion can be seen as the highest form of love, and its awakening can be seen as the path and goal of spiritual practice. The truth that compassion arises from is the truth of inter-being: we are all connected. This truth is so fundamental that we intuitively know it, and yet it is invisible and practically unrecognized in the competitive social framework that we are born into. The spirit of shojin, of freedom and compassion, brings us ever more deeply to this truth, to the direct realization of the infinite interconnectedness of all life that is so vast and profound that the ego, this illusion of a fundamentally separate self, is dissolved in the radiance of the unity that we all are.

Ultimately, the practice of shojin arises from and nurtures the understanding that there is one Life living through all of us. When we are kind to others, we are kind to ourselves; when we abuse others, we abuse ourselves. Our relationships with animals are especially significant in this regard, for they are the sensitive beings that are most vulnerable and helpless in our hands and that are accorded the least privilege and fewest rights.

Through all the intervening years of studying and practicing meditation, in centers in this country and in Asia, I have become increasingly committed to the practice of shojin, and to understanding its spirit more deeply. I have found how absolutely essential the spirit and practice of shojin are to the opening of inner doorways of silence and understanding, and that it is through the opening of these inner doorways that the hidden entrance into the vast and liberating mystery of samadhi may be approached.

I have also discovered that to be effective, the spirit of shojin needs to be mindfully practiced, so that only organically grown foods are purchased, and animal suffering is not sponsored or consumed; therefore no animal flesh including poultry, fish, or shellfish are eaten, nor any eggs, dairy products, or honey. With a little practice and understanding, it becomes easy and enjoyable, and begins to pay incredibly positive dividends. Removing animal foods from my plate has been like taking off shoes that were always too tight, but hardly noticed because they'd been on so long. The relief was unexpected, and it would certainly be denied by the corporate culture that thrives on business as usual. Yet this relief just keeps growing, even after twenty-five years!

I've found the practice of shojin to be a crucial ally on the path of meditation and spiritual growth. It is also profoundly subversive to the mindset of domination that causes such suffering on our earth. It allows a true transformation in body, mind, and heart! The inner peace that is available, the deep relief, the freedom--for the animals, for the children, for the hungry, for our loved ones. As we sow, so shall we reap. This universal law is never contradicted.

Will Tuttle has a PhD from the University of California, Berkeley, and is a college teacher, composer, pianist, and recording artist, with four compact disc albums of original piano music, as well as a Zen priest and Dharma master in the Korean Zen tradition.

Originally printed in the JULY-AUGUST 2001 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Mills, Joy. "The Non-Existent Princes: That Which Ought to Be Known." Quest  89. 4 (July-August 2001): 142-146.

By Joy Mills

Once upon a time, in a city which did not exist, there lived three princes who were brave and happy. Two of them were unborn, and the third had not yet been conceived. Unfortunately all their relatives had died, so the princes left their native city to go elsewhere. In due time, they reached the banks of three rivers. Two of the rivers were dry, and in the third there was no water. Here the three princes had a refreshing bath and were able to quench their thirst. Next they came to a large city which was about to be built. Entering the city, they discovered three palaces of exceedingly great beauty. Two of the palaces had not been built, and the third had no walls. The three princes entered the palaces and found three golden plates. Of these, two had been broken in half, and the third had been pulverized. They took hold of the pulverized one, and on it they found ninety-nine minus one hundred grains of rice, which they cooked. When the rice had been cooked, they invited three holy men to be their guests. Of these holy men, two had no body, and the third had no mouth. After these holymen had eaten the food, the three princes consumed the remainder of the rice that they had cooked. The three princes were so content that they lived in that city for a very long time in peace and joy.

What shall we make of this story? The sage Vasistha told the story to Prince Rama to remind him that what we know as the creation of the world is no more real than the city in which the three nonexistent princes found such happiness, that the world is nothing other than an idea. The world and all that is within it are the thoughts of the One Thinker. There is nothing outside that One Reality; its energy pervades all things. As the sage informed Rama, "Even as an able actor plays several roles one after the other, the mind assumes several aspects one after the other . . . the mind makes one thing appear to be another by its powers of thought and ideation." The One Consciousness is everywhere and in everything; it is Knower, Known, and Knowing itself.

H. P. Blavatsky said that the fundamental proposition of the esoteric philosophy (the Wisdom Tradition we know as Theosophy) is an "omnipresent, boundless, and immutable principle." "Existence is one thing, not any collection of things linked together," HPB told her students, according to Robert Bowen's notes on her classes, and she continued, "Fundamentally there is ONE BEING. It is ALL-BEING. . . . Therefore it is clear that this fundamental ONE EXISTENCE, or Absolute Being, must be the REALITY in every form there is."

Those familiar with Annie Besant's translation of the Bhagavad Gita will recognize that the title of these remarks is a quotation from chapter 13 of that work, and will also understand why in talking about "that which ought to be known," I have begun with the text of the Yoga Vasistha and the words of HPB.Chapter 13 of the Gita begins the final section or last six chapters of the work. The first section of six chapters focuses on karma yoga, work as sacrifice, action without attachment to the results of action. The second section (chapters 7 -12) concerns the path of bhakti or the path of love. The concluding portion of the Gita (chapters 13 -18) bring us to the way of knowing, jnana yoga, the path of knowledge or wisdom.

Robert Bowen's notes also record HPB's statement that a particular kind of mental effort is required for the study of The Secret Doctrine, a mode of thinking that HPB defined as jnana yoga: "this new kind of mental effort calls for . . . the carving out of 'new brain paths,' the ranking in different order of the little brain lives." Bowen's report concludes, "The True Student of The Secret Doctrine is a Jnana Yogi." If this way of knowledge demands the "carving out" of new brain pathways, there is a deeper and more significant reason why the final chapters of the Gita should be devoted to the yoga of knowing than the casual student might assume.

At the beginning of chapter 13 of the Gita, in Annie Besant's translation, Arjuna asks:

Matter and Spirit, even the Field and the Knower of the Field, wisdom and that which ought to be known, these I would learn.

In the translation by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood, the question is even more simply translated, "What is it that has to be known?" And Krishna, responding as always to every inquiry that Arjuna makes, answers directly, "I will declare that which ought to be known." Only one thing, one ultimate knowing, is essential. That which ought to be known is the One Reality, the Supreme Source, in which all is grounded, from which all arises, and to which all returns:

Everywhere are His hands, eyes, feet; His heads and His faces:
This whole world is His ear; He exists, encompassing all things;
Doing all the tasks of each sense, yet Himself devoid of the senses:
Standing apart, He sustains: He is free from the gunas but feels them.
He is within and without: He lives in the live and the lifeless:
Subtle beyond mind's grasp; so near us, so utterly distant:
Undivided, He seems to divide into objects and creatures;
Sending creation forth from Himself, He upholds and withdraws it;
Light of all lights, He abides beyond our ignorant darkness;
Knowledge, the one thing real we may study or know, the heart's
dweller.

"That which ought to be known" is the one transcendental Atman, the one Subject of all objectivity, which, being unmanifest, is neither being nor nonbeing. "That which ought to be known" is the knowledge simultaneously of the field--the whole vast universe in all its richness and variety and diversity--and the knower of the field, the singular one which is each of us as knowers. "That which ought to be known" is a unified self-knowledge and world-knowledge, which is the authentic illumination and the only wisdom.

How does this knowledge affect our conduct in our day-to-day lives? Just as Arjuna asked in the second chapter of the Gita how the individual who has a quiet mind walks and eats and sits, and then asks again in the fourteenth chapter how the fully harmonized individual acts, so our question is simply, If we truly know that which ought to be known, how do we act in the world? Is our knowing reflected in the way we engage in our normal activities, meeting and greeting and speaking with others?

You cannot stay on the summit forever. You have to come down again.. . . One climbs and one sees; one descends and one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself . . . by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one no longer sees, one can at least still know.

Daumal touches on an experience common to many of us. We have been inspired, perhaps by the words of a great teacher or by music or art; we have beheld a vision in deep contemplation, in the private moments of meditation,when something seemed so known as to be almost tangible. Then the events of daily life intrude, or we are disturbed by something or someone, and the inspiration, the vision, the knowing is gone as we react to the pressures of the moment. It is at such times that we must discover that "art of conducting oneself by the memory of what one saw higher up," as Daumal put it.

Another contemporary writer, Jack Kornfield, puts it this way:

After the ecstasy comes the laundry. . . . Like the monk in the ox-herding pictures, most of us have to reenter the marketplace to fulfill our realization. As we come down from the mountain, we may be shocked to find how easily our old habits wait for us, like comfortable and familiar clothes. Even if our transformation is great and we feel peaceful and unshakable, some part of our return will inevitably test us.

Kornfield's words should remind us that it is never enough to say, "Oh,yes, I know," for the circumstances of life eventually prove our knowing or not knowing. Francis Bacon wrote of those "idols of the mind," by which he meant the experiences, ideas, and attitudes that give a person the illusion of knowledge.The illusion of knowledge is revealed when our conduct is not in sync with our professed knowing.

In her New Year's message for 1888, the opening article in her magazine Lucifer for January of that year, H. P. Blavatsky wrote:

Thoreau pointed out that there are artists in life, persons who can change the color of a day and make it beautiful to those with whom they come into contact. We claim that there are adepts, masters in life who make it divine, as in all other arts. Is it not the greatest art of all, this which affects the very atmosphere in which we live? That it is the most important is seen at once, when we remember that every person who draws the breath of life affects the mental and moral atmosphere of the world, and helps to color the day for those about him. Those who do not help to elevate the thoughts and lives of others must of necessity either paralyze them by indifference, or actively drag them down.

When we genuinely know that which ought to be known—that everything is rooted in one supreme source—then we will "color the day" for ourselves and those about us with the living and vibrant hues of beauty, all of which derive from that one white light of Ultimate Reality. Knowing there is but that one"color," however broken up it may be into all the shades and tints of the world we see about us, we will appreciate the diversity of colors the world exhibits. Knowing that there is but One Life, we will recognize that whatever we do or think or feel has an impact on the entire web of existence.

How do we act? How do we conduct ourselves each day? How do we walk or sit or talk? If we know that "existence is one thing," as HPB emphasized to her students, then we will know how to conduct ourselves, not by some textbook of rules, but out of the very heart of our knowing. Consciousness is one, and we are each a part of that universal awareness, a network of thought in which each of us is coloring, so to speak, a strand in the web. How we act each day of our lives gives color to our unique thread. Whether the thread is bright and beautiful or dark and ugly is for each of us to determine.

Theodore Roszak, the well-known analyst of American culture, writing on "Our Demographic Destiny," in the Summer 2000 issue of the journal Lapis, has this to say:

Now we know that we live in a universe of enormous complexity and symbiotic subtlety where relationships rather than autonomous parts and competing agents are paramount. Today, when we think of our place in the world, we must see ourselves as not only caught up in a dense, sociological web, but afloat in an invisible sea of intricate ecological, and microbial alliances. . .. Every breath we take affirms that we are partners in the deep community of nature. . . . nothing enlivens ethics more than the feelings that come before words and underlie philosophy: the vivid, intuitive knowledge of relationship, the reality of the other, the claim of life upon life. . . . Once we were told on the highest authority that the universe was no more than atoms purposelessly adrift in the void; now we know that we live . . . amid 'patterns that interlock to infinity.' . . . Our growing sense of the depth, complexity, and organic interrelatedness of nature on both the microcosmic and the macrocosmic scale is not a minor theoretical revision in the sciences; it is radical enough to be ethically wrenching.

Roszak's concluding words, that the awareness of the fundamental relationship of all existent things is "radical enough to be ethically wrenching," echoes the Reith Lecture, given by the Prince of Wales, in which Charles emphasized the need for "working with the grain of Nature" rather than against it:

We need . . . to rediscover a reverence for the natural world, irrespective of its usefulness to ourselves; to become more aware, in Philip Sherrard's words, of "the relationship of interdependence, interpenetration and reciprocity between God, Man and Creation." . . . it is hard not to feel a sense of humility, wonder and awe about our place in the natural order. And to feel this at all stems from that inner heart felt reason which, sometimes despite ourselves, is telling us that we are intimately bound up in the mysteries of life. . . . Only by rediscovering the essential unity and order of the living and spiritual world . . . and by bridging the destructive chasm between cynical secularism and the timelessness of traditional religion, will we avoid the disintegration of our overall environment.

Underlying the interrelatedness of all life in the intricate network of existence is the one fundamental and magnificent truth, that which ought to be known: the grounding of all manifest being in One Ultimate Reality. In that grounding Knower, Knowing, and Known are one. There is nothing outside that One Reality, One Universal Consciousness, whose living power pervades all, embraces all, enlightens all. Everywhere only It appears, though we may be like the three nonexistent princes, drinking from rivers that are but transitory images of Its ceaseless motion, entering cities that are the ever-changing outer vestures we call personalities, which serve as temporary abiding places for the One Atman, the Immortal Spirit, the only Knower in whom knowing and known are forever unified.

The path of jnana yoga, as suggested at the beginning, is the path of essential knowledge, of knowing that which ought to be known, a way that does indeed demand, as HPB told her students, the "carving out" of new brain pathways. That can only mean a complete and total transformation of one's very being. It was just such a transformation that Arjuna experienced. It was such a knowing that would enable Arjuna to say at the conclusion of the Gita:

Destroyed is my delusion, I have gained knowledge through Thy grace, O Immutable One. I am firm, my doubts have fled away. I will do according to Thy word.

That "doing" is not according to some external authority, but rather is the obedience of the personal self to the One Immortal Atman, the One Universal Self, which abides in the hearts of all beings, the One Supreme Consciousness, the Ultimate Knower and the Ultimate Known. For it is here, in the daily round of existence, in the mundane world where we move around and about, eating and walking and talking and working and resting, fighting our battles and enjoying our small victories, that we live out our knowing. When we truly know that which ought to be known, we too will be called "great-souled," Mahatma, as was Arjuna. But if we have not as yet achieved that state of full knowing, we can at least "color the day" for all about us with beauty and with love.

Joy Mills is a past president of both the American and Australian Sections of the Theosophical Society, as well as a past international Vice President. In fall 2000, she directed the School of the Wisdom at Adyar, India.

By Tim Boyd

Originally printed in the July - August 2007 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Boyd, Tim."The True Power of Love." Quest  95.4 (JULY-AUGUST 2007): 141-143.

The following is a description of the loving efforts of Bill Lawrence and the Center he started. It is told here by Tim Boyd who was one of the young men closely associated with the "Old Man," as he was affectionately called. Tim tells the story of the Center where lived and worked. The Center no longer exists. Since about 2000 its former members have been involved in different directions and different places. Tim still lives there, but now it functions as a home.

The Center. . . was responsible for spiritually redirecting the lives of hundreds of young people in the Chicago area. It came into being through the efforts of Bill Lawrence in the mid-1960s. He walked away from a thriving grocery store chain, taking nothing with him and donating all the proceeds to a children's school. Chicago was experiencing a level of youth gang violence unparalleled in the city's history. Whole neighborhoods became the fiefs of the warring gangs, and the lives of the residents of these areas were ruled by a pervasive fear. Recognizing a tremendous untapped potential in the misguided youths, and following his inner guidance, Bill purchased and moved into a home in the very heart of some of the most intense gang activity. To say that the home was an eyesore is an understatement. All the windows were broken, the heating and plumbing were inoperable, the walls and ceilings were cracked and the entire house had sunk twelve inches on one side. Immediately he set about fixing the house and beautifying the yard. Although warned by his neighbors that the neighborhood kids would not allow flowers to grow, he planted and kept beautiful flower gardens with the aid of those kids.

Soon he came into contact with the young people in the area, many of whom were gang members. Never one to be intimidated, he quickly earned their respect. It was during this time that he became known as the "Old Man." He opened his home to the young people, even taking in many kids who were homeless. He would counsel them about the senselessness of violence and about the true power of positive thinking and of love. He spoke always in the language of the kids themselves. Many a life was saved heeding his advice, although often it went unheeded with foreseen consequences. The young people began to understand that the Old Man's counsel was wise and that his sole motivation was to aid and uplift them. Their trust and faith in him became unshakable.

During this time Bill first came into contact with Theosophy and the Theosophical Society. From the start he felt completely at home with the teachings and felt he was renewing old acquaintances with those who were to become his fellow Theosophists. From the time he joined the Society his work moved to a different level and took on new energy.

In 1973, as if in answer to some call, the group members who were to become the core of the Center were drawn together. Six young men, all of whom had either recently completed or were completing their college studies, hailing from various parts of Chicago and its suburbs, from Kentucky and New York City came to live at the house on Calumet Avenue. Without any advertising or fanfare, they found their way to the place they felt they were supposed to be. For some it was a chance encounter. For some the connection was made at a Theosophical meeting. Still others had heard about the Old Man by word of mouth.

In every case there was an awakening spiritual desire within the young men that brought them to the one they recognized as their teacher. Each one was a student of Theosophy and a member of the Society. From this point the work that was to be the capstone of the Old Man's life began in earnest.

Beginning by rehabilitating the house on Calumet, the boys gradually developed their skills. Within months the owners of the three buildings immediately adjacent to the home came without being requested or sought out and offered their buildings in a way that seemed more like a gift than a sale. After much hard work the place took on a new appearance. People who had once shunned the area were now driving through to witness the new life being breathed into the neighborhood. The energy became infectious. Residents who had given up hope of the community's revival began to paint, to plant, and to brighten up their homes.

During this time the group developed into a healing team. Regular meetings were held and there seemed to be an endless stream of people wanting advice, healing, or just to talk.

These achievements and numerous others are the "jewels in the crown" of Bill Lawrence's life. What remains is the wise and loving touch which brought beauty where others saw only decay and which fulfills the highest injunction to man: to help, to uplift, and to serve his fellow man. The life and teaching of the Old Man makes it clear that the pathway of ever-expanding service lies open to any and all who would sincerely tread it, and that the life of one man or woman can indeed imprint itself deeply upon the world when that life is intimately linked to a higher source and power.

One thing I know; the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve.

—Albert Schweitzer