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On Mar 28, 2023 Craig wrote on Interbeing, by Thich Nhat Hanh:

Stewart was nineteen years old when it happened. It was mid August, 1990, and he was staying at his parents' home on a break from college, where he had just written a paper for a final exam in a Philosophy of Mind course at UCDavis. He had just finished reading "Lord of the Flies" that morning, and turned on the radio before stepping into the shower. Once in the shower, he heard the sound of the water falling, but also could hear the radio, as if they were two completely different sounds. But then he realized that his eardrums don't differentiate between the sound of the music and talk on the radio and the sounds of the shower water raining down on him—but that that differentiation had to come from his understanding after his eardrums registered the vibrations; it was some sort of conditioned differentiation. He wondered whether, as a baby or a very young child, if he could "hear" the difference of the sounds as coming from two different sources, and reasoned that he likely would not be able to differentiate as a very young child, because then, he would just hear the truth of the sounds, and not edit them, not sort them. He sat down in the shower, closed his eyes, plugged his ears, and tried to re-hear the sounds about him as one sound, whole and undifferentiated. He felt that if he tried hard enough, he might just be able to do it. After awhile, he emerged from the shower and dried himself off with a towel in the bathroom, and while doing so, he began to feel that he was a tremendous community of millions of little cells, each with a tiny bit of consciousness. He felt that his whole experience of self—of "I-ness" was only an emergent property of these millions of cells, working together in their community, and that if he really was only those cells, then why didn't he feel himself as those cells—those myriad individuals. Suddenly, he felt that his "I-ness" was, in a way, a convenient disservice to those cells, some of whom had been and were currently work... [View Full Comment] Stewart was nineteen years old when it happened. It was mid August, 1990, and he was staying at his parents' home on a break from college, where he had just written a paper for a final exam in a Philosophy of Mind course at UCDavis. He had just finished reading "Lord of the Flies" that morning, and turned on the radio before stepping into the shower. Once in the shower, he heard the sound of the water falling, but also could hear the radio, as if they were two completely different sounds. But then he realized that his eardrums don't differentiate between the sound of the music and talk on the radio and the sounds of the shower water raining down on him—but that that differentiation had to come from his understanding after his eardrums registered the vibrations; it was some sort of conditioned differentiation. He wondered whether, as a baby or a very young child, if he could "hear" the difference of the sounds as coming from two different sources, and reasoned that he likely would not be able to differentiate as a very young child, because then, he would just hear the truth of the sounds, and not edit them, not sort them. He sat down in the shower, closed his eyes, plugged his ears, and tried to re-hear the sounds about him as one sound, whole and undifferentiated. He felt that if he tried hard enough, he might just be able to do it. After awhile, he emerged from the shower and dried himself off with a towel in the bathroom, and while doing so, he began to feel that he was a tremendous community of millions of little cells, each with a tiny bit of consciousness. He felt that his whole experience of self—of "I-ness" was only an emergent property of these millions of cells, working together in their community, and that if he really was only those cells, then why didn't he feel himself as those cells—those myriad individuals. Suddenly, he felt that his "I-ness" was, in a way, a convenient disservice to those cells, some of whom had been and were currently working very hard to make the whole organism called "Stewart" work. So he wondered if he could surrender that overlordship—in a way, give back his consciousness to all of the individual cells that created it, acknowledge and thank them for their service, and let them be honored each and independently. As he tried to do this, something happened, and for the first time, he fell into a tingling state of bliss—a kind of ecstasy—where his normal chatty mind dissolved, and he became only that community. His body felt like a hive of buzzing bees, humming, each little part alive and independent, but all working together. And those bees had, at last, been seen, recognized for what they really were and had always been, and took joy in this recognition. And the image of an hourglass came to Stewart—with the feeling that "we are all the living sands of an hourglass," as time passes though us, and cells are born, live, and die, and yet the continuity of the whole organism seems to hold together. But, like differentiating the music on the radio from the sounds of the shower raining down, the wholeness and the partitions were, both, in a way, illusions. In this altered state, he returned to his old bedroom, pulled out a bottle of ink and a sumi brush, and began to paint the phrase that came to him on his bedroom wall. Suddenly, his parents entered his room, and saw him painting writing on the wall, and they panicked, pulled the ink and brush from his hands, where it spilled over his fingers in the process, and they dragged him back to the bathroom and washed his hands, looking into his eyes, and asking him repeatedly, "What drug are you on?" But Stewart hadn't taken any drugs. In fact, he had never taken any mind-altering drugs before. What was happening just was happening on its own. And in his state of surrendering to the microorganisms of his being, he began to see that his parents were also made of myriad consciousnesses, but that in their state, they could not see this. His mother, yelling to his father that their son had "gone crazy," in an act of desperation, grabbed a pair of scissors, grabbed the lock of hair on his forehead, and cut his hair off at the scalp. In his state of mind, Stewart could see that there was no other way that his mother could be. That she was scared and confused, and could not see or understand who her son really was: a community of cells, just like she was. And so he did not flinch, and did not resent her, because there was nothing else to do but let it be as it was, as it unfolded. And as she removed the lock of hair from his head, he left their house through the front door, and walked slowly to the neighboring field. And as he walked, he began to realize that just as all of the little cells that created the community that was his body, his being did not have an awareness of "Stewart"—that is, before Stewart became aware of those parts of which he was made—so the individual human beings on the planet did not realize that they were participating in greater minds—corporate minds, and national minds, and even a mind that emerged from the whole of humanity. And the more he gave over his own mind to the cells within him, like a beautiful communist revolution, where every cell became recognized for who it was and could have its say, so, simultaneously, Stewart's cells realized that they were participants in these greater minds, and ultimately, a mind that incorporated all of the plants, all of the animals, all of the minerals that flowed within all of those cells and the body of the Earth itself. None of this is easy to put into words, and unless you have had the experience yourself, you cannot imagine it. But then something else happened: Stewart felt his being disintegrating and merging with the entire planet Earth—and the living, sentient mind of the Earth touched the mind of all of the cells and bacterium and minerals in the thing that some once called "Stewart," and, like being struck by a lightning bolt, he felt open, and opened, and overwhelmed with the intensity of energy that was flowing through him, to him, from him, and around him. It felt to him like a toaster had been plugged into a nuclear power plant, and all the circuits were burning up, frying with the sheer power and vastness of the experience. And those around Stewart felt something too, as he sat down next to that field, merged with the Soul of the World (what he would later learn was called by ancient Romans as the "anima mundi.") His sister and her friend had followed him out of the house, and the friend burst out into tears. His parents dragged him back inside their home, placed him on a bed in their study, and tried to reason with him. But Stewart knew their thoughts form in their minds, before they spoke them, and felt their fears and their self-imposed and self-enforced limited-ness, which seemed all so unnecessary. He began to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but, at the same time, sob at the pain of it all—and, laughing and crying, writhing on the guest room bed, both hysterical and heart-wrenching at once—he cried out, "All I've ever really wanted was the Truth, and now I have a taste of it." It took him several hours to return to a state where he could speak, walk, and eat again. But he would never be the same person he was before that day. The experience changed the course of his life from that day forward, and he knew then that everything except that truth was but a different flavor of illusion, of forgetfulness of what and who we really are. He tried to explain the experience to his friends back in college; one told him that it was like a good acid trip. He passionately tried to describe it to other students in his Philosophy courses; they though he was mad, or that he was trying to start a cult. Hegel, Nietzsche, and even Plato all had different meanings to him than to his peers in school. Even many of his teachers felt that his interpretations were too "mystical." And for a long time, he felt very much alone among his fellow human beings. Without having had that experience themselves, how might anyone understand it? How might anyone even believe that it was possible? It was the most profound experience of his life, but anyone he told just laughed or rolled their eyes at him, and so, for another thirty years, Stewart kept his experience a secret. But this little piece of writing by Thich Nhat Hanh showed Stewart that he was not the only one who has experienced such things. Our world is far more alive than we usually remember or give it credit. We are legion, and as we surrender to that legion and let that legion come alive within us, we open ourselves up to a more intimate participation in the far vaster community, the greater song, of which the millions of tiny souls within us play a part: the microcosm reflects the macrocosm, and at all levels, there is mindstuff, awareness, and sentience. Thank you for sharing this this reading with us.[Hide Full Comment]

On Jan 2, 2018 Craig wrote on Universality Is Not An Idea, It Is Reality, by Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev:

I feel that this passage illuminates a subtle distinction between two different ways of knowing: on the one hand, we may know intellectually and speak about the concept of "universal oneness," and on the other hand, we can experience the reality of Universal Oneness as a state of being. In the second, we experience and live the truth; in the first, we are living in an illusion while thinking—and maybe talking about—the idea of "universal oneness." Sathguru Vasudev points out how different the two states are: that we may think and talk about oneness, while not living the reality of Oneness. And that's damaging. Metaphorically, it's like two kids trapped in the attic, playing a video game together. In the world of their video game, they escape the attic and explore the rest of the house. But if someone in their family tries to tell them that they are stuck in the attic, they insist that they have already escaped, and are roaming through the house freely. They are looking at the house only in their imagination—the video game. But meanwhile, they are rotting away, starving in the attic. The reality of the house *as it really is* is less likely to be experienced by them, because they feel they have already escaped. And everything they tell people about is not from a place of actually knowing the house, but only imagining the house. So not only will they likely hinder their own awareness of Union, but they may give others a false understanding and hinder other's awareness as well. I know myself how inflated my ego becomes when I think I understand something of a spiritual nature, and talk about it as if I know. But it only causes problems for myself and others. I become a pretender, a mountebank, charlatan, and ultimately, a hypocrite. But as Sadhguru Vasudev concludes, any idea or thought kills the experience of Reality, which is beyond ideas or thoughts. I think he is urging us to slay and bury ALL of our thoughts—particularly our "spiritual" id... [View Full Comment]

I feel that this passage illuminates a subtle distinction between two different ways of knowing: on the one hand, we may know intellectually and speak about the concept of "universal oneness," and on the other hand, we can experience the reality of Universal Oneness as a state of being. In the second, we experience and live the truth; in the first, we are living in an illusion while thinking—and maybe talking about—the idea of "universal oneness." Sathguru Vasudev points out how different the two states are: that we may think and talk about oneness, while not living the reality of Oneness. And that's damaging. Metaphorically, it's like two kids trapped in the attic, playing a video game together. In the world of their video game, they escape the attic and explore the rest of the house. But if someone in their family tries to tell them that they are stuck in the attic, they insist that they have already escaped, and are roaming through the house freely. They are looking at the house only in their imagination—the video game. But meanwhile, they are rotting away, starving in the attic. The reality of the house *as it really is* is less likely to be experienced by them, because they feel they have already escaped. And everything they tell people about is not from a place of actually knowing the house, but only imagining the house. So not only will they likely hinder their own awareness of Union, but they may give others a false understanding and hinder other's awareness as well. I know myself how inflated my ego becomes when I think I understand something of a spiritual nature, and talk about it as if I know. But it only causes problems for myself and others. I become a pretender, a mountebank, charlatan, and ultimately, a hypocrite. But as Sadhguru Vasudev concludes, any idea or thought kills the experience of Reality, which is beyond ideas or thoughts. I think he is urging us to slay and bury ALL of our thoughts—particularly our "spiritual" ideas (spiritual illusions)—if we long for a true understanding through yoga. This passage is profound and so helpful four our times—particularly in the United States. Thank you for sharing it with us.

[Hide Full Comment]

On Apr 5, 2017 Craig Coss wrote on The Way of the Water, by Ursula LeGuin:

Even in some warrior mythologies, the powers of water are exalted. King Arthur, the model knight in England and France, was given his peerless sword, Excalibur, by Vivian, the Lady of the Lake. And after receiving his sword, the wizard Merlin asked Arthur, “Which is greater—the sword or the scabbard?” Arthur replied, “The sword, of course.” But Merlin revealed that the scabbard was the greater, for it while wearing it, Arthur could never be wounded by a blade—as water cannot be cut, but rejoins and mends itself as though nothing ever severed it.

On Dec 15, 2015 Craig wrote on Can Beauty Save the World?, by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn:

I feel that there is a truth to what Dostoyevsky said, but that it is far more esoteric than what Solzhenitsyn has written about here. My sense is that Beauty resonates with us in a way that is beyond the intellectual mind, under the table of the ego. As Rashimi wrote, Beauty pulls us toward it perhaps because it reminds us that we are one with it already; Beauty tickles our hearts in that place where we are not separate from anything.

I felt a bit saddened reading this piece. Did Solzhenitsyn contradict his meaning with his form? To my ear, the way he expressed his ideas did not sing or dance. Where did the poetry go? Was his beauty was lost in translation? Or is beauty so relative, as David has suggested, that another reader found beauty here that I missed, because I did not have the ears to hear it?

I will continue to ponder the notion that untrue ideas cannot fit into a beautiful form—yet I see an attempt to convey that very thing in advertising on a daily basis. And many of us are hooked by it, seduced...

The ancient Hindu story of the Churning of the Ocean of Milk is a wonderful story to study when we wish to look at the place, the need, and the power of Beauty. It's a tale of how Beauty did save the world. In that myth, Divinity alternates between manifesting and hiding, between the numinous and the seductive, found among the perceptual world—then hopelessly lost—and only recovered again by going deep, deep within.

On Jun 30, 2015 Betsy Blazic Micek wrote on Man's Most Important Mistake, by G. I. Gurdjieff:

In the West, we are taught that seeing the slivers of ourselves as parts of our whole represents mental illness! With paradigms like "The Three Faces of Eve" and "Sybil", we're anything but encouraged to patch together our real I. It wreaks havoc on ones grammar, however. Thanks to Gurdjieff, as ever.

On Sep 23, 2014 Jackie wrote on Suffering Leads to Grace, by Ram Dass:

thankyou Smita. this book has come up a few times lately and I am now going to read it. the words you quote from Anais Nin are on my wall, beautfully lit by fairy lights! Today I awoke feeling lost and struggling. I accept those feelings as a call from my heart - stay with this, it is all part of your journey. Unfold..x

On Aug 6, 2013 Craig wrote on Be Love Now, by Ram Dass:

What a beautiful reminder of what we are, at the core. This whole passage seems itself to be a practice, a meditation, a way. When we all can remember this, wars will end, crimes will cease, and even laws and lawyers will no longer be needed. Isn't all that we desire, and try to get from others—is it not all ultimately about this deep longing for what we already are being given—and always have been?

What is it in me, in all of us, that forgets this? Why, when something within us is so all-pervasive and powerful and true, do I live with little or no awareness of this beauty? Is there also some part of our fundamental nature that forgets the gift that is always given? And, if that forgetfulness is also divine, is that also sacred, and worth revering? So that the dramas of forgetfulness—the torn relationships and the wars, small and enormous—play themselves out?

Thank you for posting this today. Thank you, Ram Dass, for this reminder so beautiful it should be sung.

On Nov 20, 2012 Oriah Mountain Dreamer wrote on The Call, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer:

Thank you so much for sharing my poem "The Call." Many blessings, Oriah Mountain Dreamer (www.oriah.org)

On Apr 20, 2010 Craig Coss wrote on Daily Life of Art, by Nina Wise:

A lovely piece of writing, Nina. Thank you for sharing it with us all. I think you are so correct about "stopping" the natural flow as the main cause for a lack of creative expression. Teaching visual art to middle-school students, I often ask on the first day, "Who considers themselves to be an artist?" Ususally, in a good school, about a third of the kids raise their hands. So I ask the others, "When did you stop?" And what I've found is that most of the students who stopped did so in first or second grade: around ages seven and eight. And most of them stop because another student—almost always an older one—often an eight year old—criticized their work in a cruel or thoughless way. Sometimes it's a critical parent that critizes their child's expressions, but more often, it's an eight year old in their school. How many of us are still letting some eight year old's heartless remark inhibit us? Many of us today draw like seven or eight year olds only because that's when we stopped. So perhaps that voice that you refer to that tells us to stop wasn't really our voice in the first place, but a lingering echo from our childhood that's still bouncing around in there. Can we return to that old wound, bring it to consciousness again, and sense the absurdity of the power it still holds over us? Must we actually return to an earlier age when the creative functions are flowing, and criticism isn't a part of our thinking? I could not give myself the freedom to be uninhibited in my expressions until I volunteered in a kindergarten class while in my early twenties. Watching those kids sing, dance, draw, perform, and express without any thoughts of self-judgement gave me permission somewhere to do the same: first in their class, then in other classrooms in schools, and finally around adults. I was healed by a class of five year olds. I'm not a parent, but I wonder if parents have children who allow them to be cre... [View Full Comment]

A lovely piece of writing, Nina. Thank you for sharing it with us all.

I think you are so correct about "stopping" the natural flow as the main cause for a lack of creative expression. Teaching visual art to middle-school students, I often ask on the first day, "Who considers themselves to be an artist?" Ususally, in a good school, about a third of the kids raise their hands. So I ask the others, "When did you stop?"

And what I've found is that most of the students who stopped did so in first or second grade: around ages seven and eight. And most of them stop because another student—almost always an older one—often an eight year old—criticized their work in a cruel or thoughless way. Sometimes it's a critical parent that critizes their child's expressions, but more often, it's an eight year old in their school. How many of us are still letting some eight year old's heartless remark inhibit us? Many of us today draw like seven or eight year olds only because that's when we stopped.

So perhaps that voice that you refer to that tells us to stop wasn't really our voice in the first place, but a lingering echo from our childhood that's still bouncing around in there.

Can we return to that old wound, bring it to consciousness again, and sense the absurdity of the power it still holds over us?

Must we actually return to an earlier age when the creative functions are flowing, and criticism isn't a part of our thinking? I could not give myself the freedom to be uninhibited in my expressions until I volunteered in a kindergarten class while in my early twenties. Watching those kids sing, dance, draw, perform, and express without any thoughts of self-judgement gave me permission somewhere to do the same: first in their class, then in other classrooms in schools, and finally around adults. I was healed by a class of five year olds.

I'm not a parent, but I wonder if parents have children who allow them to be creative again as adults. Has anyone had that experience?