Ten minutes in the bliss of insight consciousness
From Martin LeFevre
It is a day of magnificent clouds, variable weather, sublime light, and living
shadows. At mid-afternoon I break away, driving up into the Sierra foothills for
a bit, drawn by the pillars and spires of white masses over the green slopes.
I pull over at a spot affording a splendid view of the town below, as well as
the "smallest mountain range in the world"-- the Sutter Buttes, lying right in
the middle of the Central Valley near its northern end. Two hundred meters from
the car a field of astonishingly violet wildflowers beckon.
Walking to edge of them, I expect the color to diminish on close inspection, but
the hue only grows more intense to my perception. I recall a remark by a
religious philosopher, "color is God."
Down in the park, the creek is still running fast and furious after last week's
deluge. Crossing the footbridge, I am instantly struck by a profound sense of
mystery, induced by the play of light and shadow over the fullness of new
foliage.
I sit in a secluded spot on a bank overlooking a section of the stream, which is
doing its best to be a river while it can, and begin to observe. People are
nearby—riding bikes, walking babies, running or rollerblading—but I am alone,
and the solitude deepens as attention gathers.
The observer dissolves in the effortless observation, and a spontaneous shift
occurs. Simultaneously, there is an intensification in sensory awareness. The
symbolic world within slows down and assumes a secondary role. The mind and
heart are fully and effortlessly present, and every detail is noticed with
interest.
A bird lands on a nearby branch, and I see it as if for the first time. Two
mallards, which had been rooting in the shallows on the other side, suddenly
swoop up. They linger a few feet away, the bright colorations on the multi-hued
male, and the subtle brown hues of the female jumping out at the eye. Their
finely synchronized movements are a wonder and delight.
The sky darkens, and a few raindrops begin to fall. Despite a rolling thunder
that grows nearer, I sense that the downpour will miss me, so I sit tight. The
feeling of strong weather intensifies to a climactic degree. The parkland
undergoes a sudden transformation, going from serene to ominous in the space of
a few minutes. In the meditative state it has all the more effect on the senses
and mind.
The mild shower passes and the thunder ceases. It is time to leave. Once again,
the skies dramatically change. It is blue above again, and the light is stronger
and brighter, the shadows sharper and even more alive. After walking a couple of
miles, I arrive again at the footbridge.
A woman despondently leans against the railing, headphones covering her ears,
depression hanging over her like a shroud. I instantly see in her the world of
human sorrow and woe. In the illusory separateness of her sorrow, she gives me a
mean look when she sees me looking at her, but I still feel for her. Why does
this shift in consciousness not abide, I wonder, why doesn't it irrevocably
replace so-called normal consciousness?
Consciousness is of two very different and distinct types to a contemplative.
There is ‘normal' consciousness, which is a function of memory and symbols
(evoking associations, images, ideas, and knowledge). And there is consciousness
emptied of content, or at least the dominant movement of content in the brain.
This ‘true' quality of consciousness is a function of attention, and the ending
of the separative mechanism that we call ‘me.' (The self appears in the
meditative state to be but a reflexive swirl in the stream of content
consciousness, experienced as separate and permanent during the sleepwalking
state we normally call consciousness.)
I run a grave risk of introducing a dichotomy here. The distinction may be
useful, but a dichotomy is injurious. All I can say is what any mystic in any
age says, that I would trade ten lifetimes in the shadows of content
consciousness for ten minutes in the bliss of insight consciousness.
mglefevre@earthlink.net
The author welcomes comments.
