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Mysterious Light: A
Scientist's Odyssey
The more I discovered, the more
fascinated I became. At sixteen I was devouring Einstein and marveling at the
paradoxical world of quantum physics. I delved into different theories of how
the universe began, and pondered the mysteries of space and time. I had a
passion for knowing, an insatiable curiosity about the laws and principles
that governed the world. I was not, however, a materialist,
believing that everything could be explained by the physical sciences. By my
mid-teens I had developed an interest in the untapped potentials of the human
mind. Stories of yogis being buried alive for days, or lying on beds of
nails, intrigued me. I dabbled in so-called out-of-body experiences and
experimented with the altered states of consciousness produced by
hyperventilating or entraining the brain's alpha rhythms with pulsating
lights. I developed my own techniques of meditation, though I did not
recognize them as such at the time. Nevertheless, my overriding interest
was still in the physical sciences, and, above all, mathematics. Thus, when
it came to choosing which subject I was to study at university, the choice
was obvious. And when it came to deciding which university I should apply to,
the choice was again clear: Cambridge. It was, and probably remains, the best
British university for studying mathematics. The Turning Point In my third year, I was exactly where I
thought I would want to be. Stephen Hawking was my supervisor. Although he
had fallen prey to the motor-neuron disorder known as Lou Gehrig's disease
several years earlier, the illness had not yet taken its full toll. He could
walk with the aid of a cane and speak well enough to be understood. Sitting with him in his study, I found
half my attention would be on whatever he was explaining to me (such as the
solution of a particularly difficult set of differential equations), while my
eye would be caught by the hundreds of sheets of paper strewn across his
desk, on which were scrawled, in very large handwriting, equations that I
could hardly begin to fathom. Only later did I realize these papers were
probably part of his seminal work on black holes. On more than one occasion, a spasmodic
movement of his arm would accidentally send most of the papers sliding to the
floor. I wanted to get down and scoop them up for him, but he always insisted
I leave them there. To be doing such ground-breaking work in cosmology was
achievement enough. To be doing it with such handicaps was astounding. I felt
both extremely privileged and very daunted. So there I was,
studying with the best of minds in the best of universities, yet something
else was stirring deep inside me. My studies in mathematics and quantum
physics explained how the entire material universe could have evolved from
the simplest of the elements-hydrogen. Yet the most fascinating question for
me had now become: How had hydrogen-a single electron orbiting a single
proton-evolved into a system that could be aware of itself?
How had the universe become conscious? It was becoming clear that however hard
I studied the physical sciences, they were never
going to answer this deeper, more fundamental, question. I felt a growing
sense of frustration, manifesting at times as depression. I found myself
reading more about mind and consciousness, and less able to focus on my
mathematical assignments. The Best of Both Worlds My tutor must have sensed I was not at
ease in myself and approached me one day to ask how I was doing. I shared
with him as best I could my confusion and misgivings about my chosen path.
His response surprised me: "Either complete your degree in mathematics
[I was in my final year] or take the rest of the year off and use it to
decide what you really want to study." Then, knowing how hard it would
be for me to make such a choice without a deadline, he added, "I want
your decision by noon on Saturday." Saturday, five minutes before noon, I
was still torn between my two options, struggling with feelings of failure,
and a sense of wasted time. In the end, I surrendered to an inner knowing
that I would not be fulfilled continuing with mathematics, and that I really
wanted to take the rest of the year off. By late afternoon I had packed, said
a temporary farewell to my friends, and was on my way, with only uncertainty
ahead. During the next six months I produced
light shows, worked in a jam factory at night, and from time to time pondered
my future career. After exploring various options I
returned to Cambridge to study experimental psychology; it seemed the closest
academic approach to understanding consciousness. Whereas clinical psychology
involves treating those who are mentally ill at ease, experimental psychology
is concerned with the functioning of the normal human brain. It includes the
study of the physiological process of perception and how the brain builds up
a picture of the world. It encompasses learning and memory, the brain's
control of the body, and the biochemistry of neuronal interactions.
Understanding the brain seemed a start in the right direction. So I found myself able to continue
pursuing my interests in mathematics and physics, while at the same time
embarking on my exploration of the inner world of consciousness. Today, after thirty years of
investigation into the nature of consciousness, I have come to appreciate
just how big a problem the subject is for contemporary science. We all know,
beyond any doubt, that we are conscious beings. It is the most intimate and
obvious fact of our existence. Indeed, all we ever directly know are the
thoughts, images, and feelings arising in consciousness. Yet as far as
Western science is concerned, there is nothing more difficult to explain. The 'Hard Problem' of Consciousness The really hard problem-as David
Chalmers, professor of philosophy at the University of Arizona, has said-is
consciousness itself. Why should the complex processing of information in the
brain lead to an inner experience? Why doesn't it all go on in the dark,
without any subjective aspect? Why do we have any inner life at all? This paradox-namely, the absolutely
undeniable existence of human consciousness set against the complete absence
of any satisfactory scientific account for it-suggests to me that something
is seriously amiss with the contemporary scientific worldview. For a long
time I could not put my finger on exactly what it was. Then suddenly, about
four years ago on a flight back to San Francisco, I saw where the error lay. If consciousness is not some emergent
property of life, as Western science supposes, but is instead a primary
quality of the cosmos-as fundamental as space, time, and matter, perhaps even
more fundamental-then we arrive at a very different picture of reality. As
far as our understanding of the material world goes, nothing much changes;
but when it comes to our understanding of mind, we are led to a very
different worldview indeed. I realized that the hard problem of consciousness
was not a problem to be solved so much as the trigger that would, in time,
push Western science into what the American philosopher Thomas Kuhn called a
"paradigm shift." The continued failure of science to
make any appreciable headway into this fundamental problem suggests that, to
date, all approaches may be on the wrong track. They are all based on the
assumption that consciousness emerges from, or is dependent upon, the
physical world of space, time, and matter. In one way or another they are
trying to accommodate the anomaly of consciousness within a worldview that is
intrinsically materialist. As happened with the medieval astronomers, who
kept adding more and more epicycles to explain the anomalous motions of the
planets, the underlying assumptions are seldom, if ever, questioned. I now believe that rather than trying
to explain consciousness in terms of the material world, we should be
developing a new worldview in which consciousness is a fundamental component
of reality. The key ingredients for this new paradigm-a "superparadigm"-are already in place. We need not
wait for any new discoveries. All we need do is put various pieces of our
existing knowledge together, and consider the new picture of reality that
emerges. Consciousness and Reality Because the word
"consciousness" can be used in so many different ways, confusion
often arises around statements about its nature. The way I use the word is
not in reference to a particular state of consciousness, or particular way of
thinking, but to the faculty of consciousness itself-the capacity for inner
experience, whatever the nature or degree of the experience. A useful analogy is the image from a
video projector. The projector shines light onto a screen, modifying the
light so as to produce any one of an infinity of
images. These images are like the perceptions, sensations, dreams, memories,
thoughts, and feelings that we experience-what I call the "contents of
consciousness." The light itself, without which no images would be
possible, corresponds to the faculty of consciousness. We know all the images on the screen
are composed of this light, but we are not usually aware of the light itself;
our attention is caught up in the images that appear and the stories they
tell. In much the same way, we know we are conscious, but we are usually aware
only of the many different experiences, thoughts, and feelings that appear in
the mind. We are seldom aware of consciousness itself. Yet without this
faculty there would be no experience of any kind. The faculty of
consciousness is one
thing we all share, but what goes on in our consciousness, the content of our
consciousness, varies widely. This is our personal reality, the reality we
each know and experience. Most of the time, however, we forget that this is
just our personal reality and think we are experiencing physical reality
directly. We see the ground beneath our feet; we can pick up a rock, and
throw it through the air; we feel the heat from a fire, and smell its burning
wood. It feels as if we are in direct contact with the world "out there."
But this is not so. The colors, textures, smells, and sounds we experience
are not really "out there"; they are all images of reality
constructed in the mind. It was this aspect of perception that
most caught my attention during my studies of experimental psychology (and
amplified by my readings of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant). At that time,
scientists were beginning to discover the ways in which the brain pieces
together its perception of the world, and I was fascinated by the
implications of these discoveries for the way we construct our picture of
reality. It was clear that what we perceive and what is actually out there
are two different things. This, I know, runs counter to common
sense. Right now you are aware of the pages in front of you, various objects
around you, sensations in your own body, and sounds in the air. Even though
you may understand that all of this is just your reconstruction of reality,
it still seems as if you are having a direct perception of the physical
world. And I am not suggesting you should try to see it otherwise. What is
important for now is the understanding that all our experience is an image of
reality constructed in the mind. Unknowable Reality Because our perception of the world is
so different from the actual physical reality, some people have claimed that
our experience is an illusion. But that is misleading. It may all be a
creation of my own mind, but it is very, very real-the only reality we ever
know. The illusion comes when we confuse our
experience of the world with the physical reality, the thing-in-itself. The Vedantic philosophers of ancient India spoke of this as
"maya." Often translated as illusion (a
false perception of the world), the word is more accurately translated as
delusion (a false belief about the world). I suffer a delusion when I believe
that the manifestations in my mind are the external world. I deceive myself
when I think that the tree I see is the tree itself. If all that we ever know are the images
that appear in our minds, how can we be sure there is a physical reality
behind our perceptions? Is it not just an assumption? My answer to that is:
Yes, it is an assumption; nevertheless, it seems a most plausible assumption. For a start, there are definite
constraints on my experience. I cannot, for example, walk through walls. If I
try to, there are predictable consequences. Nor can I, when awake, float
through the air, or walk upon water. Second, my experience generally follows
well-defined laws and principles. Balls thrown through the air follow
|precisely defined paths. Cups of coffee cool at similar rates. The sun rises
on time. Furthermore, this predictability is not peculiar to my personal
reality. You, whom I assume to exist, report similar patterns in your own
experience. The simplest way, by far, of accounting for these constraints and
for their consistency is to assume that there is indeed a physical reality.
We may not know it directly, and its nature may be nothing like our
experience of it, but it is there. To reveal the nature of this underlying
reality has been the goal of the physical sciences, and over the years they
have elucidated many of the laws and principles that govern its behavior. Yet
curiously the more deeply they have delved into its true nature, the more it
appears that physical reality is nothing like we imagined it to be. Actually,
this should not be too surprising. All we can imagine are the forms and
qualities that appear in consciousness. These are unlikely to be very
appropriate models for describing the underlying physical reality, which is
of a very different nature. Take, for example, our ideas as to the
nature of matter. For two thousand years it was believed that atoms were tiny
balls of solid matter-a model clearly drawn from everyday experience. Then,
as physicists discovered that atoms were composed of more elementary,
subatomic, |particles (electrons, protons, neutrons, and suchlike), the model
shifted to one of a central nucleus surrounded by orbiting electrons-again a
model based on experience. An atom may be small, a mere billionth
of an inch across, but these subatomic particles are a hundred-thousand times
smaller still. Imagine the nucleus of an atom magnified to the size of a
grain of rice. The whole atom would then be the size of a football stadium, and
the electrons would be other grains of rice flying round the stands. As the
early twentieth-century British physicist Sir Arthur Eddington
put it, "matter is mostly ghostly empty space"-99.9999999 percent
empty space, to be a little more precise. With the advent of quantum theory, it
was found that even these minute subatomic particles were themselves far from
solid. In fact, they are not much like matter at all-at least nothing like
matter as we know it. They can't be pinned down and measured precisely. They
are more like fuzzy clouds of potential existence, with no definite location.
Much of the time they seem more like waves than particles. Whatever matter
is, it has little, if any, substance to it. Somewhat ironically, science, having
set out to know the ultimate nature of reality, is discovering that not only
is this world beyond any direct experience, it may also be inherently
unknowable. The Paradox of Light With hindsight, my decision to study
theoretical physics along with experimental psychology was definitely the
right one. They provided two complementary directions to my personal search
for truth. Theoretical physics was taking me closer toward the ultimate
truths of the physical world, while my pursuit of experimental psychology was
a first step toward truth in the inner world of consciousness. Moreover, the
deeper I went in these two directions, the closer the truths of the inner and
outer worlds became. And the bridge between them was light. Both relativity and quantum physics,
the two great paradigm shifts of modern physics, started from anomalies in
the behavior of light, and both led to radical new understandings of the
nature of light. For example, in relativity theory, at the speed of light
time comes to a stop-in effect, that means for light
there is no time whatsoever. Furthermore, a photon can traverse the entire
universe without using up any energy-in effect, that
means for light there is no space. In quantum theory, we find that light has
zero mass and charge, which in effect means that it is immaterial. Light,
therefore, seems to occupy a very special place in the cosmic scheme; it is
in some ways more fundamental than time, space, or matter. The same, I later
discovered, was true of the inner light of consciousness. Although all we ever see is light,
paradoxically, we never know light directly. The light that strikes the eye
is known only through the energy it releases. This energy is translated into
a visual image in the mind, and that image seems to be composed of light-but
that light is a quality of mind. We never know the light itself. Physics, like Genesis, suggests that in
the beginning there was light, or, rather, in the beginning there is light,
for light underlies every process in the present moment. Any exchange of energy between any two atoms in the universe
involves the exchange of photons. Every interaction in the material world is
mediated by light. In this way, light penetrates and interconnects the entire
cosmos. An oft-quoted phrase comes to mind: God
is Light. God is said to be absolute-and in physics, so is light. God lies
beyond the manifest world of matter, shape, and form, beyond both space and
time-so does light. God cannot be known directly-nor can light. My studies in experimental psychology
taught me much about the basic functioning of the human brain. Yet, despite
all I was learning about neurophysiology, biochemistry, memory, behavior, and
perception, I found myself no closer to understanding the nature of
consciousness itself. The East, however, seemed to have a lot to say about
consciousness, and so had many mystics, from around the world. For thousands
of years they had focused on the realm of the mind, exploring its subtleties
through direct personal experience. I realized that such approaches might
offer insights unavailable to the objective approach of Western science, and
began delving into ancient texts such as the Upanishads, The Tibetan Book of
the Great Liberation, The Cloud of Unknowing, and works of contemporary writers
such as Alan Watts, Aldous Huxley, Carl Jung, and
Christopher Isherwood. I was fascinated to find that here, as
in modern physics, light is a recurring theme. Consciousness is often spoken
of as the inner light. St John refers to "the true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." The
Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation speaks of "the self-originated
Clear Light, eternally unborn . . . shining forth within one's own
mind." Those who have awakened to the truth
about reality-whom we often call illumined, or
enlightened-frequently describe their experiences in terms of light. The sufi Abu'l-Hosian al-Nuri experienced a light "gleaming in the Unseen. .
. . I gazed at it continually, until the time came when I had wholly become
that light." The more I read about this inner light,
the more I saw close parallels with the light of physics. Physical light has
no mass, and is not part of the material world; the same is true of
consciousness. Light seems in some way fundamental to the universe, its
values are absolute, universal constants. The light of consciousness is
likewise fundamental; without it there would be no experience. This led me to wonder whether there was
some deeper significance to these similarities. Were they pointing to a more fundamental
connection between the light of the physical world and the light of
consciousness? Do physical reality and the reality of the mind share the same
common ground-a ground whose essence is light? Meditation Hunting through my local library one day,
I happened upon a book titled The Science of Being and Art of Living by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. This was the Indian teacher who
had recently made the headlines when The Beatles renounced their use of drugs
in favor of his technique of Transcendental Meditation, or TM for short.
Little knowing how much this work would change my life, I added it to the
pile of books I was borrowing and took it back to my study. There it sat,
unopened, on my desk for two weeks. Finally I got around to taking a further
look. Within minutes it had my attention. Maharishi
was saying the exact opposite of just about everything I'd heard or read on
meditation; yet it made sense. To give just one example, most of the
books I had read on meditation talked about how much concentration and effort
it took to still the restless mind and discover the deep peace and
fulfillment that lies within. Maharishi looked at
the whole matter in a different way. Any concentration, the least bit of
trying, even a wanting the mind to settle down, would, he observed, be
counterproductive. It would be promoting mental activity rather than
lessening it. He suggested that the reason the mind was restless was because
it was looking for something-namely, greater satisfaction and fulfillment.
But it was looking for it in the wrong direction, in the world of thinking
and sensory experience. All that was needed, he said, was to turn the
attention 180 degrees inward and give the mind a technique that helped it settle down. Then, in that quieter state it would begin to
taste a little of the fulfillment it had been seeking, and would be
spontaneously drawn on to deeper levels of its own accord. Maharishi's ideas appealed to my scientific mind.
They were simple and elegant-almost like a mathematical derivation. But the
skeptic in me was not going to take anything on faith. Just because something
is written in a book, or because some famous person says it, or because many
others believe it, does not mean it is true. The only way to know how well
his technique worked was to try it. Journey to India As soon as I completed my undergraduate
degree, I earned some money driving a truck, then set off in an old VW van
for India (it was the sixties, after all). My destination was Rishikesh, an Indian holy town, about 150 miles north of
Delhi, at the foot of the Himalayas. The plains of northern India do not
gradually rise up into mountains, as in the Alps; the landscape looks more
like the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. One moment it is flat, the next there
is mountain. Rishikesh nestles right where plain
turns into mountain, and at the very point where the Ganges comes tumbling
out of its deep Himalayan gorge. On one side of the river was Rishikesh the bustling market town, its crowded streets a
jumble of stalls, honking cars, bicycle rickshaws, and bony cows. On the
other side was Rishikesh the holy town. The
atmosphere here was very different. There were no cars for a start. The one
bridge across the river-a suspension bridge strung high across the mouth of
the gorge-was deliberately built too narrow for cars. Along this side of the river, and sprinkled up the jungle hillsides above, were
all manner of ashrams, each with its own architectural style and spiritual
inclination. Some were austere walled quadrangles lined with simple meditation
cells; others gloried in lush gardens, fountains, and brightly colored
statues of Indian deities. Some were centers for hatha
yoga, others taught meditation or followed the
teachings of a particular guru. About two miles down river from the
bridge was Maharishi's ashram, the last habitation
before the winding track disappeared into the jungle. Here, perched on a
cliff top, a hundred feet above the swirling Ganges, were half-a-dozen
bungalows, a meeting hall, dining room, showers, and other facilities
providing some basic Western comforts. Here, just over a hundred of us, of all
ages, from many countries, had gathered for a teacher training course. Many
were like myself, recent graduates and looking for
intellectual understanding of Maharishi's teachings
as much as experience of deep meditation. There were PhDs in philosophy,
medical doctors, and long-term students of theology. Over the coming weeks we listened to Maharishi talk at length, and asked question after
question, virtually interrogating him at times. We teased out everything,
from the finer distinctions of higher states of consciousness and subtle
influences of meditation to the exact meaning of various esoteric concepts. Pure Consciousness Even more important than our growing
understanding of meditation was the opportunity to deepen our experience.
Initially we meditated for three or four hours a day. As the course
progressed, Maharishi gradually increased our
practice times until we were spending most of the day in meditation-and much of
the night as well. He wanted us to have clear experiences of the states of
consciousness he was describing. During these long meditations, the
habitual chatter of my mind began to fade away. Thoughts about what was going
on in meditation, what time it was, what I wanted to say or do later,
occupied less and less of my attention. Sounds outside no longer triggered
images of monkeys playing games on the roof. Random memories of the past no
longer flitted through my mind. My feelings settled down, and my breath grew so gentle as to virtually disappear. What thoughts there
were became fainter and fainter, until finally my thinking mind fell
completely silent. In Maharishi's terminology I had
transcended (literally gone beyond) thinking-hence the name "Transcendental
Meditation." Indian teachings call this state samadhi, literally "still mind." They identify
it as a fundamentally different state of consciousness from the three major
states we normally experience-waking, dreaming, and deep sleep. In waking
consciousness we are aware and experience the world perceived by the senses.
In dreaming we are aware and experience worlds conjured by the imagination.
In deep sleep there is no awareness, either of outer world or inner world.
Samadhi they define as a fourth major state. There is awareness, one is wide
awake, but there is no object of the awareness. It is pure consciousness-pure
in the sense of being unmodified by thoughts and images-consciousness without
content. In terms of the video projector
analogy, this fourth state of consciousness corresponds to the projector
being on, but without any data being fed to it; only white light falls on the
screen. Likewise, in samadhi you know consciousness
itself, in its unmanifest state, before it takes on
the many forms and qualities of thinking, feeling, and sensory experience. One further quality of this state of
consciousness marks it out from all our normal states. When you are in this
state you discover a sense of self that is more real and more fundamental
than any you have known before. You are no longer an individual person, with
individual characteristics. Here, in the complete absence of all normal
experience, you find your true identity, an identity with the essence of all
beings and all creation. Looking for the self is rather like
being in a room at night with only a flashlight, looking for the source of
the light. All you would find would be the various objects in the room that
the light fell upon. It is the same when we try to look for the self which is
the subject of all experience. All we find are the various ideas, images, and
feelings that the attention falls upon. But these are all objects of
experience; they cannot therefore be the subject of the experience. For this
reason, the self cannot be known in the way that anything else is known. Universal Light We can now begin to see just how close
are the parallels between the light of physics and the light of
consciousness. Both are beyond the material world. And both seem to lie
beyond space and time. Both seem intrinsically unknowable-at least in the way
that everything else is known. And both are absolutes. Every photon of light
is an identical quantum of action, and the foundation of every interaction in
the universe. The light of consciousness is likewise absolute and invariant.
It is the source of every quality that we ever experience. And its essential
nature is the same for everyone. Since it is beyond all attributes and
identifying characteristics, there is no way to distinguish the light of
consciousness in me from the light that shines in you. In other words, how it
feels to me to be conscious-that sense of being we
label "I"-is the same as how it feels to you. In this sense we are
one. We all know the same inner self. I am the light. And so are you. And so
is every sentient being in the universe. Mystics have spoken of this inner light
as the Divine Light, the Cosmic Light, the Light of Light, the Eternal Light
that shines in every heart, the Uncreated Light from which all creation takes
form. Once again the phrase "God is
Light" comes to mind. But now God begins to take on a much richer and
more personal meaning. If God is the name we give to the light of
consciousness shining at the core of every sentient being, and if that pure
consciousness is the very essence of self, then it is only a short step to
the assertion that "I am God." Consciousness and God To many, the statement "I am
God" sounds ridiculous. God is not a human being, but the supreme deity,
the almighty, eternal creator. How can any lowly human being claim that he or
she is God? To those of a more religious disposition, the statement may sound
heretical, if not blasphemous. When the fourteenth-century Christian priest
and mystic Meister Eckhart preached that "God and I are One," he
was brought before Pope John XXII and forced to "recant everything that
he had falsely taught." Not all were so lucky. The tenth-century Islamic
mystic al-Hallãj was crucified for using
language that claimed an identity with God. To those who do not believe in God at
all, such statements are meaningless, the symptoms of some delusion or
pathology. They might have been tolerable a couple of hundred years ago, but
not in the modern scientific era, where God seems a totally unnecessary
concept. Science has looked out into deep space, across the breadth of
creation to the edges of the universe. It has looked back in "deep
time" to the beginning of creation. And it has looked down into the
"deep structure" of the cosmos, to the fundamental constituents of
matter. In each case science finds no evidence for God; nor any need for God-the Universe seems to work perfectly well
without any divine assistance. Thus anyone talking of a personal identity
with God is clearly talking nonsense. That is where I stood thirty years ago.
Now I recognize that I was rejecting a rather naïve and old-fashioned
interpretation of God. When we look to mystical writings, we do not find many
claims for God being in the realm of space, time, and matter. When mystics
refer to God, they are, more often than not, pointing toward the realm of
personal experience, not something in the physical realm. If we want to find
God, we have to look within, into the realm of deep mind-a realm that science
has yet to explore. Taken from Peter Russell’s Personal
Website: http://www.peterussell.com/index2.php
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I get a lot of e-mails. Be patient!
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