An almost universal goal of spiritual practice is to evoke a primordial realization: that all things are inseparably interconnected; therefore, we are never alone. The full implications of apprehending this understanding on a gut level draws us out of our sense of separation and aloneness to an extraordinary spiritual experience, known as Presence.

In physics, the idea of Presence is expressed in the theory of energy. In simple terms, the entire universe is composed of the presence of energy in various forms. Each cell in our bodies is a function of energy, each breath we take, every step, every movement, every relationship, every event is an expression of energy. It is impossible to consider that we might separate ourselves from the source of energy. Indeed, even after death, our energies transmute into other energetic forms. This idea is so elementary, a universe without energy is inconceivable and absurd.

In spiritual traditions, however, there is a tendency to transcend the normal dimensions of time and space, which are clearly a function of energy, and explore other realms that are mystical in nature. As an example, while the quality of love can be recognized in its energetic universal form, the mystic would suggest that there is also a trans-state of love in a dimension that defies understanding. This form of love does not express itself in any ordinary way that is recognizable; rather it is the metaphysical glue that holds all of existence together.

For example, a physicist can describe the mechanics of gravity, and these mechanics can be measured. We recognize immediately that if there were no gravity, this universe would not hold together. We can determine in science just how important gravity is in our lives. But, actually, nobody understands how gravity works. The mystic feels the same way about a gentle Presence in which we are immersed. It is unknowable and yet, seemingly, undeniable. This experience has many names. In some forms of Buddhism, it is called Buddha-mind. In Hinduism, it is seen as the spirit of Brahman. In Christianity it is often called Christ Consciousness. In Islam, it is summarized in the chant: “There is no God, but God,” which in essence means, “There is nothing but God.” The core of Judaism is centered on the same idea: the entire universe and all of its hidden dimensions are enveloped in the expression of oneness.

Our normal experience of life is filled with ideas of multiple things that seem solid and separate. We have a strong intrinsic sense of “this” and “that,” we have a sharp ability to distinguish fundamental differences in shape, color, form, solidity, temperature, light, and so on. Therefore, when spiritual teachers suggest that all the mental differentiations actually arise out of a basic oneness—or nothingness—we are often befuddled by this idea. Our confusion arises out an elementary reality: we know it, feel it, touch it, experience it. The teaching of oneness conflicts with our sensory experience of multiplicity.

Imagine if we had magical glasses that when worn only allowed energy to be seen. What we normally see as a tree, we would instead see raw energy with these glasses expressed in elemental forms of light and sound. The glasses would allow us to see or hear every elemental form of light and sound covering the entire spectrum, but nothing else. So, our visual experience of everything in the world would become light interacting with light; our aural experience would be combinations of sounds. We would dwell in the Presence of light and sound.

Another essential element of energy is heat. Heat is generated from movement, and all matter is built upon movement. So there could be another set of magical glasses that could just recognize heat in various degrees, and nothing else. With these glasses on, we would dwell in the Presence of heat; our entire universe would be nothing but different degrees of heat.

From a metaphysical perspective, we could propose that the fundamental element of the universe is love. Love is the bonding force that holds everything together. Imagine what the magical glasses would reveal to us if we could only see love, and nothing else. We would dwell in the Presence of love.

In literature composed over many centuries of spiritual exploration, we find thousands of testimonies of individuals who have experienced a spontaneous immersion in Presence. Call it God, Buddha-mind, Christ Consciousness, Allah, Brahman, Love, Light, Sound or Warmth, there is an experience described by many different people in different situations in which all distinctions disappear and an extraordinary sense of connectedness arises. All of these experiences are contained under the umbrella of Presence.

From God is a Verb: Kabbalah and the Practice of Mystical Judaism

Kabbalists teach that about fifty-seven hundred years ago, according to the Hebrew calendar, human consciousness became a new reality in this part of the universe. This is what is referred to in the Torah as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It is the story of the inception of a new level of awareness. But we should never refer to creation as a thing of the past because it is on-going and constant; without it we could not exist even for an instant.

The Kabbalist views creation as an unceasing phenomenon. This does not preclude the fact that the physical universe--from our point of view--had a point of conception. In fact, according to kabbalistic calculations, the beginning of the physical universe extends back over fifteen billion years. But Kabbalah also teaches that even fifteen billion years is not sufficient because this universe, as we know it, is not the first. There have been others. The important point, however, is that creation itself is a process. Therefore, to set it into a time frame is absurd--whether one is a scientist or a religious fundamentalist.

Scientists have argued with theologians for hundreds of years about evolution and the timing of creation. But the perspective of Kabbalah is far more radical than science, for it proposes a string of creations. The Sefer Yetzirah, one of the earliest kabbalistic texts, says that seven specific letters of the Hebrew alphabet symbolize seven universes and seven firmaments. These are universes that are created and destroyed, but there are differences of opinion as to which universe we currently inhabit. As Aryeh Kaplan points out, "According to some Kabbalists, the present creation is the second, while others state that it is the sixth or seventh." From another perspective, many universes can run concurrently, as time shifts in meaning once we transcend the universe as we know it. These kabbalistic concepts of multiple universes, whether linear or concurrent, encompass essentially all scientific theory, including evolution, and extend beyond it.

CONTINUOUS CREATION

The principle of continuous creation, without beginning or end, is based upon the idea that there is a source of life that eternally emanates the energy required for all existence. If this source of life were to withhold itself for but a split second everything would vanish. That is to say, all humanity, all nature, all of creation is constantly being sustained each and every moment. It is as if creation were a light bulb that stays illuminated as long as the electricity is flowing. The instant we shut off the power, the light fades out.

If we walk into a room with a light shining, we do not know when that light was turned on. It may have been turned on the instant before we walked in. As with a refrigerator, perhaps the door itself to this room has a switch built into it that turns on the light when it is opened. Without additional information, however, we cannot deduce anything from the fact that the light is on when we open the door to this room. No matter how fast we open the door to catch the darkness, the light is always on when the door is open.

Imagine that creation works the same way. If we go into a dark, sound-proofed room, we have no idea what is going on in the world, or if there even is a world. In fact, we so quickly lose our sense of reality in that situation, we have no way of knowing if the world even exists. Indeed, we could be in our own coffins, we could be dying or dead, for in a void without any stimuli we have no basis for assessing reality. If we were able to exit from the darkness and open our eyes, we would quickly reconstitute our reality base. During that instant when we reformulated our world, it would be as if creation were brand new.

Now imagine that each time we blink our eyes we fall into a mind state of an isolated room. Each time we open our eyes we experience creation anew. Assuming we could blink thousands of times a second, creation would always seem to be beginning.

This is actually the way it is. Look around you. As you look at something, try to imagine that from one second to the next it is receiving its form and substance from the center of the universe. If that source were shut off, everything would be gone in a blink. Everything we see, everything we know could evaporate at any instant in time.

Modern theoretical science postulates this idea in the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. It suggests that we never know if the existence of a certain form will persist, or if something will instantaneously take on a completely new form. Indeed, although there are few absolute truths in this creation, one of them is that things are constantly changing. This means that we never have certainty from one moment to the next if the sustained flow of creation will persevere.

This idea of the continuous flow of creation completely alters the way we view things. When we have a sense of substance and solidity we are inclined to have more faith in the past and future. History has an important dimension in our reality and we base our lives on our own experience and that of others. Continuous creation, however, leads to a relationship with life that mystics around the world suggest is the ultimate reality; there is only Now.

The added dimension in Judaism, of course, is that the Now rests upon the palm of God's hand, so to speak. The dimension of this moment is supported in its entirety by the nature of the Divine. This evokes a vital relationship between God and every aspect of creation. Each breath I draw is initiated, sustained and nourished by the power of creation. Each event is permeated by the magic of the Divine Presence.

From Three Gates to Meditation Practice: A Personal Journey into Sufism, Buddhism, and Judaism

In January, 1997, Shoshana and I traveled to Dharamsala in Northern India to attend an annual teaching given by the Dalai Lama to his followers. Dharamsala is a crowded mountain town with a mass of vendors and dusty streets, just like many towns in India. At the beginning of each year, when the Dalai Lama gives public teachings, the town fills with thousands of monks in saffron robes and thousands of Western tourists in a wide variety of costumes. This onslaught of humanity overwhelms the town and all of its infrastructure begins to overflow, beginning with the paltry sewage system. Add to this a constant stream of beggers, lepers, and hustlers--all of whom follow the scent of crowds and therefore potential benefactors--and we have quite a variety of human flesh squeezed together in an odd stew. Despite the crowds, however, the mood was generally festive and light-hearted.

We stayed at Kashmir Cottage, below the town, owned by one of the Dalai Lama's brothers. It is where actor Richard Gere often stays when visiting and where a number of the rabbis stayed when on a trip to visit the Dalai Lama made famous by author Roger Kamenetz in his book The Jew in the Lotus. The rabbinic group, headed by Reb Zalman Schachter, had been invited to discuss with The Dalai Lama and his advisors on the issue of survival when one's homeland is lost. Jew's have been surviving in the diaspora for two thousand years; Tibetan Buddhists only for a relative handful of years since the Chinese overran their land soon after World War II.

Kashmir Cottage is well known for the excellent cooking and the lovely staff. It only has a couple of rooms to let--none are heated--and it is a bit of a hike up the mountain to where the Dalai Lama spoke. We loved everything about the place. It was freezing at night at the time of year we were there, but the maid brought hot water bottles to warm our beds. The shower was chilly and austere, but heck, not many people had running water. The beds were lumpy, the blankets rough, the chairs hard as rocks--hey, the Dalai Lama is teaching every day for a couple of weeks.

Actually, I only went to the teachings a couple of times. I soon discovered that the room in which the English speakers would sit to hear simultaneous translation were crammed beyond any possible comfort level, and worse, the translation was poor. As the courtyard of the Kashmir Cottage overlooks an awesome vista, I soon began sit out there each day the teachings were taking place up in the city and meditated as dozens of vultures and other birds of prey slowly circled and called constantly from high overhead. Shoshana would be there too.

At lunch we would discuss what had arisen for us during the meditations, and we often were captured by the same subject. This is a common occurrence for us; we have a simultaneity working that we have come to rely upon. If I am having thoughts about something relevant to the two of us, it is almost certain she is also. But we discovered something even more interesting during these weeks at Dharamsala. Each day after lunch, our friend Eliezer would return from the session with the Dalai Lama, and what do you think was the subject of the talk? Yes, indeed, on an amazing number of occasions, his teachings were directly on the very subject we had discussed. Something there, in the air, something wonderful and strange, like a pulse, connecting all of us. This was a delight.

One other piece to this puzzle of a strange sense of unity was something I experienced during the week before the Dalai Lama began his teachings. I visited an art display of a particular form called thanka painting, sacred art of dieties and demonic forms, ornate, disturbing, exquisitely beautiful. One in particular captured my eye and held me for a long, long time.

The face before me is ferocious. It is the face looking out, one of four that is facing in the four directions. His pointed teeth could rip out my throat in a moment. But there is no threat here. Something else is happening. His face is black; torso is blue; right leg is red; left is white. He is dressed in a tiger skin. Most important, although he has only two legs, he has twenty-four arms, twelve on each side. The arms are black, white and red; each hand holds something.

Far more important, many of the arms clutch a female image tightly to the male. She is yellow in color, has eight arms, stands on his feet, looks up into his face and her buttocks is squeezing in a tension indicating that they are in sexual union, at the precise moment of orgasmic ecstasy. Now we can see in his three eyes--one in the center of his forehead--a look of this orgasmic moment that transcends words. We can see in the firm clutch of his arms a tenderness.

It is a fierce moment but although obviously sexual, it is not passionate, nor is it dangerous. It is a moment of union in its pureness, a union that is meant to be, a union that describes the nature of the universe. And I discover in a flash of insight standing before this image that it describes something that transcends words. It is the paradox of two as one, each fully dependent upon the other, neither able to exist on its own. It is an expression of every unfolding moment, the dance of polarities in which one side must continuously yield for the other to move. While change is continuous and movement the constant truth of existence, then the push defines the pull, the expansion defines the contraction, and visa versa. Nothing can exist in separation.

Words, simply word. Missing the point. I gaze at the image and it moves in my mind. I know the God-ing and David-ing and God-ing and David-ing, this dance that I think is me can only unfold as an expression of the Divine. Words, again fail. But the image continues to dance in my mind.

This thanka painting is known as the Kalacakra tantra; the black faced diety goes by this name. The consort's name is Natsog Yum. They symbolize the union of method and wisdom. Method, the diety, refers to pure bliss. Wisdom, female, is the realization of emptiness. The teaching is that the realization of the indivisible nature of bliss and emptiness, each requiring the other to exist, comes through fully being aware of the nature of this very moment. It is what some call enlightenment.

This indivisibility of all nature is at the core of the Tibetan tantric message. It is also the essence of kabbalistic teachings, interestingly found using similar sexual analogies in key texts, such as the Zohar. It is taught that the ten sefirot of the Tree of Life is actually one, The One. It is also taught that there is no clear separation between upper worlds and the lower worlds, between heaven and earth. Whatever happens on one plane of existence has its pair on another plane.

This glance into a mystical truth, held by esoteric traditions that developed halfway around the world from each other, moved something within me. From that time on, my meditations have taken a different course. No longer is there a clear sense of me as subject gazing at a world as an object. This that I think is me cannot be unglued from that which I previously thought was not-me. Events no longer happen "to" me; events simply happen.

As the vultures called overhead, I became mesmerized by the sound. The sound was rising simultaneously in my consciousness as in the birds’ throats. We believe, erroneously, that it begins with the bird and is then translated by the mind. That kind of thinking is dualistic, it has a separate me and a separate it. This is not the case. Rather, the sound and the hearing of it happen at the same instant. It is part of an Awareness, with a capital A, that encapsulated the totality of creation. For the physicist, the universe is composed of energy in different forms. For the mystic, the medium of the universe is Awareness itself.

From The Handbook of Jewish Meditation Practices: A Guide for Enriching the Sabbath and Other Days of Your Life


As a student of meditation techniques in a wide variety of spiritual disciplines--including, in addition to Judaism, Theravada Buddhism, Zen, Vajrayana, Hinduism and Sufism--I have found that many meditative practices are common in all traditions, despite the fact that each tradition clearly has its own style and methodology. Thus, a fair amount of meditation is generic. For example, sitting in silence is a universal practice, as is chanting repetitive phrases, one pointed concentration, being mindful of the present moment, or taking time each day for reflection (a practice many call prayer). These are all found in most traditions--only the language changes in how each practice is described.

There are, of course, many meditative practices unique to individual traditions. Zen has a great deal of karma yoga, which is a practice associated with mundane, everyday activities. Zen, as well, has more exotic techniques expressed through highly ritualized forms such as archery or tea ceremony. Theravada Buddhism tends to be abstemious, extremely basic, with simple robes and begging bowls, no meals after lunch, and extended periods of silent practice that last weeks or months at a time. On the other hand, Vajrayana Buddhism is complicated, intellectual, colorful, and filled with imagery. Hinduism has a colorful side that is highly devotional, with many deities and much singing, dancing and feasting. It also has a more austere side, with a number of forms of yoga that defy scientific explanation. Sufism is built on traditional Islamic practices of ablutions and prayer five times a day and fasting during the month of Ramadan, with additional meditative expressions that include repetitive chanting of names of God for hours at a time, frequently accompanied by ecstatic whirling.

As there are many different forms of meditative practice, we must first define what we mean when we are discussing meditation. The "goal" of meditative practice in all spiritual endeavor is to experience our true nature. Each tradition has its own language for what this means. Libraries are filled with books discussing the similarities and differences of spiritual practice, but we can sum it up simply by saying that human consciousness seeks to know the truth of its own existence, its source and its reason for being--if indeed there is any ultimate truth.

The word "goal" above is put in apostrophes to acknowledge that quite a few spiritual disciplines are adamant that having any goal or making any effort toward self-realization is, by definition, self-defeating. There are two sides to this argument. Some assert that just as an eye cannot see itself, except as a separate image, consciousness cannot be conscious of itself. The other argument is that all effort for self-realization is foolish as there is nothing to achieve; we intrinsically already have everything we need to know. As there is nothing to get, the very idea of a goal is deluded thinking.

This is a clear example of how language, the tool of rationality, is often inherently in conflict with mystical teaching. Meditative techniques are designed to help spiritual "aspirants" achieve altered states of consciousness. When this in fact occurs, the results often transcend rational explanation. Throughout history, mystics have been unable to directly communicate their experiences. Rather, they have found ways to transmit experiences indirectly through metaphor, poetry or enigmatic wisdom teachings. Each mystical teacher finds his or her expression through the cultural structure in which he or she lives, with the culture's beliefs, values, attitudes and opinions, all of which are molded by the era, the surrounding communities, and the general historical perspective in those times.

The teachings of these mystics, although not particularly rational, have profoundly influenced the history of humankind. They have birthed many spiritual traditions and have caused these traditions to branch into various directions. The mystics give us pause to reflect on the possibilities of something more than life as we see it in front of us. They inspire us to seek more deeply, beyond appearances. In many ways, although from widely diverse backgrounds and even though they use their own distinctive languages, they speak about a common theme.

The metaphor for this is that whereas there are many paths up the mountain, it has only a single peak higher than all others. Obviously, each person on the spiritual journey has his or her own natural dispositions and characteristics. Different paths up the mountain will be more readily accessible to some than others. For some a path will seem to be a dead end, for others the barriers they encounter are simply obstacles that need to be surmounted to get higher up the mountain. The mysteries of these spiritual paths defy explanation, and many spiritual adventurers spend their lives exploring a path and its divergent tracks with remarkable patience. In the end, however, no matter what path we take, the highest peak of truth remains the same for all who seek it.

Judaism is an extraordinary path for spiritual growth, as we shall see. It is a rich tradition with a long history. It is not really one path up the mountain, but many trails that occasionally are parallel but often go on totally different routes. With limited perspective, one might think that the result is that these paths will never meet again. But, when standing back, we can still see that there is only one highest peak and all paths ultimately lead to the One.


From A Heart of Stillness: A Complete Guide to Learning the Art of Meditation

I remember sitting in a long retreat, having just observed another moment of bliss fade away. I felt a rush of self-pity that “they” would not let me maintain even this tiny pleasure, which surely I deserved after all those days of severe discipline. For me, letting go of pleasure is always the most challenging test.

There are a great number of spiritual practices, including breathing methods, yogic asanas (postures), rites of purification, and various forms of meditation such as mantras and visualizations. There are in addition many practices that do not fit into a traditional mold. Some people make a practice of walking daily in the woods, writing poetry, working with music or dance.

We need to understand the idea of practice, and what makes it spiritual. Practice is an activity that one performs regularly and that is an open ended process, never reaching a point of perfection. We can develop skills or even mastery with practice, but there always remains a quality of something new to learn.

If approached with a dull mind, even the most exotic practice becomes a rote expression. A person could spend a lifetime in practice this way and accomplish no more than a perfunctory exterior form, without any spiritual substance. Unfortunately, many people find themselves following a traditional practice for the wrong reasons. They make all the right moves, but there is no heart in it.

On the other hand, we can approach the most mundane practice with a bright, open, beginner's mind, and regularly discover new insights, whether brushing our teeth, washing the dishes, or making the bed. Tying our shoes is something most of us do unconsciously, yet we know of the hasidic tale that a student was not as interested in a rebbe's teaching as to observe how he tied his shoes.

At first glance it seems absurd to include making the bed as a potential spiritual practice, compared with pranayama yoga (breath control), for example. Yet one person can make a bed with full attention, and thereby gain significant benefits, while another might practice pranayama with a uninterested, tight, hard mind, and accomplish absolutely nothing at all.

For a master, every detail is part of one's practice. There is a story of a young Zen teacher, Tenno, who had studied diligently for ten years. One day Tenno visited a Zen master named Nan-in. "The day happened to be rainy, so Tenno wore wooden clogs and carried an umbrella. After greeting him, Nan-in remarked: `I suppose you left your wooden clogs in the vestibule. I want to know if your umbrella is on the right or left side of the clogs?' Tenno, confused, had no instant answer. He realized that he was unable to carry his Zen every minute. He became Nan-in's pupil, and studied six more years to accomplish his every-minute Zen."

It is a common myth that certain practices will assure us outstanding results. This has been particularly abused in the last twenty years by hawkers of hula hoop spirituality who promise things like instant power, weekend enlightenment intensives, or guaranteed tranquillity.

A practice is something that extends without limit. As we know life to be inconsistent, our practice is always introducing new challenges. A golfer never hits the ball the same way twice; the best golf pros in the world still end up in sand traps.

What makes a practice spiritual is a challenging question. Can dishwashing or golf really be a spiritual practice? There are two wonderful books on the market: Zen in the Art of Archery and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. This seems to answer our question affirmatively: golf or archery can be a spiritual practice, as can dishwashing and motorcycle maintenance.

The spiritual ingredient has to do with the practitioner's frame of mind. It is sometimes described as a mind that is soft, open, expanded, observing, fresh -- the beginner's mind. In this mind state, the spiritual significance of any action is accentuated; virtually any activity has a distinctive quality when accomplished with beginner's mind.

If the mind is awake and more aware than usual, a simple body movement may produce remarkable perceptions. We may experience a flood of impressions in each millimeter of movement. Every breath, every physical interaction, every thought holds infinite implications.

The spiritual ingredient has two aspects. One, as noted, is the mind state of the practitioner. The other is in the quality of the practice itself. Even though we can discover a spiritual aspect in making beds, there is far more inherent quality in engaging spiritual literature that has been with us for thousands of years. When we have a combination of spiritual practices that have withstood the test of time and a practitioner who is able to approach the practice with a soft mind , there is a chemistry that opens new gates of awareness.

One perspective of this relationship raises a fascinating question. How is it that each of us has an affinity to some practices and not others? Some find sitting quietly a perfect mode of deepening spiritual connections; others must be more physically engaged, moving in tai-chi chuan or yoga. Some love to pray, others need absolute silence. Individuals resonate with distinctive mantras. Each of us is drawn by some unknown voice to particular practices, yet not attracted to others.

To add to the complexity of individual preference, there are many teachers who point out that the very resistance we feel to a practice indicates the need to confront this practice and gain insight into the resistance. They would add that spiritual growth does not come from gliding along with what is comfortable, it is more involved in making breakthroughs, struggling, overcoming those parts of ourselves that need to be changed.

This leaves the spiritual seeker in a quandary. How do we go about choosing a practice? There may be a particular practice that is reputed to be good for the purpose of gaining insight, but is it in harmony with our needs? There are thousands of practices and there is no certain way of knowing if it is a good idea to try one that seems compatible, or if it would be better to take on a practice towards which we feel resistance.

We approach these questions by exploring the elements that go into making up our frame of mind. Our mind state is conditioned by our environment, our experiences, to some extent by our genealogy, and by the fact that the universe is constantly changing. The process of reconditioning this mind state has been investigated through spiritual inquiry for thousands of years. There are some basic principles that have been defined.

As long as we continue doing things in old patterns, our previous conditioning remains strong. If we do a task in a rote manner, without external input, we are likely to perform it in this way for the rest of our lives. As long as we repeat activities that keep the mind spiritually asleep, it will remain so until something comes along or an effort is made to awaken it; it will not awaken by itself.

The process of awakening is usually slow in the beginning. We use trial and error to discover the things that work. While we are still asleep, it is difficult to know what is working and what is not working. This is why it is very helpful to have a teacher, but we need not wait for a teacher before beginning. Unfortunately, one of the excuses people use to stay asleep is that they do not have a teacher. With patience and careful observation, however, we can slowly make progress in awakening. The teacher will find the student when the time is right.