 |
|
|
|
|
|
Article: Uncovering the Unconscious - by Dr. Rudolph Ballentine |
|
The process of yoga is a journey of healing-one which will take us deep into the realms of the unconscious, where, if we proceed systematically, a profound process of transformation can unfold. This journey begins by attending to the body. When it is relaxed and properly seated, we turn our attention toward that field of activity we call the mind. There we encounter our own thought process, a process we have created with the conscious mind. Our first challenge is to find our way through this field to the place where its underpinning-the unconscious-begins to show itself. Then if we persist in our efforts, we can anchor ourselves in the universal part of the unconscious and explore the bubbling cauldron below (the "personal unconscious"), where, amidst the chaos, we find the way to the Divine. Unearthing that treasure means dealing with the dirt that covers it. And that is the work of meditation. Fortunately, nothing emerges that we are not ready to deal with; things naturally come up only as we create conditions sufficient to tolerate them. This gradualness is one of the most beautiful aspects of meditation. The I-Maker As we begin our journey inward, the first obstacle is the conscious mind. When we turn our attention to it, we begin to be aware of its chatter. "I wonder if my back is going to start hurting me the way it usually does when I sit like this? Maybe I should change the way I am breathing. How long am I going to be sitting here? When I get up, I need to call the office," and so forth. The conscious mind runs through one train of thought and then another. That is its nature. Notice that this pattern of thought is very "I"-oriented. "I, I, I." The distinguishing character of the mind at this level is that it is related to our self-concept. In fact, the mind is constantly bolstering and shoring up our self-image and carefully avoiding any departure from "I." This is the ego speaking, or the ahamkara. Aham means "I" and kara means "making," and ahamkara is literally the "I-making" part of the mind, reinforcing our self-image, this entity we think we are. In the conscious mind there is likely to be a logical progression to our thoughts because that is part of our self-image. Thought A in some fashion leads to thought B, which in turn leads to thought C, and on we go, being quite "reasonable," being "ourselves." Stringing our thoughts together busily is also a way of fending off stray thoughts and images that might emerge from the unconscious part of the mind. Eventually this activity becomes so burdensome that we have to stop for a while. But rather than giving up the identity we cling to, we give up our consciousness and fall asleep, and quit forging the chain of logical sequences. When we wake up, we resume the laborious, self-perpetuating sequencing, busily making "I" until we exhaust ourselves and fall asleep again. How restricted our "I" is, and how much effort it takes to keep it going and make it acceptable to ourselves, determines how quickly we get tired and how long we have to rest in order to recover. If we have a relatively small, restricted, confined "I," then chances are we need a lot of sleep. If our "I" is a bit more expanded, we will not need as much. When we sit for meditation, our first job is to try to get a glimpse of this I-making process so we can disengage ourselves from it. This does not mean that we try to stop it, because who would be stopping it? "I." Such an effort merely perpetuates the pattern. The more we try to control ahamkara, the more we reinforce the sense of "I" and the more we lock ourselves into the very process we are trying to eliminate. Elevating the I-Maker Although we cannot really stop the process of I-making, we can disengage a certain part of ourselves from it and observe it. And when we learn to observe our thought patterns, we find that the conscious mind begins to change. A different sense of ahamkara comes into being-a different sense of "I" is watching, witnessing, dispassionately observing. Just as there are various levels of consciousness, so are there differing varieties of I-ness, and now we realize that in addition to the "I" who is being the typical me, there is another "I" who is watching it all. At first this witnessing or observing "I" is unstable; it quickly gets absorbed back into our habitual mind-set. But in time it becomes stronger and is able to observe more consistently. Suppose, for example, that our thought process is going along in typical fashion: ". . . and I had an argument with Susan today, and I said such and such and she said this and that, and I know she was wrong and I was right because . . ." And the observer, watching the conscious mind and studying this thought process, says, "Hmm, 'I' is getting pretty defensive here, really trying to convince himself he was right." If the observer suddenly says, "But you know, I was right, no question about it, and Susan was dead wrong!" then the observer has fallen from his witnessing stance into this train of thought. But with practice, the tendency to topple is gradually reduced, and the observer gathers strength. At that point our sense of I-ness begins to shift and our self-definition starts to change. Our self-image begins to dissipate, and the impressions stored in the subconscious begin to come into awareness. As this happens, we face another challenge. When we are maintaining our neutral witnessing, the impressions from the past (samskaras) come up in a piecemeal, fragmented way. They come and they go, but when they begin to take on identities, when a struggle begins between this set of thoughts and feelings and that set of thoughts and feelings, then we are either daydreaming or dreaming, but we are not meditating. To do that we need to develop the habit of monitoring our consciousness to make certain that we are maintaining the position of observer. The unconscious is filled with all kinds of memory traces and film clips of past experiences: experiences we have gone through, things we have heard, things we have fantasized but never experienced, even things we were never even fully aware of. And all this gets salted away in that subterranean reservoir we call the unconscious. Then, as the ego starts to weaken, these samskaras begin to come back up into awareness. Because the observer is removed from the crowd of mental impressions, it is not threatened by them; it can tolerate seeing things that the ego cannot deal with. It can allow these memory traces to come up, look at them, and say, "Hmm, that's interesting," or "Fancy that-who would have thought that was down there." That's all it ever says. If it says, "Oh, how horrible!" it is the ego speaking. The observer has nothing to lose by seeing what is in the unconscious; the ego has its existence to lose by seeing and assimilating this material. That is why we may sometimes begin to get a glimpse of certain memory traces from the unconscious, only to have the process suddenly stop cold. The ego has become frightened. The samskaras pose a threat, and the ego reestablishes itself: "I don't think such things. What's going on here? I don't even remember those things. What were they? I guess they weren't anything." And "I" (or rather that particular level of I-ness) reasserts itself and willfully proceeds along in its habitual grooves, convinced that maintaining the status quo is better than tolerating that interior disturbance. In other words, the sense of I-ness is contingent on keeping the subconscious or unconscious out of awareness. That is the definition of ego, that part of the whole we have taken on as our identity. It screens out all the things we are not able to deal with. This means that the ego constitutes itself out of a limited part of the total mind. But if we are systematic, regular, and persistent in our meditation practice, then gradually and progressively, parts of what had been unconscious will be brought into consciousness. Bringing the Unconscious into Consciousness Bringing the unconscious into consciousness is often experienced as a two-part process, and for that reason, the unconscious is sometimes mapped in two distinct fields-what we might call the superconscious on one hand and the personal unconscious on the other. The superconscious can be thought of as our connection with the cosmic, or the Divine. It is "unconscious" simply because it has not yet been brought into our awareness. The ego is afraid of the clarity it confers. Our personal unconscious is another matter. This field is unconscious because it contains all the negative stuff we cannot deal with. But, paradoxically, buried in that muck is our personal power or shakti. So we have a schism. The cosmic me is separated from the personal me, and I suffer because of it. The only way to recover a sense of coherence and wholeness, painful though the process may be, is to make the observer so strong that it is able to explore the personal unconscious and reconnect it with the Divine. And as the observer is strengthened, a new ego is formed. Actually we can look at this two ways: either we can say that the ego is eliminated, that our level of lockstep mental functioning stops operating in its characteristic way, or we can say that the ego is expanded as a result of the meditative experience. In either case, a new ego emerges, somewhat like the old ego but now with the capacity to include, accept, and assimilate much more. Now you may say, "My goodness, my ego is already big enough," but paradoxically, the whole concept of expanding consciousness has to do with making the ego larger. The most offensive ego is the one that is the smallest, the most rigid, the most frightened, the most desperate to maintain its integrity. It has the largest mass of excluded material, the largest unconscious. It is only by dissolving the ego (so it can expand) that we strengthen the ego and make it healthy. It does not become stronger by becoming more rigid. Rigidity is not strength. The Observer's Challenge Every time we take something from the unconscious and make it conscious, our consciousness expands. And once we have teased away the chaotic and problematic samskaras that make the personal unconscious unmanageable, it can carry us with Godspeed down the path that constitutes our dharma. Our goal is full self-comprehension, total self-mastery, and the complete realization of our creative potential. This means that we must bring the personal unconscious into the realm of what is mastered, along with all the power it contains. Many aspirants would like to skirt this part of the inner world, but if they do, they cut themselves off from the divine spark. It is one thing to attune ourselves to the voice of wisdom; it is quite another to wrestle with our own internal demons and bring them to heel. Many students speak glibly of surrender, but what they really mean is something more like abdicating responsibility. What is surrendered is a weak will, while their inner power, rather than being harnessed or yoked to the Divine, is projected onto their hapless teacher, who is then expected to make all the decisions and shoulder all the responsibility. Conquest of the unconscious involves not just connecting above, it means connecting below as well. The path of yoga is one of the most powerful ways to accomplish this because it provides a systematic method of developing a solid, reliable observer. When we have developed such an observer, as we sit to practice meditation, whatever comes into consciousness-no matter how highly charged-is simply dispassionately observed, neutrally noted, and then let go of. This is what prepares us to step into the fire. When we are steadfast, we can enter the arena of the instinctual energies, locate the pure current therein, and reconnect it through our hearts and minds to the Divine. But doing this requires preparation. We must learn to sit unperturbed by the chaotic images and feelings that also emerge. The stance we aim for is something like this: "Here is a memory or an image with tremendous sadness connected with it. I wonder why?" Not, "Here is an image; I feel so sad," but rather, "Here is an image. There seems to be sadness associated with it. When the image goes, the sadness goes." If, when we are sitting for meditation, we succeed in learning to habituate our mind to this nonattached mode of functioning, certain patterns will begin to become apparent. This is analysis in the true and proper meaning of the term. We begin to comprehend the workings of the mind and to understand that the subconscious has its own rules of structure. And we can then analyze both the conscious thought processes and the unconscious. But even the most elevated observer has an egoistic component, and when the ego begins to feel threatened, it begins to use certain mechanisms to defend itself. This is always happening to some extent. Even when we realize that we are observing more than we ever have before, we are still not observing as much as we're capable of. Now, however, if we slip a bit and then see that we are not observing as much as we had been, we should be able to boost ourselves back up to our former position of observation. If, on the other hand, we lose our footing and fall so far from our witnessing position that we feel confused and disoriented, the ego mounts a fierce defense. This is where we can get in trouble. The mechanisms the ego uses to protect itself are basically nonproductive. For example, psychological projection, although quite common, is really an insane ego-defense mechanism. In projection, when something comes up from the unconscious that causes the ego to feel anxious, we externalize it, projecting it onto those we see as adversaries. This is one of the cruder and more psychotic defense mechanisms, but it is used so widely that it is almost the way the world runs. We project in our daily life, and we can also do it when we are sitting for meditation. Instead of simply observing our own negativity we say to ourselves, "My friend is too critical. My boss is lazy. My parents don't accept me for who I am." Such ego-protective mechanisms are inimical to personal growth. They are ways of perpetuating the ego's narrowness, making it even more rigid and petty. Security for the Ego Fortunately there are many constructive ways that the ego can be made to feel secure. For example, part of our tenacious hold on our ego has to do with how we've been relating to other people: what we expect from them and what we believe they expect from us. Part of our ego's defensiveness is fear of exposure-fear of criticism, ridicule, or censure. One constructive way of dealing with this is to create a situation in which this is not an issue. We can, for instance, get a therapist who is not judgmental and who is tolerant of letting our ego loosen up. Or we can go into an unoccupied room and close the door, creating a situation in which the ego feels safe enough to loosen up a bit. Anxiety sends signals to the ego that its existence is threatened, and prompts it to mobilize its defenses. We can recognize its presence by irregular breathing, muscle tension, rapid heart rate, and sweating. Diaphragmatic breathing and a relaxed posture, both techniques of yoga, change the entire autonomic tone and undercut development of the physiological concomitants of anxiety. These are learnable tools for artificially dissolving a state of anxiety, even for preventing anxiety from arising in the first place. And when the anxiety state is prevented from developing, the ego feels safe. We can gain even greater respite by cutting off our motor involvement with the world. This creates a situation in which all our muscles are relaxed. Then we can put ourselves in a meditative posture and make a decision not to move for a significant length of time. Having done this, we can now tolerate thoughts and feelings that we would never permit to come up in a more exposed situation. We can, for instance, let a feeling of violent anger arise. We know it is safe; we are not going to actually do something violent, nor are we going to say something that would jeopardize our position in the world or shatter our ego identity. Our voice and our body are out of gear, and we are just sitting quietly doing nothing. The observer can sit quietly and watch without disturbance, allowing the process of observing and assimilating to proceed faster. Creating a New Direction Mantra is another powerful yoga technique for making the observer stronger and more secure. When we use a mantra we are doing something more positive than merely eliminating the possibility of anxiety, for mantra establishes a direction for the observer, creating a sense within ourselves of how to relocate the witness to a higher position, where it has a more encompassing perspective. This means that while it continues to watch the mind, the observer must now take a deliberate step into the unknown, into an area that is not yet conscious. And this means that as we progress in meditation the observer with which we now identify is going to have to give way to another observer, and that one to yet another, and so on. So where are those future observers? How do we move toward them skillfully? How do we situate that part of the mind in a position to observe more effectively and comprehensively? To feel secure enough to take that step, we need something to guide us, and that is where mantra comes in. When properly used, mantra is a technique that gives us a sense of the direction in which we want to move. Without such guidance, we might well fear that stepping into the unconscious would be tantamount to falling into the tangle of samskaras that could swallow us up and choke us. Mantra will lead us safely through this chaos. Mantra is a sound, and to assimilate this sound we must put it into the mind. That is the first step. We imagine that we are hearing the mantra. We are not saying it aloud, we are saying it mentally. Thus the mantra, like anything else we imagine, sinks into the unconscious. How much goes in depends on how much time, energy, and attention we give the mantra. If we simply repeat it mechanically without paying any real attention to it, it is not going to be in the unconscious in any substantial way. If, however, we say it with feeling and focus, then it establishes a strong presence in the unconscious. And everything in the unconscious of any real importance or weight was put there charged with emotion and energy. So we put the mantra in, and after some time it begins to come back out. If we really quiet the mind and let the everyday thinking ego more or less dissolve, and if we stand back and observe as the many samskaras begin to arise, our mantra will arise as well. We have reached the point at which we can be aware of its self-existence. We can listen to the mantra instead of saying it . If the mantra was correctly prescribed, it has been down in our unconscious all along, but repeating it helps us to get to the point where we begin to find it in its original formulation. It has always been there; now we are getting in touch with it. It is the act of listening to the mantra that helps guide us back to that place where there is no schism, that place where we are whole. The mantra is coming from where we want our consciousness to be centered. Eventually we reach a stage where we are not so much listening to the mantra as we are being with the mantra. We are listening from the mantra, observing from the mantra. To recapitulate: first we say the mantra, then we listen to it, and eventually we observe from it. One part of us is the subject of this action, the other part is the object, and gradually we find that the part of us that was the object (the mantra) becomes the subject. This may seem confusing, but we come to understand how the mantra operates by working with it in our own life and experiencing it ourselves. Only then can we begin to actually know what the technique is and what it does. The Process of Healing Mantra is an invaluable ally when we begin to tackle the personal unconscious. That is where it shows its stuff. For through the mantra, the observer not only becomes established during the process of whittling away the unconscious, it begins to actually incorporate into itself segments of the inner space that were formerly a part of that unconscious. When it does we discover that the more our unconscious becomes conscious, the more clearly we see that the purest essence of that shakti, hidden in the bowels of the personal unconscious, is itself part of the Divine. In other words, we must progress from the idea of subduing the fearful mass of samskaras to finding the sacred power contained within that mass. Once the observing ego is strong enough, it can harness that power and ultimately merge with it in a sort of internal "marriage." The metaphor of a marriage is useful here because we are aiming for the reconnection of severed parts of ourselves. It is the healing of separateness-breaking the habit of seeing ourselves as separate from the Divine. This is an ongoing process, but if we're meditating properly, there should be a sense of a new experience, a new perspective, a sense that a new "I" is emerging. So the world looks different, experiences feel different, and we react differently. This is the aliveness, the joy that is the birthright of every human being. This is healing at its most profound . Rudolph M. Ballentine, M.D., is director of the Center for Holistic Medicine in New York City. He lectures extensively in the United States and abroad and has written several books, including Diet and Nutrition: A Holistic Approach and Transition to Vegetarianism: An Evolutionary Step, and is a coauthor of Yoga and Psychotherapy |
||
|
Other articles are available at the Yoga International Article Archive, found at http://www.himalayaninstitute.org/hiinstitute/archive.html. |
|
|
| Home Page | Complete Directory | Articles | Natural Health Newsletters | About Us | Advertising |
| © 1999-2003 Self Improvement Online, Inc. All rights reserved. |