Tim Boyd – India, USA
The writer tunes the gong
In gatherings devoted to the inner life, we have a precious opportunity: to turn together toward a single purpose. In a world of fragmentation and dispersion, we enter a space consciously dedicated to inward exploration. This is true whether we are speaking, writing, listening, or studying alone. Over decades, even generations, the places where such activity occurs become magnetized by one’s aspiration, quiet, and contemplation. The atmosphere itself becomes a silent collaborator in our search.
One of the things that we seek in these settings is knowledge. Though “knowledge” seems to be a simple word, it conceals layers of meaning. It is everything from a random collection of facts to highly refined disciplines of observation. From science to philosophy, religion to agriculture, architecture to dentistry, humanity has developed arrays of knowledge. All of them are rooted in observation: the sun shines, rain falls, seeds germinate. From such simple observations entire sciences arise, pointing the way to endless depths of study and graded levels of complexity.
Even though, at least in English, we use the same word, sacred knowledge is not the same. It is a different realm. In Sanskrit a variety of words are used when referring to the knowledge that relates to spirit and the inner life. “The Golden Stairs” of H. P. Blavatsky (HPB) refers to keeping “a constant eye to the ideal of human progression and perfection which the secret science depicts”. Gupta-vidya is the Sanskrit term for this “secret science” — secret, or esoteric, not because of someone’s effort to conceal it, but because it is “hidden” beyond the reach of intellect and the normal working of the mind. Other terms such as âtma-vidya and brahma-vidya express deepening states of a knowledge that bears no resemblance to the forms with which we are familiar. It cannot be written or expressed in words, even though the attempt must be made; neither can it be learned but given the right conditions it can and does become active within us. For clarity’s sake, many use the word “wisdom” for this supramental, spirit-based “knowledge”.
The words of wisdom, symbols, and wisdom stories shared by the great mystics and seers are powerful, but only if we can release the hidden potency locked in enigmatic myths, legends, and designs. When approached as a mental or emotional commodity, or as historical fact, wisdom remains inaccessible. There is something we must bring to it, some catalytic agent that dissolves the shell of form and frees the hidden life — a quality of awareness that begins by pointing our attention in the direction of an interior reality, then focusing our will toward the persevering effort required to reveal it, and finally merging with the radiant, unveiled “hidden splendor”. It is an awareness that translates itself into an actual experience, beyond theory, beyond mere knowledge. Knowledge and experience, though related, are different in important ways.
In some meditation traditions there is a recommended twofold approach. On the one hand there is what is described as “analytical meditation”. In this approach the teachings of the particular wisdom tradition are examined. As in any analytical process the intellect is brought to bear on it. It is questioned, taken apart, put back together, related to other knowledge and experience, and extended to its possible limits. An example would be some of the introductory teachings related to death and dying.
In Buddhist tradition it is thought that a whole-hearted embrace and involvement in authentic spiritual practice requires a clear-eyed awareness of the fact of impermanence. Here the student is asked to deeply consider three things. Death is certain; 2. The time of death is uncertain; and 3. A question: At the time of death what will be of value to you? So, for example, we first ask ourselves, Is it true? Does everyone die? Who do we know who has not? We analyze until we reach some satisfactory conclusion, then move on the second statement and repeat the process. Having satisfied ourselves of their correctness, we are prepared to explore the question, which is really the point of the whole exercise.
So we ask: Is there something I own that will help me at the time of dying? Cars, homes, bank accounts, all material things are being left behind, so not that. What about friends and relatives? The same answer holds true. Having gone through the various levels of analysis what these traditions assert is that the only thing of value at this moment is our spiritual experience, which is to say not merely what we have heard or studied, but those experiences, even momentary, of release from the confines of the body and personality into the more expansive freedom of a consciousness linked to a higher life. This assertion we also analyze.
This cycle of analysis could seem to be unending, but if rightly approached, it reaches a point where analysis reaches its limits and cannot take you any farther. Then, depending on our preparation and vigilance, we experience it as either a wall or a doorway. All of our analysis creates the need, and supplies the conditions for “concentrated” meditation. In the course of our analysis of ever higher, less material, states of being the capacities of the intellect are stretched. There is only so much that is unspeakable, unseen, and mentally unknowable that the mind can take. During the course of that process, moments occur when intellect can reach its limit and falls silent. The ability to remain undistracted, poised, concentrated on the moment, and still, is the need as such moments occur — to simply “be”, unmoved by the mind’s craving for more topics to examine or pathways to pursue.
This is the point where the possibility of genuine spiritual experience presents itself, but only if we are sufficiently attentive, vigilant, and prepared to see and welcome it. For example, we could say that the analytical part is a lot like walking on a path through a dense forest. As we walk, we reach a point where the forest opens up to a clearing. In that space it is open to the sky, to the sun. Entering this open space, the location where the path continues on the other side of the clearing is not apparent. In this clear and open space we have some options; we can ignore the opening and keep our eyes on the ground, searching for the place where the path we have been traveling resumes; we can sit down in the open field and examine the flowers, insects, and qualities of the soil; or we can let go of analyzing, accumulating, even thinking, and simply rest, absorb, “be”.
The difficulty for many is that such pregnant moments can go by unnoticed. There is none of the excitement, emotion, struggle, or effort that accompany other high points in our lives. If anything, the apparent absence of familiar touchpoints can be disturbing, even frightening. At its fringes it can seem to be a void, challenging to anyone invested in the binding familiarity of normal experience. The problem we face was addressed by J. Krishnamurti when he made the statement, “One is never afraid of the unknown. One is afraid of the known coming to an end”, and that fear can be blinding. Often, when describing their deepest spiritual experiences, the great saints and seers use the word “fear”. Though similar in many ways to what we might describe as fear, their experience is different. In the Bible the statement is made that “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” It would be safe to say that this fear is not the same as our fear of snakes, spiders, economic downturns, and so on.
The “fearful” experiences of the sages result from a proximity to the source of power, to the reality-shaking presence of Truth, Wisdom, God. Again from the Bible, in Psalms, there is a passage that says: “He (the Lord) utters his voice and the earth melts.” It is the author’s description of the effect of “hearing” the voice of an interior divinity that had been hidden to him. Essentially, the known melts. Only then can we experience the reality that lies beyond our senses, emotions, and thought. Only then do the words, symbols, and stories of the great teachers become real for us.
The Bhagavad Gitâ is a short book — eighteen chapters in total. It is one of the inexhaustible founts of spiritual wisdom given to us. As a conversation between a human being, Arjuna, and the incarnation of the Divine, Krishna, it is relatable. Of course, Arjuna was no ordinary human being. In the Gitâ he symbolizes that rare individual who is genuinely ready for truth, who has reached a point where he is open to receive. All of its chapters, except one, address the nature of the universe, the path of action, the qualities (gunas) of the manifested universe, the nature of Yoga, and so forth. Chapter 11 is very different because it describes the experience of Arjuna. Previously he had regarded Krishna as his exceptional friend and his charioteer. However, at this point in the Gitâ, Arjuna has become fully convinced that Krishna is nothing less than the incarnation of the Divine, and he asks for something: Can I see you in your true divine form?
When Krishna agrees to grant him this boon that has never before been done, he presents himself in his “omnipotent form”. The vision that Arjuna sees causes the hairs on his body to stand on end from the mixture of awe, ecstasy, and fear. In the Gitâ the details of what he sees are described — Krishna with thousands of arms, with eyes looking in all directions, with a body that contains all the Devas and the Asuras, with mouths into which the people in the ensuing battle are already flying and being crushed, with a brilliance so bright it is “burning up universes”. Ultimately it proves to be more than Arjuna can stand, and he asks Krishna to tone it down, to reduce his form to something less fearful.
Though not our experience, it is an indication of the vastness and all-inclusiveness of our divine potentials. Our moments of open awareness do not yet allow for this level of vision, but whether it is as Krishna says, “I am the inner ruler immortal, present in the hearts of all beings”, or the words of the Christ that “I and the Father are one”, the sense is the same. Our deepest divine nature is always present and accessible. The experience of having a moment of awareness, in which, for some reason, the obstacles that had previously prevented it fade, even if momentarily, is only different in its degree of depth from the experience of Arjuna. The only thing that prevents its realization is our unwillingness to let go of the objects, titles, activities, and thoughts we cherish.
In some Asian spiritual traditions, there is a story called “The Monkey Trap”. Whether it is the most effective method for trapping a monkey is not clear, but it illustrates a point. The trap is a jar or coconut containing food and staked to the ground. The opening is large enough for an open hand, but not for a fist. Once the monkey has reached in and grabbed hold of the food, the hunter captures him because he is unwilling to open his hand, let go of the bait, and escape with his freedom.
The story is often told to address the enslaving nature of greed, but it applies equally to those habits of mind that keep us from the freedom and spiritual experience that comes with their release, even if momentary.
HPB described language as a “veil” — “a three dimensional shadow of a multidimensional reality”. Until we allow for the experiences that give meaning to the stories and teachings passed down through the ages, they remain evocative, but incomplete. We require knowledge to point us in the right direction, to properly train the mind, and help us become sufficiently attentive and sensitive to inner states, but it is experience that makes it real. In the words of Albert Einstein: “Any fool can know. The point is to understand.”
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This article was also published in The Theosophist, VOL. 147 NO. 7 APRIL 2026
The Theosophist is the official organ of the International President, founded by H. P. Blavatsky on 1 Oct. 1879.
To read the APRIL 2026 issue click HERE
