Reading further in David Hawkins' book on enlightenment, "The Eye of the I," we find during the second part of the book - one of questions and answers - that he is indeed an enlightened one. He himself states that only about one in 10 million people have reached such a state, so he is special indeed. I want to smirk, but why not? How many regular people - people who are not self-proclaimed gurus with worshiping followers - have clearly stated that they are enlightened? None, to my knowledge, and that's a pity, for we could use the help. They are out there, but they tend to be silent. If Hawkins' claim is correct, we should be thankful for the help, for surely he has set himself up for unwanted ridicule by "coming out,"
and lord knows most of us could use the help.
This enlightenment was stated in the beginning of the book, but it was written in such a curious, almost fantastical way that it was hard to determine exactly what was going on. Was what he was stating real, or a fantasy possibility? He talks of himself (as if a distant person) suddenly being taken by the 'All That Is' from a successful career (Hawkins is an MD and PhD), which he found impossible to continue after the revelation. He then relocated to a small house in the West to an area that, he stated, was conducive to spiritual contemplation. After several years - about ten, if I remember correctly - he began to reconnect with the world. The reality of his re-connection has become several books and apparently some symposiums where he answers questions. I would like to be there at one of the symposiums, for as far as I know, I have never met a fully enlightened person. Of course, that is what he has to put up with - people come to the freak show for amusement or unwanted worship. It is, as he says, karma's decision, which at this point in development is his own as well.
But again and again, I run up against his claim that all duality is illusion - that even the worst of suffering is not real, and that much of this suffering is even welcomed on a deep level by the sufferers as drama. Having been close to real suffering, that seems cold - but it is in line with mystical thought. Yes, on that higher plain, one is above time and space and differentiation, and as such above suffering. It seems so inhuman, however, but it does remind me of an episode of mine from a much earlier life.
It is another episode I am not proud of, but cannot feel too guilty about as there was no malice of intent. It happened in June when my friend Jim and I were about 18, newly released from high school or an early year of college, and because it was such a beautiful day and a Saturday, we did what we sometimes did back then - found some mescaline to take to groove on the righteousness of temporary freedom and summer weather. I believe that we were on bicycles and had been cruising about an area at the edge of town that contained a large cemetery. As the mescaline began to bring us to the peak, we felt desperate for water and went to a small variety shop across from the cemetery to get some soda. We sensed it was a mistake as soon as we entered, for our expanding vision was too large for the cramped store - the colors of the candy wrappers waved and shouted, the alignment of the isles seemed foreign and somewhat menacing, and handling people such as the proprietor seemed an impossibility. Grabbing some sodas at random, we began a quick lurch towards the counter to pay and get the hell out back into open sky, when a girl our age approached us from somewhere inside. I had known her in early childhood from the neighborhood I had been born into, and from which we had
moved when I was six. I barely recognized her and wondered how she could still know me, but she did, and she came to us with a grim face. She had, we could tell, bad news: "Bill G. has just been killed in Vietnam."
Bill G had grown up in the old neighborhood, which both of us had left at an early age, but his family was vaguely known to me. He himself was several years older, and I could not even picture his face, and I doubt she could, either. But she had this heavy, terrible news. For a brief moment Jim and I were silent - and then burst into laughter, a laughter that soon got out of control. The girl stood there stunned, and as the tears rolled down our faces, I believe we finally managed to put our money down and get out of the store - or simply put the sodas down and left. It was hilarious and unbearable and frightening. Outside, we finally calmed down but could not bring the words to why we laughed at someone else's tragedy. But we knew, and somewhat later agreed upon the words.
It was not that we were disrespecting the solemnity of the tragedy, for we knew even at that age how much people were suffering for it. Rather, it was the act of the girl- and 'act' is the word. What made it so funny was that she did not know that she was acting, acting the part of the tragic sufferer, even though she hadn't known the guy any more than I had. She was imagining the pain of the family and projecting herself into it for the drama. Peaking on hallucinogens, one cannot dissimulate. What is, is, and there is no way or place to hide it. You and everyone else is an open book, fake drama and all. We had to get away from her because we knew our reaction was socially wrong, and maybe morally so - but we could not hide from the comedy of the girl.
As we age, we become more "secure" - that is, we belief in the bull about ourselves even more than when young. I do not think I have the courage to face myself with such substances now. I know too well how full of it I am, and really don't want to leave the fantasy of maturity that I have built for myself. But it does bring home Hawkins' point: a lot of our suffering is made up and done because we like the drama.
On the other hand, for the family of Bill G., I do not see anything fake about it. As an adult, I have seen the suffering from terrible loss, and it is very, very real. What Hawkins says of this is: it is still not real, none of it. But he does have sympathy for those who suffer, just as one has sympathy for the small child who cries out of fear of the boogeyman or for his lost snuggle bear. It is immature and silly, but not to the child. I suppose, then, that is what we are, children. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." To be fully enlightened must be both wonderful and horribly frustrating. To be able to stare into the face of real suffering, even if one is loving and compassionate, and not be moved to despair, is a level from which I might be forever apart. FK
and lord knows most of us could use the help.
This enlightenment was stated in the beginning of the book, but it was written in such a curious, almost fantastical way that it was hard to determine exactly what was going on. Was what he was stating real, or a fantasy possibility? He talks of himself (as if a distant person) suddenly being taken by the 'All That Is' from a successful career (Hawkins is an MD and PhD), which he found impossible to continue after the revelation. He then relocated to a small house in the West to an area that, he stated, was conducive to spiritual contemplation. After several years - about ten, if I remember correctly - he began to reconnect with the world. The reality of his re-connection has become several books and apparently some symposiums where he answers questions. I would like to be there at one of the symposiums, for as far as I know, I have never met a fully enlightened person. Of course, that is what he has to put up with - people come to the freak show for amusement or unwanted worship. It is, as he says, karma's decision, which at this point in development is his own as well.
But again and again, I run up against his claim that all duality is illusion - that even the worst of suffering is not real, and that much of this suffering is even welcomed on a deep level by the sufferers as drama. Having been close to real suffering, that seems cold - but it is in line with mystical thought. Yes, on that higher plain, one is above time and space and differentiation, and as such above suffering. It seems so inhuman, however, but it does remind me of an episode of mine from a much earlier life.
It is another episode I am not proud of, but cannot feel too guilty about as there was no malice of intent. It happened in June when my friend Jim and I were about 18, newly released from high school or an early year of college, and because it was such a beautiful day and a Saturday, we did what we sometimes did back then - found some mescaline to take to groove on the righteousness of temporary freedom and summer weather. I believe that we were on bicycles and had been cruising about an area at the edge of town that contained a large cemetery. As the mescaline began to bring us to the peak, we felt desperate for water and went to a small variety shop across from the cemetery to get some soda. We sensed it was a mistake as soon as we entered, for our expanding vision was too large for the cramped store - the colors of the candy wrappers waved and shouted, the alignment of the isles seemed foreign and somewhat menacing, and handling people such as the proprietor seemed an impossibility. Grabbing some sodas at random, we began a quick lurch towards the counter to pay and get the hell out back into open sky, when a girl our age approached us from somewhere inside. I had known her in early childhood from the neighborhood I had been born into, and from which we had
moved when I was six. I barely recognized her and wondered how she could still know me, but she did, and she came to us with a grim face. She had, we could tell, bad news: "Bill G. has just been killed in Vietnam."
Bill G had grown up in the old neighborhood, which both of us had left at an early age, but his family was vaguely known to me. He himself was several years older, and I could not even picture his face, and I doubt she could, either. But she had this heavy, terrible news. For a brief moment Jim and I were silent - and then burst into laughter, a laughter that soon got out of control. The girl stood there stunned, and as the tears rolled down our faces, I believe we finally managed to put our money down and get out of the store - or simply put the sodas down and left. It was hilarious and unbearable and frightening. Outside, we finally calmed down but could not bring the words to why we laughed at someone else's tragedy. But we knew, and somewhat later agreed upon the words.
It was not that we were disrespecting the solemnity of the tragedy, for we knew even at that age how much people were suffering for it. Rather, it was the act of the girl- and 'act' is the word. What made it so funny was that she did not know that she was acting, acting the part of the tragic sufferer, even though she hadn't known the guy any more than I had. She was imagining the pain of the family and projecting herself into it for the drama. Peaking on hallucinogens, one cannot dissimulate. What is, is, and there is no way or place to hide it. You and everyone else is an open book, fake drama and all. We had to get away from her because we knew our reaction was socially wrong, and maybe morally so - but we could not hide from the comedy of the girl.
As we age, we become more "secure" - that is, we belief in the bull about ourselves even more than when young. I do not think I have the courage to face myself with such substances now. I know too well how full of it I am, and really don't want to leave the fantasy of maturity that I have built for myself. But it does bring home Hawkins' point: a lot of our suffering is made up and done because we like the drama.
On the other hand, for the family of Bill G., I do not see anything fake about it. As an adult, I have seen the suffering from terrible loss, and it is very, very real. What Hawkins says of this is: it is still not real, none of it. But he does have sympathy for those who suffer, just as one has sympathy for the small child who cries out of fear of the boogeyman or for his lost snuggle bear. It is immature and silly, but not to the child. I suppose, then, that is what we are, children. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." To be fully enlightened must be both wonderful and horribly frustrating. To be able to stare into the face of real suffering, even if one is loving and compassionate, and not be moved to despair, is a level from which I might be forever apart. FK
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