My first taste of the mystical was a near-death experience in February 1988.
I awoke in the middle of the night feeling as if someone were pressing a heavy boot into my chest. Next thing I knew, I was studying a ceiling. It slowly dawned on me that the ceiling was the ceiling of my bedroom. Then I looked down and saw a body lying in a bed. Again, it slowly dawned on me that the bed was my bed, and the body was my body. Not really “me,” I suppose, since “I” was up by the ceiling, looking down. Then I felt as though I were slowly but steadily being pulled up by a magnetic force toward a hazy light. A woman’s voice beside me said, “No, it’s not time yet.” The direction of the magnetic force instantly reversed. Now I was being drawn back down toward my body. Next morning, I woke up feeling completely normal.
It was the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. A couple of years later, I read a book that mentioned near-death experiences. That was when I learned what it was. Also, many years later, I learned that pressure on the chest can be a symptom of a minor heart attack. Perhaps that was why I felt as though someone were pressing a heavy boot into my chest.
After the near-death experience, I became very interested in religion — not just Christianity, but all religions. One part of my interest consisted of listening to a Christian radio station coming across the border from Blaine, Washington. I particularly liked it when once a day I would hear a British voice: Derek Prince. A second part followed later when I took some academic courses in Religious Studies at the University of British Columbia. And a third part was to purchase a selection of the huge variety of reading matter available at Banyen Books in Vancouver. This led to fifteen years of learning meditation, visiting ashrams and monasteries, going to groups and teachers, having therapy sessions, and so on.
In the early years of the twenty-first century, I happened to be living in a noisy neighborhood near Vancouver. Feeling the need for a few days of silence, I arranged to visit a local Benedictine monastery. As the guestmaster was showing me to my room, we passed the entrance to the library. “You’re staying with us for a few days,” he remarked. “I’ll show you how to use our library.” He took me inside and showed me their system for checking out books.
After I’d settled into my room, I went back to the library. There were all sorts of books in there on subjects I’d never even heard of. Where to begin? I noticed that among the neatly shelved books, one was sticking out about an inch. I know it sounds silly, but I decided that was the book I would investigate first.
It turned out to be the autobiography of Saint Teresa of Ávila. I had no idea what it was, but I checked it out and took it back to my room.
I was blown away by the saint’s story. I remember thinking to myself, “This was a woman who was on fire with love for God.” After I got back from the monastery, I ordered my own copy from the Institute of Carmelite Studies in Washington, D.C. Then I read that Saint Teresa had a rosary, so I went out and bought a rosary and a pamphlet on how to pray it. Then I ordered even more books from Washington, D.C. And in due course, I signed up for the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults at a local parish.
In May 2010 I made a seven-day retreat at Marywood retreat center on the edge of Cranbrook, British Columbia. Though I was the only person who had registered for the week, the Sisters who ran the retreat center kindly allowed the retreat to go ahead. (Marywood is no longer operational as a retreat center, and I do not know if the diocese stills owns the property.)
For the first six days, my practice was the Christian Meditation of Father John Main, OSB. I didn’t sit for very long each time — just twenty or twenty-five minutes — but because it was a retreat, I sat for six or seven meditation sessions each day.
On the seventh day, which happened to be a Sunday, I decided I would try something different. Now I sat for an hour at a time, but without any specific practice. I simply sat still with my eyes closed. I did three of these hour-long sits that Sunday.
That evening around 6:30 p.m. — because it was May, it was still light at that hour — I had a sudden mystical experience. All the chattering in my mind, all the thinking and all the planning for the future, stopped completely. It felt as if streams of warmth and light were emanating from my belly. The experience reminded me of the “rivers of living water” from John 7:38. Many years later I would hear John de Ruiter refer to them as “streams of nurturing goodness.”
While this was happening, I perceived myself to be a “servant of the universe.” Those were the words that came to me. The universe I perceived to be a huge, perhaps even infinite, being around me. This being — the universe — was alive and intelligent, but not in a human way. It was alive and intelligent in a bigger than human way, a trans-human way. And it was this universe of which I was the servant. In that condition, there was no need for me to think of anything, because my role was simply to respond to orders, in the way a servant does. This state of mind lasted about a half-hour.
That summer I decided to get more serious about meditation. At the time, I didn’t relate this urge to the servant-experience in May. I see now that they may have been connected. Like Piaget’s child who has reached the stage of object permanence, I now knew the ball was there. This is from the point of view of the conscious mind, with its central “I” character with all of its strivings. From the point of view of the unconscious mind, the servant-experience had loosened the grip of the defense mechanisms. Repressed energy now pushed to find an outlet.
I took some time off work to meditate at home. After searching on the web, I settled on a method I had encountered earlier in life. This was the “noticing-and-naming” technique. I learned that it promised quick and certain results, if practiced correctly. And so I began a routine of several hour-long meditation periods each day.
At this point, I had a coaching session on the noticing-and-naming technique from Kenneth Folk, who offered meditation instruction by Skype.
Now, this form of meditation is called “insight” (vipassanā) meditation. After my session with Kenneth, I went out to a strip mall. There I had an extraordinary experience. Parked next to me was a commercial van with the name of a business painted on its side, “Insight Plumbing.” At that exact moment, I had a sudden and inexplicable urge to look sideways and up. There my eyes fixed on a second-floor optician’s office with the words “Insight Opticians” painted on the window.
The synchronicity of these events, together with having practiced “insight” meditation with Kenneth that morning, challenged my notion of reality. The “naive realist” view is that consciousness is an epiphenomenon of matter. Now it seemed possible that it was the other way round: that matter is an epiphenomenon of consciousness. Or perhaps both could be true, in the same way as physicists say that at a subatomic level, both wave theories and particle theories give results that fit the facts.
Whatever the explanation, I began to get the impression that all I was aware of was my own mind — that there were no real, external objects, but only the internal objects in the mind.
Over the winter, I read a short passage from Adyashanti’s book Emptiness Dancing every evening, before I went to bed. I would then reflect on what I’d read. It began to occur to me that some of the thoughts I observed included the word “I,” and the realization dawned on me that this word “I” was really no different from any other word.
At this point a certain fear seized me. I began to suspect that, if I carried on with this program of inner observation, I would come to a place where there would be “nothing left of me.” This was a horrifying thought. It was only out of sheer curiosity that I decided to press on with the meditation.
In early March 2011, I drove down to Seattle, Washington, for a weekend seminar with Adyashanti. We had a pleasant enough weekend at the Shoreline conference center, just north of Seattle, but nothing more than that. Nothing special happened that weekend.
On March 22, 2011, I was driving along the Coquihalla Highway in southwestern British Columbia. This is a newish highway that climbs the Coast Mountains from almost sea level up to 4,000 feet. It was a late afternoon in spring. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky. With very little traffic on the road, I could relax and enjoy the scenery.
All of a sudden, for about half a second, I experienced the feeling of having recognized something very obvious. In the next half second, the thing recognized came to me. The sky and the mountains and the trees were me, smiling back at me. This glorious experience of unity, of recognizing the world as myself, lasted about a half-hour.
That kicked off an eight-day period I call “the turbulent period.” As I lay in bed that night, insight after insight came to me about the nature of life. I slept for only about two hours that first night. The next night, despite being tired, I slept for only four hours. This pattern of little sleep continued for all eight days of the turbulent period.
Sometimes I would wake in the mornings and feel unfamiliar to myself. The image that came to me was that the person I used to be was being burned up from the inside out. Insights about God, the universe, and the nature of life continued to come to me each day.
For much of the eight days, the only music I wanted to listen to was gentle, Christian music. I would lie on the couch listening to one particular CD, Sounds of Healing by Julie True, over and over again.
On the eighth day, in the morning, a single word came to me: “completion.” And sure enough, later on that same day — it was a Friday — the turbulent period came to completion.
The perspective that emerged during those eight days was that there was no “me” to be separate from all of life. There was, in fact, no separateness anywhere in the universe. There was only one thing happening in the world, and that was “life as a whole.” It felt as though the idea that I was separate from life as a whole was something I had woken up from, like waking up from a dream.
The words that fit the experience best for me were words from the Bible, and in particular a couple of expressions from John’s Gospel. One was the expression “born again” (John 3:3 and 3:7). It felt as though I had been born again. And when I say “I“ had been born again, of course I am using the word “I” here in its conventional sense, where we pretend that there is some separate thing to which the word “I” can refer. The whole point of the realization was that this word “I” did not really refer to anything substantial. The other expression that meant a lot to me was the expression “eternal life,” again from John’s Gospel (John 3:15, etc.). Eternal life, it seemed to me, was all that there was. Everything was eternal life; eternal life was all that existed.
The first benefit I noticed was that I was able to do simple tasks without having something else happening in my mind at the same time. For example, I could carry a plate into the kitchen, and that would be all that was happening — “carrying a plate into the kitchen.” There was no thinking happening at the same time. I wasn’t wishing that things would be other than they were, I didn’t have an agenda, and I wasn’t planning for something to happen later in life. I was just carrying a plate into the kitchen. I had heard of attending to the present moment being taught as an intentional spiritual practice, but now it was just happening by itself. Occasionally a wispy thought would cross my mind, only to disappear as quickly as it had arisen.
The subjective experience was that the mind was “clean,” with no “stickiness” in it. I was no longer struggling to make something in particular happen in life. If things worked one way, they worked that way. And if they worked another way, they worked that way. I had no preconceived plan for the direction in which I wanted events to flow.
During the turbulent period, I could only plan for just the day that was happening right now. At some points I could think only of the present moment. My mind wouldn’t go to anything other than the present moment. This made it difficult to mix with other people, since I could not plan ahead. That phase did come to an end, and my ability to put dates and times in my schedule was restored. It was as though the cognitive part of my mind had been temporarily shattered to pieces and took some days to rewire itself.
Later on, I applied words to the whole series of experiences I’d just had: the expression “spiritual awakening” I took from Adyashanti; and the metaphor “stream-entry” from the Buddhist tradition. But at the time, I thought of it as a purely Christian experience, and I used purely Christian words to describe it: I had been “born again” into “eternal life.”