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After experiencing the realm of psychedelics, life is never quite the same. One has glimpsed something beyond ordinary awareness. Aldous Leonard Huxley, a pioneering philosopher, articulated this phenomenon in his landmark book, “The Doors of Perception,” back in the 1950s, a time when few in the Western world had been exposed to practices that had been commonplace in indigenous cultures.

It’s a special kind of character to be able to express the experience of altered states as eloquently as Huxley did. He vividly describes his encounter with mescaline, derived from the peyote cactus, and how it radically shifted his perception of the world around him, opening him up to what he termed “Mind at Large” — a quality of consciousness always present but often obscured by our preoccupation with personal identity. Neuroscience calls it the default mode network, the preoccupation with everything self-related. When the network is overactive, it’s all about me, and that doesn’t tend to feel so good. It explains why we turn to mind-altering experiences; we’re longing for a break.

In Huxley’s view, the role of the brain and nervous system is primarily protective, filtering out the overwhelming flood of sensory input to allow us to focus on what is practical and useful for survival. However, this filtering process also limits our perception of reality, confining us to a narrow understanding of ourselves and the world. Each of us is actually a mind at large, but for the sake of survival, Mind at Large needs to be funneled through the reducing valve of the brain and nervous system. The function is eliminative.

These are Huxley’s key points about his experience with mescaline:

1. The ability to remember and to “think straight” is little if at all reduced. (I cannot discover that I was then any stupider than I am at ordinary times.)

2. Visual impressions are greatly intensified, and the eye recovers some of the perceptual innocence of childhood, when the sensum was not immediately and automatically subordinated to the concept.

3. Interest in space is diminished, and interest in time falls almost to zero. Though the intellect remains unimpaired and though perception is enormously improved, the will suffers a profound change for the worse. The mescaline taker sees no reason for doing anything in particular and finds most of the causes for which, at ordinary times, he was prepared to act and suffer, profoundly uninteresting. He can’t be bothered with them, for the good reason that he has better things to think about.

Interest in time falls almost to zero, and you are fundamentally changed at the level of will. The things that felt so important all of a sudden are less so. You are changed and yet still exactly the same. You still seem the same from the outside, but your attention has shifted. Carlos Castaneda also spoke about this phenomenon, that we’re caught up in what he called the “modality of the time.” And the main goal of the Nagual (shaman in the Mexican tradition) was to free his attention.

So we lost sight of Big Mind, even though it was always there. But just a taste can remind us of what we’re connected to, of who really are. Part of the psychedelic experience is to see how much we’ve closed off and what we’re shutting out that could be vital to our life. But opening is not an all-or-nothing affair. The key is what trauma pioneer Peter Levine called “titrating” experience. There is simply no way we can do all of this in one go. We open gradually, each time digesting a piece of material and stabilizing. Opening, then closing, then opening a little more, then closing. It’s the natural rhythm of life; closing is as important as opening. We need to close sometimes; the problem is when we stay closed. It starts to feel a lot like freeze, stuckness, numbness. So we take our attention to these places slowly, carefully with resource and begin to unthaw, bringing fluidity to our system.

Titration is about a little bit at a time. Opening to Huxley’s ultimate dimension is the medicine that gives us the space to heal. This Big Mind is what holds the pain with absolute acceptance. Not because it tries to, but because thats its nature: empty, open, kind.

I think what Huxley is saying challenges us more than the experiencing of an altered state. Anyone can take a psychedelic and have their sense of self diminished enough to comprehend the ultimate landscape and the nature of mind. The bigger question is what we do with it. Because on the dose of mescaline, the answer is not much at all. We’re absolutely absorbed. But afterwards, how do we take this cleansed perspective back into life?

I think part of the answer is being willing to inhabit our humanity. So when we’re back in the place we don’t want to be, can we allow ourselves to be there. To relax back into awareness and notice what experience is like without resistance. Life is messy. We are going to repeat the same old things, make mistakes, feel all kinds of emotions. But the recognizing of this open awareness in everyday life is what makes movement possible. We can learn to lean into this.

The medicine of letting up the “restrictive valve” is to see that in absolute terms there is no problem to solve, while also seeing all the work to do. It’s the ultimate paradox, and the one in which we must live. Maybe it’s the adventure we signed up for that asks us to take this step into the unknown, and discovering our untapped resources along the way.

More on integration of mind at large in part 2. Extra note to say there are many ways to enter an altered state that don’t depend on taking a substance. Breath-work, dance, meditation etc. All can facilitate the experience of Big mind.

*artwork by InkTally.

What a strange question. How on earth could we be in a time where hardness toward oneself is not only normal but even celebrated? What do you mean you’re not hard on yourself? How on earth will you get through the day?

‘Hard’ comes in many forms. Hardness, as I am using it, is a kind of posturing. An unwillingness to let ourselves be as we are, a refusal to acknowledge the constellation of our inner system. It shouldn’t be this way; I should be better, be less of whatever it is that’s bothering us. Hard is a denial that, no matter the resistance you harbor, reality really is the way it is, including your response to it. No measure of a hard stance has or will ever change that.

Tibetan-Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön said it as clearly as I’ve heard it – the need for change can be an act of violence toward ourselves. My interpretation is what a wonderful thing to want to change, but the same impulse can easily be co-opted into a kind of intolerance for the perceived ‘weaker’ aspects of who we are. So that we can override these parts in the name of change, with the cost of excluding parts of us that we’re not willing to meet. This is never a good thing. Think back to a time when you were excluded; how did you feel? Those parts of us we push away aren’t any different. They don’t just fade into the background; they become more demanding over time, and often force us into extreme behaviors.

The nature of any system is that all parts belong. That doesn’t mean that all parts need to keep doing what they are doing. Clearly, we’re in the way of ourselves on many fronts. Change is needed, but how we change is the question. A Zen monk once said, “Take the step without making the one you’re on wrong.” Again, pointing to the possibility of inner compassion. And yet we’re not taught to do this; in many cases, the opposite is true. It’s often push or push harder.

The default argument in my system goes something like, “Are you kidding me, I need that pressure. What will I do if I’m not beating myself up to get done what must be done? Softness is not going to get me there! I need to measure: Am I doing enough? Compare and contrast, and so it goes. Always an evaluation, whether in this moment I am doing what I should be doing. It’s binary. Either I’m meeting these inner standards, or something is wrong, and I need to be doing more. The focus is on doing, not being. What would happen if I did soften towards myself? Would I turn into a passive blob and not do anything or not get out of a rut or not become more of who I’m meant to be? Is hardness really the boss of these initiatives?

My mother will say to me (now I see because she loves me so much!), “Are you busy? Or how busy are you?” With the underlying message that you can never really be too busy. The busier, the better, and so the internal dialogue goes something like, “Am I producing enough? I can be in ‘off’ time if there is such a thing, and the pressure is still there. Can you really afford to let yourself rest now? What about the massive backlog of things you were supposed to be doing, never mind forgotten dreams and aspirations? We’ll get to that later.

What about the role of discipline then?

In the ancient world, the cardinal virtues were courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom. They are more than a bite-size to chew on, more so a life’s work. Fast forward a few millennia, and the world is a very different place. How we interpret these virtues is surely going to be very different. From the point of view of the ‘hard’ nut western psyche, they could easily be confused as the next shiny object to conquer. I could foster temperance by being even harder on myself, or I could exercise self-control with kindness.

So then, how not to be hard? One way is to be curious.

Experience needs to be digested; everything has a cycle: beginning, middle, end. The same is true for experience; completion brings a sense of being settled. Often, our experiences don’t find completion. Instead, they get stuck somewhere in the cycle and lodge in the body, meaning we take them with us. To attend to these old stories in the body, we need to bring attention to those places. The genius of Peter Levine’s trauma work is that before touching on any of that, we find some stability in the present moment. We look around and remind ourselves that it’s a new moment now. We’re safe, and the evidence is all around. Chances are you are safe right now. As you look around your room, you offer your nervous system those cues of safety. We can remember the ground that’s holding us. None of this is as new-agey as it sounds. It’s a basic reality check. Right now, breath is moving through my body; I’m in a safe place, and everything is in a kind of order beyond my making.

As we bring our attention to this cues of safety, we begin to feel a settling that comes with slowing down. This may even be your safest moment yet, and because of traumas of the past, you are behaving as if it were anything but. Even if you feel quite uneasy, anxious, sad, angry, or any other ‘negative’ experience, the most natural step is to find your ground first. It’s much easier to explore any feelings of unease after you’ve registered what feels safe for you. Now, can you be curious about any difficulty in your system? There is your composure rooted in kindness.

The flame of spirit & acceleration of calling – from Michael Meade’s your calling keeps calling

No one comes to life to be a small person. The great myths tell of how we each come to the world with a story that has already been written inside us. Nature only makes original, just as one tree is different from another so too is every human being utterly unique, never to be born again.

The calling that calls each of us calls to live the unique story that first brought us into the world. If we do that we grow into ourselves. We become our unique self, we bring something valuable to life.

We live in critical times, surrounded by radical change that severely effect nature and culture. To be alive at this time means to be aware of more than just the common realities of life, because common reality themselves are being subjected to uncommon extremes, and are being torn by uncommon tensions.

To be alive now means to be challenged to take an expansion of identity in order to not be overwhelmed by the flood of changes surging in nature and culture. And in times of change, just as in periods of personal crisis there can be an acceleration of calling. As the cracks in the world become more pronounced, the call of spirit and the need for awakening can become more evident. When everything outside tends to fall apart, the hidden message inside life maybe closer to the surface.

In the midst of radical changes, revelations of spirit, awakening of genius maybe closer to us than ever, the modern world tends to ignore both the expected stages of life and the unexpected events that can serve to awaken a persons life. Yet calling and vocation are part of the ancient sense of being born into a unique adventure of self discovery and to a calling to aspire to greater consciousness and a genuine life of meaning and purpose. Awakening to a sense of meaning and purpose in our lives reveals that something mysterious operates in us and through us. And it used to be said that the world aligns with us as we align to our purpose. In that sense awakening to purpose is deeply personal as well as world affecting.

Because what calls to us is timeless, calling can come at any time in life. The genius in the spirit of life within remains youthful. The genius continues to be on the cutting edge of our knowing. And the calling keeps calling no matter what age we are, or position, condition or situation we may find ourselves.

In mythological terms, the unfolding of the next world is already underway. And finding and living our souls genuine purpose is the way we contribute to the renewal and remaking of the world.