Honesty and Dishonesty: Beyond the surface
The concepts of honesty and dishonesty, fidelity and infidelity, often evoke strong reactions from people, shaped by moral, cultural, and societal conditioning. These binaries dominate much of human interaction, creating judgments about what is right and wrong, what is ethical and unethical. However, when we delve deeper into these ideas, we begin to see that these distinctions are part of a broader illusion of duality—a construct that humanity has built over millennia to navigate the complexities of life.
The very act of labeling actions as “honest” or “dishonest,” “faithful” or “unfaithful” stems from a worldview that is bound by dualistic thinking. In such a worldview, life is divided into opposites—good and bad, right and wrong, true and false. Yet, as we explore the nature of consciousness and presence, it becomes clear that these dichotomies are not fixed, but rather fluid, shaped by the limited perceptions of the human mind.
At the heart of this inquiry lies the question: what happens when one operates with complete presence, in a state of being where the mind is free from the constructs of past and future, of moral judgments, and of conditioned responses? In such a state, does the very notion of honesty and dishonesty, fidelity and infidelity, dissolve? Can we transcend the dualities that dominate our understanding of reality? And if so, what does that reveal about the nature of the “real world” we think we live in?
In this exploration, we will dive deep into these questions, dissecting the nature of honesty, dishonesty, fidelity, and infidelity, and ultimately aiming to dissolve the myths and illusions that surround them.
From an early age, we are taught that honesty is a virtue, a moral standard by which we should live. To be honest is to tell the truth, to be transparent, and to act in alignment with what is considered ethical. Dishonesty, on the other hand, is seen as a vice—deceiving, hiding the truth, or acting in ways that betray trust. Society has built intricate structures around these concepts, embedding them in legal systems, educational frameworks, and interpersonal relationships.
However, what we often fail to recognize is that both honesty and dishonesty are constructed within the realm of thought. They are ideas that arise from the human mind, shaped by cultural and historical contexts. What may be considered honest in one culture could be viewed as dishonest in another. For instance, in some cultures, withholding certain information is seen as a way to protect others, while in other societies, it may be seen as deceit. Thus, honesty and dishonesty are not objective truths; they are relative concepts that depend on context, perception, and belief systems. This recognition opens the door to questioning the very foundations of these moral judgments.
Honesty and dishonesty, as we commonly understand them, are rooted in dualistic thinking—the division of the world into opposites. Duality, in this sense, is a mental construct that allows us to navigate the complexities of life. It simplifies the world into categories of right and wrong, true and false, and gives us a sense of control over the moral and ethical landscape we inhabit.
But this division is inherently limiting. It creates conflict, both internally and externally, because it forces us to align with one side of the dichotomy and reject the other. When we view honesty and dishonesty as fixed opposites, we become trapped in a cycle of judgment, always measuring ourselves and others against these standards.
In relationships, fidelity is often equated with loyalty, faithfulness, and commitment. To be faithful is to remain true to one’s partner, to honor the bond of trust that has been established. Infidelity, by contrast, is seen as a betrayal—a breaking of that trust, a violation of the commitment made. These concepts are deeply ingrained in societal norms and expectations, particularly in romantic and marital relationships.
However, like honesty and dishonesty, fidelity and infidelity are also socially constructed. The very notion of what it means to be faithful or unfaithful varies across cultures and historical periods. In some societies, monogamy is seen as the ultimate expression of fidelity, while in others, polygamy or open relationships are accepted norms. The rules that govern fidelity are not universal; they are shaped by cultural, religious, and personal beliefs.
At the heart of fidelity and infidelity lies the idea of ownership—ownership of another person’s body, mind, and emotions. When we commit to a relationship, particularly in the context of marriage or long-term partnership, there is often an implicit expectation that we “own” each other in some way. This ownership manifests in the form of expectations about exclusivity, loyalty, and the boundaries of the relationship.
But this notion of ownership is illusory. No one can truly own another person, and attempting to do so creates a sense of possessiveness that is rooted in fear and insecurity. Fidelity, when seen through the lens of ownership, becomes a way of controlling the other person, of ensuring that they remain within the boundaries we have set for them.
True love is not possessive or conditional. When we love someone, we do not seek to control them or to bind them to our expectations. Instead, we allow them the freedom to be who they are, without judgment or restriction. This kind of love transcends the dualities of fidelity and infidelity because it is not based on ownership or attachment.
Infidelity, when it occurs, is often seen as the ultimate betrayal. It brings up feelings of hurt, anger, and rejection. But from a deeper perspective, infidelity can be understood as a mirror—an opportunity to examine the underlying dynamics of the relationship and the expectations that have been placed on it.
When someone is unfaithful, it is not necessarily a reflection of their character or moral standing. Rather, it can be a reflection of the unmet needs and desires that exist within the relationship. These unmet needs may be emotional, physical, or psychological, and they often stem from a lack of true connection or understanding between partners. Infidelity, in this sense, is not the cause of the problem but a symptom of deeper issues that have been ignored or suppressed. It forces us to confront the illusions we have built around relationships—the illusion of ownership, the illusion of permanence, and the illusion of control.
To operate with 100% presence in the moment is to be fully aware, fully engaged, and fully alive in the here and now. It means to live without the interference of past conditioning or future projections, to see reality as it is, without the filters of judgment, expectation, or attachment. Presence is the state of pure awareness, where the mind is not divided into opposites, and the self is not fragmented by thought. When we are truly present, the concepts of honesty and dishonesty, fidelity and infidelity, dissolve. In the state of presence, there is no division between right and wrong, true and false, because these are constructs of the mind. Presence transcends duality and brings us into direct contact with reality as it is—without the distortions of thought or emotion.
In the state of presence, honesty and dishonesty lose their meaning. Honesty is often defined as telling the truth, but what is truth? Truth, in its most profound sense, is not a fixed concept; it is fluid, dynamic, and constantly changing. When we are present, we do not cling to fixed ideas of truth or falsehood; we simply respond to the reality of the moment. Dishonesty, in this sense, is not about lying or deceiving others. It is about being out of alignment with the present moment—about acting from a place of conditioning, fear, or attachment, rather than from a place of awareness. When we are fully present, there is no need for dishonesty because we are in harmony with the flow of life. We do not need to manipulate or control the situation; we simply respond with clarity and integrity.
The concept of fidelity, too, dissolves when one operates in the present moment with full awareness. Fidelity, in its conventional sense, is often tied to promises, contracts, and the expectation of a continuous future. In relationships, it becomes a pledge to behave in certain ways over time, to stay within defined boundaries, and to remain “true” to another person. But these pledges are built upon mental constructs and future projections—on an imagined continuity that is bound by time and expectation.
When one is fully present, these future projections lose their weight, and fidelity is no longer about promises made for tomorrow but about the authenticity of being in relationship here and now. In presence, fidelity is not something forced or negotiated, but an expression of truth in the moment. One cannot be unfaithful in presence because one is not operating from a divided mind that clings to past commitments or fears future betrayals. Instead, there is simply an unfolding of truth as it is, unconditioned by the past and unconcerned with future outcomes.
Infidelity, often seen as the antithesis of fidelity, also loses its traditional meaning when approached from a place of presence. Infidelity typically arises from dissatisfaction, a feeling that something is lacking in the current relationship or situation. This dissatisfaction propels one to seek fulfillment elsewhere, outside the bounds of the established relationship. But what is at the root of this dissatisfaction? Often, it is the mind’s attachment to desires, projections, and unexamined needs that fuel the urge to look beyond the present relationship. In presence, there is no room for such projections. The mind, when it is fully attuned to the present, does not dwell on what is lacking or seek fulfillment outside of what is unfolding in the here and now. When one is present with a partner or in any relationship, the relationship is no longer bound by the rigid labels of fidelity and infidelity. There is simply a connection, a flow of being, that is not controlled by societal norms or personal insecurities. In this way, presence dissolves the very constructs that give rise to infidelity, not by imposing rules or boundaries, but by making them irrelevant.
Into the Heart of Now: “NOW” Unveiled
We are what we are doing right now” taps into the philosophical and psychological realms of existence, perception, and human behaviour. Going further, we begin to see a confluence of various factors, which draw us away from the present moment, and push us into the embrace of either the past or the future. At the very heart of human existence is our incessant need to find meaning. We seek purpose, direction, and a sense of understanding about our lives. This pursuit often becomes a bridge connecting the past, present, and future. Our past experiences, both triumphant and traumatic, linger in our minds, continuously shaping our present perceptions. They become stories we tell ourselves, lessons we’ve learned, and at times, scars that haven’t fully healed. The future, on the other hand, represents our hopes, fears, dreams, and anxieties. It’s a canvas upon which we project our desires and apprehensions.
The expectation of outcomes is an inherent human trait. It is rooted in our evolutionary drive for predictability and control. For our ancestors, predicting potential dangers and outcomes was a matter of survival. Over millennia, this instinct has got inculcated with our complex cognitive structures, resulting in our modern-day anxieties about the future and ruminations on the past. However, the irony lies in the fact that the more we seek to control outcomes, the more we find ourselves entangled in a web of expectations. These expectations often lead to inner conflicts. When the present doesn’t align with our anticipated future, dissatisfaction ensues. And when the weight of past regrets is heavy, it dims the light of the present. Furthermore, the very act of striving to stay in the ‘now’ can itself become a source of distraction. If one is perpetually conscious about remaining anchored in the present, then this very consciousness becomes a barrier. The effort to stay present can sometimes be as distracting as the past memories or future anxieties that pull us away.
In today’s world, there’s also the influence of societal structures and norms. We live in societies that prize outcomes—success is often defined not by the journey, but by the destination. From a young age, we’re conditioned to focus on results, whether it’s grades in school or milestones in personal and professional lives. This societal molding further deepens our attachment to outcomes and amplifies our detachment from the present.
It is also crucial to understand the role of human consciousness in shaping our experience of time. Our consciousness is not just a passive observer; it actively constructs our sense of reality. Every moment we live is filtered through a myriad of cognitive processes, memories, and emotions. This complexity means that we often don’t experience the world “as it is” but rather “as we are.”
Neurologically speaking, our brain’s default mode network, an intricate web of interconnected brain regions, becomes most active when our attention is not occupied by tasks. This network is linked with thinking about others, thinking about oneself, remembering the past, and planning for the future. Thus, even when we aim to be in the present, our brains often naturally drift towards contemplations of the past and future. The challenges in remaining present can also be attributed to our cognitive structures, which include biases, such as the “negativity bias” – our innate human tendency to give more weight to negative experiences than positive ones. This bias can cause past traumas or failures to overshadow current joys, anchoring us in bygone moments of pain or disappointment. On the other hand, the future holds the allure of the unknown. This uncertainty can be both enticing and anxiety-inducing. Our modern societies, with their rapid changes and technological advancements, amplify this by creating an environment where change is the only constant. The evolving landscapes of our personal and professional lives mean that the future is more unpredictable than ever, making it a potent magnet for our attention and energy. Yet, amidst these complexities, lies a simple truth: the only tangible reality is the present. While memories shape and color our past and aspirations carve out our perceived futures, the ‘now’ is the only temporal space where action occurs, where life is truly lived.
Let’s explore this further!
What if “Now” encapsulates everything – past, present, and future ? This perspective challenges traditional temporal distinctions or divisions we create in and between Past, Present and Future. This viewpoint reframes our understanding of time and our place within its continuum. When we speak of living in the now, it’s often portrayed as a juxtaposition against being lost in memories of the past or anxieties about the future. However, what if everything is indeed a part of the “now” ?
Imagine time as a vast river. In this river, every drop of water represents a moment. While some drops are behind us (the past) and others ahead (the future), they all collectively belong to the river, which is the “now”. In this perspective, the entirety of existence – our memories, current experiences, and anticipations – are interconnected and concurrently present in an expansive “now”. From this viewpoint, distractions aren’t diversions from the present moment; they are simply different facets of the ever-expanding “now”. The reminiscences of a childhood memory or the contemplation about a future event are as much a part of our current experience as the sensation of the chair we’re sitting on. Every thought, emotion, and sensation, regardless of the temporal context it references, emerges and is experienced in the present moment.
The division we often make between the past, present, and future might be a result of our cognitive architecture. The human mind, in its quest for order and understanding, categorizes experiences. This compartmentalization aids in processing complex information. For instance, labeling an experience as a “memory” helps us contextualize it, discern lessons from it, or even prevent future mistakes. Similarly, projecting into the future can be a survival mechanism, allowing us to anticipate potential threats or opportunities.
However, by understanding that everything occurs in the “now”, we can achieve a form of holistic consciousness. This realization offers liberation. It frees us from the confines of linear temporality and allows a more integrated experience of existence. Such a perspective is echoed in various spiritual and philosophical traditions. For instance, in Eastern philosophies, there’s an emphasis on the interconnectedness of all things, where dichotomies are more apparent than real. Yet, while this concept is enlightening, it’s also challenging. Our societal structures, languages, and even our neurobiology are geared towards a linear understanding of time. Overcoming this deeply ingrained perspective requires consistent introspection and possibly even a paradigm shift in our consciousness.
Let’s delve deeper into the expansive Present:
Linear time, where events occur in a sequence from past to present to future, might be more of a cognitive construct than an intrinsic property of the universe. Physics, especially in the realm of relativity and quantum mechanics, has already shown us that time doesn’t always behave in the ways our everyday experiences might suggest. The famous physicist John Wheeler once proposed the idea of a “participatory universe,” suggesting that observers play a role in shaping their own realities, which includes the experience of time. Every thought, emotion, or memory we experience happens in the present moment of consciousness. Even when we recall a past event or anticipate a future one, that activity occurs in the current moment of awareness. This raises the idea that consciousness itself might be beyond time. It’s a continuous stream where “past” and “future” are merely parts of the grander “now.”
If we fully embrace the idea that everything is part of the “now,” it alters how we relate to our experiences. Regret, nostalgia, anxiety, and hope, which are emotions anchored in our traditional understanding of time, undergo a transformation. For example, instead of feeling regretful for a past decision, understanding its occurrence in the vastness of “now” might lead to acceptance and integration of that experience. Memory plays a crucial role in our understanding of time. Our memories, though referencing past events, are dynamic and malleable. They’re reconstructed every time we recall them. In essence, every time we remember something, we’re experiencing it anew in the present moment. This blurs the boundaries between past events and current experiences, reinforcing the idea of an all-encompassing “now.” While the concept is philosophically and spiritually enriching, it poses challenges in our day-to-day lives dominated by schedules, deadlines, and plans. How does one reconcile the linear demands of modern life with a non-linear understanding of time? This balance requires us to function efficiently in the world while internally maintaining an awareness of the deeper, interconnected reality.
Let’s delve further into More finer details: what if we kill “Now”?
When we speak of “killing” the now, we’re essentially talking about transcending our typical awareness of time and moving into a state of pure being, a consciousness unfettered by the confines of temporal experience. The idea that time itself might be an illusion is not new. From the ancient Eastern philosophies to cutting-edge quantum mechanics, there are suggestions that what we experience as the flow of time might be a cognitive and perceptual construct. Our brains organize experiences in a linear fashion, from cause to effect, creating the sense of a flowing river of moments, from the past, through the present, and into the future. But if we could step outside this stream, what would consciousness look like? If we “kill” the now, we’re essentially trying to access a state of pure awareness—a consciousness devoid of content, without thoughts, perceptions, or sensations. Many meditative practices aim to reach this state, often described as “thoughtless awareness” or “contentless consciousness.” In this state, the meditator isn’t focused on any particular thing (like the breath, a mantra, or an image), but instead simply exists. It’s a state of being rather than doing.
Attempting to attain a state of pure awareness can be paradoxical. The very effort to reach this state can prevent one from achieving it, as effort and intention are temporal and future-oriented in nature. It’s like trying to smooth turbulent water with one’s hand—the act of trying only creates more turbulence. It requires a letting go rather than a striving, a surrender rather than a pursuit. To “kill” the now is to step beyond dualities—the past and future, cause and effect, self and other. This is a realm often spoken of in mysticism and spirituality, where one transcends the perceived divisions of existence. It’s a state of unity, of oneness, where the individual self melts away into the all-encompassing whole.
While these states of consciousness can be transformative, they can be challenging to maintain in our everyday, pragmatic world. Our society operates on schedules, plans, and routines. However, even fleeting experiences of this transcendent state can profoundly affect our daily lives. It can offer insights, change perspectives, and create a deep-seated sense of peace. From the perspective of many ancient traditions, the universe is in a constant dance of creation and destruction. The “now” that we experience is just one beat of this cosmic dance. To “kill” the now is not to negate or nullify it, but to merge with the dance itself, to become one with the rhythm of existence.
Understanding Dussehra: The morality spectrum
One of the most ancient concepts that explain duality is the Chinese philosophy of Yin and Yang. Everything has an opposite: where there’s light, there’s shadow; for life, there’s death. These dualities aren’t necessarily in opposition but rather in harmony, feeding into and defining each other.
Ravana’s Ten Heads: Ravana, the primary antagonist of the Ramayana whose defeat is celebrated on Dussehra, had ten heads. These are often seen as symbolic of ten human flaws. The act of Lord Rama killing Ravana isn’t about annihilating evil in its entirety but rather about overcoming these flaws.
The war in Ramayana, and by extension Dussehra, can be seen as an allegory for the inner battles we all face. It’s about making choices that align more with our higher self than our base instincts. Good and evil, in many ways, are relative. What’s “good” in one culture or time period might be seen as “evil” in another. They’re constructs that help humans navigate complex social and moral landscapes. What’s deemed good or evil can be relative, varying across cultures, religions, and individual beliefs. For example, a warrior killing an enemy might be considered heroic in one culture but a grave sin in another.
While Ravana is the antagonist in the Ramayana, he’s also a complex figure. A devout Shiva worshiper, an accomplished scholar, and a powerful king, his multifaceted personality blurs the lines between good and evil, suggesting that these concepts aren’t always black and white. After Ravana’s defeat, Sita undergoes a trial by fire to prove her purity. This episode raises questions about societal judgments, honor, and the complexities of righteousness.
Good Within Evil: Often, acts categorized as “evil” might have underlying “good” intentions or vice versa. A person may commit a crime to feed their starving family—how do we reconcile the act’s morality? The very existence of “good” necessitates “evil.” Without shadows, there’s no appreciation of light. This balance is essential for growth, evolution, and understanding. The cyclical celebration of Dussehra may symbolize the perpetual battle between our higher aspirations and our baser instincts, emphasizing the ongoing nature of personal evolution. By celebrating the triumph of good over evil, we’re also acknowledging the existence and importance of the dark side. It’s a recognition that the path to wisdom and righteousness involves confronting and understanding our own inner demons.
In today’s world, where moral lines often blur, the external representation of Dussehra’s battle might symbolize the internal conflicts we face in determining what’s right, navigating societal expectations, and personal desires. Ravana’s downfall began with his attachment and desire for Sita. This can serve as a reflection on how attachments can lead to one’s undoing, emphasizing the importance of detachment and self-awareness.
While the core message of Dussehra remains consistent, its interpretation and celebration can vary. In some parts, it’s about Rama’s victory over Ravana, while in others, it’s Goddess Durga’s triumph over the buffalo demon Mahishasura. This variance underlines how societies adapt stories to reflect their values and lessons they find most pertinent.
Annually commemorating the triumph of good over evil serves as a reminder for individuals to assess their moral compass, encouraging them to uphold righteousness in the face of wrongdoing. With changing times, the interpretations of ancient tales also evolve. For the newer generation, Ravana might not just symbolize a demonic force but could represent systemic societal issues like corruption, prejudice, or environmental neglect. The battle is then between collective societal good and these modern ‘evils’. In an era of individualism, many use Dussehra as a time of personal reflection, confronting their own Ravanas, be it anger, jealousy, greed, or other personal challenges.
The Mirrored Self: Reflections of the Experiencer and Experienced
Experience, by its very nature, is inherently subjective. It is the culmination of one’s perceptions, interpretations, emotions, and cognitive processes. Every individual, with their unique personal history, values, beliefs, and physiological makeup, encounters the world in a way that is uniquely their own. For instance, two people might stand before a work of art—one sees profound beauty and feels deep emotion, while the other simply sees colors on canvas. Both are valid experiences, but they differ drastically based on the individual’s subjective lens.
Yet, the objective reality of the world persists. The artwork, the physical colors, and brushstrokes remain constant. It’s this duality of the objective and subjective that creates the richness of human experience. We all share the same objective world, but our subjective interpretations of it vary widely, leading to an immense diversity of human thought, emotion, and expression.
Despite the deeply personal nature of experience, there exists within us a contrary desire to communicate and validate our experiences with others. This need can be attributed to our inherently social nature. As social beings, we have an innate drive to connect, to be understood, and to find commonality with others.
However, the act of communication is fraught with challenges. Language, while powerful, often falls short of capturing the full depth and nuance of our experiences. Words are mere approximations, often failing to convey the entirety of what we feel or perceive. When faced with the ineffability of certain experiences, humans may resort to crafting stories, metaphors, or beliefs to encapsulate and convey the essence of their experiences to others. While these may not represent the experience in its entirety, they offer a bridge, a means to connect with others and share a glimpse of our internal world.
Consider an example of observing a tree. The act of seeing is immediate and direct, but the moment we try to articulate the experience, we find ourselves grappling with memory, association, and linguistic constraints. If the tree is of a kind we’ve never seen before, we still try to relate it to what we know, drawing parallels and making distinctions. This process, while it can enrich our understanding, can also distance us from the immediacy of the experience itself.
This leads us to the profound realization that perhaps the “experiencer” is indeed the “experienced.” Every thought, sensation, or emotion we have is not just a passive observation but an active engagement with our internal and external realities. The very act of experiencing reshapes our understanding, influencing future experiences in a continuously evolving cycle. One could argue that the realm of art, music, poetry, and other forms of non-verbal expression arises from this very challenge. When words fail, a painting, a melody, or a dance can capture and convey those intangible feelings and thoughts. They provide a medium that transcends linguistic barriers, offering glimpses into those profound depths of human experience. It’s no surprise that many people, when moved by a piece of art or music, often exclaim, “That’s exactly how I feel!” even if they couldn’t previously articulate that feeling.
Every individual, in their quest to understand and make sense of their experiences, inevitably draws from the collective knowledge and wisdom of humanity. Philosophies, religious teachings, scientific discoveries, and cultural narratives all play a role in shaping how one interprets and understands their experiences. They provide frameworks and lenses through which experiences are viewed, digested, and integrated.
This interplay between the individual and the collective further emphasizes the inherent tension between subjectivity and objectivity. While personal experiences are deeply subjective, the frameworks we use to understand them often have objective, shared components. A sunset viewed by an individual might evoke a personal memory or emotion, but the scientific understanding of why sunsets appear as they do, or the cultural or poetic interpretations of sunsets, come from collective human knowledge. Moreover, as individuals continue to share and communicate their experiences, they contribute to the collective understanding, which in turn shapes future individual and collective experiences. It’s a dynamic, reciprocal relationship, highlighting the interconnectedness of humanity.
The inherent elusiveness of pure experience, the ever-present gap between what is felt and what can be communicated, reminds us of the limitations of our human condition. Yet, it also highlights the beauty and depth of our existence. In our attempts to bridge this gap, we engage in some of the most profound human endeavors: art, literature, philosophy, and spirituality. Through these mediums, we continuously strive to touch the intangible, to grasp the ungraspable, and to share the very essence of what it means to be human.
Experience, in its fullest form, requires presence. To truly experience is to be fully in the moment, unburdened by the past and undistracted by the future. It’s here, in the pure and unfiltered present, that the experiencer and the experienced merge. This idea echoes in various spiritual traditions which posit that in moments of true presence, the duality of observer and observed collapses. Such moments, where one feels at one with the world, are often described as transcendent or mystical. They hint at a deeper interconnectedness, a web of existence that binds all things.
Yet, despite these profound moments, the human condition is also characterized by a fundamental sense of separateness. It’s this very separateness that gives rise to the desire to communicate, to reach out, to bridge the gap between self and other. We yearn to share, to be understood, and to understand. This yearning, however, is fraught with challenges. As earlier mentioned, the depth and richness of personal experience often evade linguistic encapsulation. But it’s not just about the inadequacy of language; it’s also about the limitations of perception.
Going into depths, In day-to-day life, we’re accustomed to distinguishing ourselves from our environment. We say “I am looking at the tree,” naturally separating the ‘I’ (experiencer) from the ‘tree’ (experienced). However, if we deconstruct this process, things become more intriguing. When you observe a tree, light reflected from its leaves and bark enters your eyes, gets processed by your brain, and forms an image. Here, the ‘tree’ you perceive isn’t the physical entity outside; it’s a manifestation within your consciousness. The tree, as you know it, exists within you, blurring the lines between the observer and the observed. Now, extend this idea to all experiences. Sounds you hear, emotions you feel, even thoughts that arise — all these are not ‘external’ or ‘separate’ events, but transformations within your field of consciousness. You never truly experience the world directly; you experience your consciousness’s interpretation of the world. This realization is profound: it suggests that what we consider ‘external’ is intricately woven into our ‘internal’ realms of experience. The division between us and the universe isn’t as sharp as it might seem.
Many spiritual traditions suggest that this feeling of separateness is a kind of illusion, often termed ‘maya’ in Hinduism. Beneath this illusion, it is proposed that there’s a deeper, unified reality where all distinctions merge. The Zen Buddhist concept of ‘interbeing’ beautifully encapsulates this: nothing exists independently; everything inter-is with everything else. So, in this interconnected dance of existence, to say “I am experiencing the tree” might be more aptly expressed as “The universe, in the form of ‘me’, is experiencing the universe in the form of ‘tree’.”
Exploring this further, we confront the nature of the ‘self’. If the experiencer and the experienced are one, what does this mean for our sense of identity? Who is the ‘I’ that experiences? These questions lie at the heart of self-inquiry in traditions like Advaita Vedanta, where meditative introspection is used to peel back layers of identity, seeking the true Self or ‘Atman’ beneath.
When one begins to deeply contemplate these ideas, the boundaries of self start to dissolve. This can lead to transformative experiences, often described as feelings of oneness or unity with all of existence. Such experiences are marked by a dissolution of the ego, a fading of the habitual sense of separateness. Individuals who have undergone such experiences often describe them as the most profound and meaningful of their lives, reshaping their understanding of themselves and the universe. However, embodying this perspective consistently in daily life is challenging. We’re evolutionarily wired to perceive separateness, as it’s useful for survival. But periodic glimpses into the interconnectedness of all things can offer solace, meaning, and a sense of belonging in a vast universe. They remind us that even amidst the diversity and multiplicity of existence, at the deepest levels, perhaps the experiencer truly is the experienced.
If we consider consciousness to be all-encompassing, then everything we experience is a manifestation within this field of awareness. This perspective aligns with the concept of non-duality, where there’s no division between the self and the rest of existence. In this view, consciousness isn’t something we have; it’s what we are. Our individual sense of self, our thoughts, emotions, and the world we perceive are all arising within and made of this same foundational consciousness.
When we say “I am experiencing this,” who is this ‘I’? Psychologically, it refers to the ego—a mental construct that represents our individual identity. The ego is essential for our survival and functioning, but it also gives us a sense of separateness. From birth, we’re conditioned by society, family, and culture, creating layers of beliefs, desires, and fears that shape this ego. We start identifying with our thoughts, our bodies, our roles, and possessions, forgetting our intrinsic connection with the wider universe. The ego, being a construct, is fragile. It seeks validation and fears annihilation. This is why even after a profound experience, there’s an urge to share or validate it. The ego wants assurance that its interpretation of the experience is ‘real’ or ‘valid’. In moments of deep meditation or spiritual insight, the boundaries of the ego can dissolve, giving a person a glimpse of a reality beyond the constructed self—a state where the experiencer and the experienced merge.
Our understanding of reality is based on our sensory perceptions and cognitive interpretations. But our senses have limits. There’s a vast spectrum of light we can’t see, sounds we can’t hear, and dimensions of reality we might be oblivious to. Quantum mechanics, for instance, has shown that at fundamental levels, particles don’t have definite states until observed, challenging our classical views of reality. Could it be that reality, as we perceive it, is just a sliver of what’s truly out there? And if our very observation shapes reality (as quantum mechanics suggests), then the distinction between the observer and the observed becomes even more blurred. The act of experiencing might be intrinsically linked to the shaping of reality itself. Finally, the experience, consciousness, and reality challenges our conventional beliefs and invites us question, to meditate, introspect and to realize that our fundamental nature might be far more interconnected and expansive than our day-to-day experiences suggest. The dance between the experiencer and the experienced isn’t just a philosophical or spiritual inquiry; it’s a journey into the very heart of existence!!
Choice “Paralysis“
A choice implies that there is an alternative, and with every alternative comes the weight of consequences, perceived or real.
You speak of a ‘neutral’ stand, but let’s investigate what that really means. In reality, the idea of a neutral stance is a contradiction in terms. The very act of choosing neutrality is in itself a choice, made in opposition to other possible choices. So, the notion of being ‘neutral’ is inherently paradoxical because it cannot exist without the conditions that make it a choice to begin with.
For example, When you agree to a certain dosage of medication, you exercise control by making an informed decision. However, you also surrender control to the effects of that dosage, which may not be entirely predictable. This brings emotional complexity into play: the comfort of taking action (choosing the dosage) juxtaposed against the uncertainty of outcome. When we agree to disagree, we are on the contrary acknowledging that a middle ground is unreachable, yet we’re finding a sort of middle ground in that very acknowledgment. The challenge lies in our psychological need for validation and agreement, which often feels at odds with the more rational understanding that it’s perfectly okay for different viewpoints to coexist. We often fail to agree to disagree because our conditionings, our egos, don’t allow us to let go without a ‘win’ or a ‘loss.’
Every choice, by definition, is a rejection of its alternative. Therefore, choices are always relative, biased, and limited by the options that exist. In that sense, a choice cannot be independent because it is defined by the conditions that make it a choice. The idea of a ‘choice’ presupposes the existence of an alternative, of a comparison. In a context where there is only one thing that exists independently, the notion of ‘choice’ would be meaningless because there would be nothing to choose from. Therefore, it wouldn’t be a choice; it would simply be a state of being. The paradox exists because we try to define and understand choice within the limited framework of language and duality. However, once you recognize that the very nature of choice is paradoxical and conditional, and you embrace that paradox rather than trying to resolve it, you arrive at a sort of meta-clarity. This does not mean you’ve resolved the paradox; it simply means you’ve stepped outside of it. You’ve transcended the limitations that come with the dualistic thinking of ‘this or that,’ ‘yes or no,’ ‘neutral or biased.’
Choices are never made in emotional vacuums. They are laden with expectations, fears, and desires that stem from our past experiences, conditionings, and inherent personality traits. Even the seemingly most “logical” choice is often deeply influenced by emotions we may not even be fully aware of. The emotional charge of expectations is often the heaviest. When we make a choice, it is often governed by what we expect the outcome will bring us—pleasure, validation, success, or the avoidance of pain and conflict. The emotion here is one of anticipation, coupled with anxiety about whether our expectations will be met.
Then there’s desire, an emotion that often masquerades as need. The choices we make based on desire are emotionally charged with hopes for fulfillment, achievement, or recognition. But desire is a double-edged sword: while it motivates us, it also sets us up for disappointment if things don’t go as planned.
Even when we think we are making a “neutral” choice, what we are often trying to do is distance ourselves emotionally from the implications of the decision. We might say it’s “purely logical,” but the underlying emotion is often one of self-preservation—we wish to remain unscathed by the emotional weight that comes with making a more obviously partial choice.
One reason choices are emotionally charged is that they give us the illusion of control. Making a decision allows us to feel like we have some say over our fate. However, this control is always somewhat illusory. Life’s unpredictability ensures that our choices, no matter how well-considered, often have unexpected outcomes. The realization that our control is limited can bring up a host of emotions like helplessness or existential dread. Every choice we make, big or small, adds a brick to the edifice of our self-identity. We look for validation through our choices; when they lead to desired outcomes, it reinforces our sense of self-worth. When they don’t, it challenges our self-image and can lead to emotions like self-doubt, shame, or regret.
Our choices also affect how we are viewed by others, adding another layer of emotional complexity. Sometimes we make choices that conform to societal norms or expectations to avoid judgment or gain approval. The emotions at play here are often related to a fear of rejection or a need for social cohesion. At other times, we may make choices that go against the grain, driven by a desire for individuality or authenticity. This can lead to a complicated cocktail of pride, liberation, but also potential loneliness.
When it comes to seemingly paradoxical choices—like choosing wisdom over a loved one or maintaining a “neutral” stance—the emotional texture becomes even more intricate. For instance, choosing wisdom over a loved one might be a defense mechanism to protect oneself from future emotional pain, yet it can also lead to immediate emotional pain due to the distancing from the loved one. Here, both foresight and dread, love and rationality, are locked in an emotional tussle.
In cases where we choose to be “neutral,” what we are really doing is choosing not to engage emotionally in a way that makes us vulnerable. We might convince ourselves that we’re staying above the fray, but deep down, the need to protect ourselves emotionally is dictating that ‘neutral’ choice. The emotion behind neutrality is often a fear of emotional engagement, wrapped up in a protective layer of rationality. Ultimately, emotional maturity plays a large role in how we navigate the sea of choices and their associated feelings. Being aware of our emotional drivers allows us to make more ‘informed’ choices, even if that information is coming from within ourselves. This kind of self-awareness can temper the more reactive emotions like fear and desire and allow room for more nuanced feelings like contentment, acceptance, and genuine love to inform our decisions.
Choice is often seen as liberating, an act of free will that puts us in the driver’s seat of our destiny. However, with every choice we make, we also close off other possibilities, limiting ourselves in certain ways. The emotional paradox here is the simultaneous existence of freedom and constraint within the same action. We may feel exuberant for choosing a particular path, but there can be a latent sadness or anxiety about the paths left unexplored.
While choices often feel monumental in the moment, their impact can wane over time, sometimes even reversing in significance. What seemed like a terrible choice in the past may later appear wise, or vice versa. This fluidity can generate complex emotions, such as regret for past choices or anxiety about the unpredictability of future choices and their unforeseeable emotional implications.
Ultimately, where every action presents us with a choice and counter choices, we sometimes find ourselves paralyzed, suspended in a moment of indecision. Yet, this paralysis isn’t a dead end; it’s a pause, a sacred space that invites us to reflect, to feel, and to become keenly aware of our humanity.
What if we reframe this so-called “choice paralysis” not as a dilemma but as a moment of pause in the great narrative of our lives? It becomes not a prison, but a platform; not a quagmire, but a quest. In this paused state, we are philosophers, artists, and explorers of the inner cosmos. We grapple not just with options but with identities, not merely with pros and cons but with hopes and fears, love and loss.
In this pause, we are not frozen; we are fervently alive. We are composing in our minds the symphony of our future, writing the next act of our life’s drama, sculpting the clay of our becoming.
And when the pause lifts—as it always does—we make a choice, yes, but we also do something more profound: we embrace our capacity to choose, even when the choices are hard, even when the path is foggy. For it’s in the wrestling with choices that we come to know who we truly are.
So, the next time you find yourself in the clutches of choice paralysis, remember: you are standing at the confluence of many rivers, each leading to a different ocean but all part of the same Earth. And it’s okay to stand there for a while, to feel the currents, to listen to their distinct murmurs, before stepping into the stream that will carry you to your next adventure.
And so, we are forever navigating, forever choosing. Not in search of resolution, but in pursuit of growth. In the end, it’s not about making the perfect choice, but about making our choices perfect us.
Understanding the fleeting nature of “Happiness”
Realising you’re happy and consequently puncturing that happiness—is a manifestation of the self-reflexive quality of human consciousness. It reflects our ability not only to experience emotions but also to have thoughts about those experiences, including the experience of happiness. At the most immediate level, we have sensory experiences and emotional reactions. These are our raw, unfiltered engagements with the world around us. But atop this immediate experience, we have a secondary layer of experience: our thoughts about our experiences. This secondary layer is where we interpret, judge, anticipate, and reflect.
The paradox here is that this second layer of experience can intrude upon and alter the first. By realizing we’re happy, we move the experience of happiness from the immediate realm into the realm of reflection and analysis. This can have a distancing effect, making the happiness less vivid and more abstract. The “self” that is experiencing happiness is no longer fully integrated with the experience; part of it has stepped aside to observe.
The awareness of happiness can also bring about a sense of sadness or melancholy. This is because our reflective consciousness is not only evaluative but also temporal; it exists in time. When we realize we’re happy, we also realize that the moment is fleeting, that it will pass. This injects a sense of loss or nostalgia into the current experience, dampening the happiness with a layer of sadness. There’s also the pressure that once identified, the feeling of happiness must be maintained, which turns it into an object of concern.
In some Eastern philosophies, for example, the ultimate state of happiness or enlightenment is one that transcends both happiness and sadness, existing in a state of pure “beingness” that is beyond dualities. Western philosophies often engage deeply with the notion of existential angst, the idea that human freedom and awareness are both a gift and a curse, capable of both elevating and diminishing our experiences. Humans are narrative creatures. We don’t just experience things; we also construct stories around our experiences, which become a part of the experience itself. Realizing you’re happy can sometimes feel like a narrative high point, a climax. But climaxes are, by their nature, transitional; they mark the point where a story begins to move toward its conclusion. This can create a sense of impending descent, which can tinge even the most joyous moments with a shade of melancholy. There’s a compelling argument to be made for the richness added to our lives by our ability to reflect on our experiences. This meta-experience, the experience of experiencing, adds depth and texture to our lives. It’s the thing that allows us to appreciate art, to fall in love, to engage in complex moral reasoning. But it comes at a cost: the cost of immediacy. The more we reflect on our experiences, the less we’re able to engage with them directly. It’s like being the actor and the audience at the same time. This dual nature of consciousness is both a blessing and a curse. While it allows us the richness of introspection and self-awareness, it also sets up a scenario where the observer can interfere with the experience.
When you realize you’re happy, you’re essentially stepping out of the experience to label it. The moment you do that, you bring in the concept of time. Emotions, when lived, are timeless. They’re states of being. But when you observe them, you also acknowledge their temporality—they become moments that have started and will eventually end. This implicit understanding of the fleeting nature of happiness casts a shadow on the experience, thereby altering its composition and introducing elements of sadness or anxiety.
The awareness of happiness can trigger broader questions about the nature of existence, purpose, and meaning. Happiness is often viewed as an ‘end,’ a goal in life. Once achieved, its realization can create a form of existential vacuum, a questioning of ‘what next?’ This moves you out of the emotional experience and into a cognitive one, involving existential questions that can often be more unsettling than comforting.
Your realization also exemplifies the duality inherent in life experiences. There’s a push and pull between opposing forces: happiness and sadness, awareness and ignorance, temporality and timelessness. Some philosophical traditions, particularly those from Eastern philosophies like Buddhism, suggest that the ultimate state of enlightenment is one that transcends this duality to experience a state of ‘oneness.’ In that state, the act of observing happiness and the experience of happiness itself become one unified experience, without a division that could puncture the emotion. When we experience happiness, it often fits into a story we have about what makes us happy and why. This narrative self can be in constant tension with the experiencing self. The act of realizing you’re happy is a narrative act—it fits this moment of joy into your broader life story. But life stories are complex and filled with ups and downs. Fitting a moment into a narrative can mean subjecting it to all the complexities and contradictions of that narrative, which can dilute the purity of the experience.
On the one hand, mindfulness and self-awareness teach us to observe our feelings, thoughts, and experiences. On the other hand, the very act of observing can sometimes alter or even negate the experience, particularly with transient states like happiness. In quantum physics, the observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation makes on the phenomenon being observed. In psychology, too, observing one’s thoughts and feelings can change them. This is the basis of therapies like Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), where the act of observing and questioning one’s thoughts can lead to emotional regulation.
When you realize you’re happy and become acutely aware of that happiness, you might also become aware of the fleeting nature of emotions. This could potentially lead to a decrease in the intensity of your happiness, making it a self-limiting state. The joy is punctured by the awareness of its temporary nature or by the anxiety of losing it. It’s crucial to distinguish between mindfulness and hyper-awareness. Mindfulness means accepting each moment as it is, including your happiness, without clinging to it or fearing its loss. Hyper-awareness, on the other hand, involves scrutinizing the experience so closely that you can’t simply be in it. You’re essentially stepping out of the experience to examine it.
Some of the ways to deal with it:
1. The first step in navigating this paradox is to accept the transient nature of all emotional states. Once we make peace with the ebb and flow of life, the realization that our happiness is temporary becomes less threatening.
2. Aim for a detached form of observation. Observe your happiness without clinging to it, just as you would observe your breath during meditation.
3. Shifting the focus from “Being Happy” to “Being”. When your focus is simply on ‘being,’ without labeling the state you are in, you eliminate the self-imposed pressure to sustain any emotional state, be it happiness or otherwise.
4. Often the anxiety of losing happiness arises from either past experiences or future uncertainties. Dwelling in the present can alleviate that concern.
Perceptions – Consensus Subjectivity vs. Objective Truth
Perception is the process by which sensory information is interpreted, organized, and consciously experienced. This involves not just the mechanical aspects of sensation, but also the psychological elements that interpret and prioritize this data, often filtered through individual beliefs, experiences, and cultural norms. Perception is an interface between an individual’s interior world and the objective reality surrounding them.
In a perfect, objective world, there would be a single, indisputable truth about everything. But humans aren’t perfectly objective beings; our cognitive and sensory apparatus has its limitations. A snake perceives heat differently than a human; a dog perceives scent differently than a human. While the world itself might possess a “universal truth,” our ability to perceive it is shaped by our limitations. If you act with “100% completeness,” it would mean that you have acted in full alignment with your capabilities and intentions. But people perceive your actions based on their own sets of experiences, expectations, and biases, not necessarily based on your intentions. Hence, perceptions can vary even for a universally “complete” action. While the act itself might be independent, its interpretation is not. That’s where perception comes in. Perceptions may be “limited” and “formed by other or for other,” but they play a critical role in social dynamics, ethical considerations, and interpersonal relations.
People rely on perceptions because it’s an accessible way to interpret and navigate the complex world. But it is essential to differentiate between individual perceptions and collective or societal ones. The latter often serves as a “consensus reality,” providing a common framework for communication and understanding. So, while perceptions are limited by their very nature, they are a necessary component of human interaction and society. The real issue arises when perceptions are mistaken for objective truth, ignoring their inherently subjective and conditional nature. We can indeed question the “reality” of different perceptions and argue that they’re all illusory in some way, but as long as humans have subjective experiences, perceptions will continue to differ. And in that diversity of perception lies the complexity, and beauty, of human experience.
Question: can we have any objective experience?
The notion of “objective experience” is a bit of an oxymoron. Experiences are inherently subjective because they are mediated by individual sensory apparatus, psychological states, and sociocultural backgrounds. However, certain frameworks try to minimize subjectivity to get as close to “objectivity” as possible. In the scientific method, for example, experiments are designed to be replicable regardless of who performs them. The idea is to eliminate as much human subjectivity as possible so that the results point to some “objective” truth about the world.
There can be cracks in achieving objectivity in scoring or mathematical experiments as Measurement tools are designed and interpreted by humans, who bring their own sets of assumptions and limitations to the table.
When a majority of individuals agree on a particular experience or observation, this doesn’t necessarily make it “objective” in the sense of an unchanging truth that exists independent of human perception. Rather, it forms a “consensus reality”—a shared framework of understanding that facilitates communal living and communication. While this consensus reality may be treated as “objective” within a specific cultural or social context, it’s not the same as a universal truth that holds across all times and places.
For example, money is a societal consensus. We agree to give paper and metal tokens a certain value. Within the context of a particular economy, the value of a dollar or euro is an “objective” fact, but this objectivity is contingent on shared belief and participation in economic systems. The material paper has no intrinsic value; its worth is entirely constructed and agreed upon.
However, Truth, in its purest form, shouldn’t have different meanings or interpretations. In philosophy, something that is “objectively true” would be true regardless of individual or cultural beliefs—a universal fact. However, accessing or understanding such truths is a challenging endeavor precisely because we are subjective beings.
Is harmony defined by us is really harmonious ?
The universe operates on a balance. Dualities like light and dark, joy and sorrow, and so on, are not in contention with each other but rather two sides of the same coin. They provide context and meaning. It’s akin to understanding that one cannot truly appreciate light without having known darkness. Our existence is enigmatic, where a myriad of elements interplay in a vast cosmic dance. Every action, no matter how minute, sends ripples across the fabric of the universe. Such is the interconnectedness and oneness that defines the cosmos. But amidst this vastness, we humans grapple with the age-old questions: Why are we here? Why do we feel disconnected when everything is intrinsically connected? And, why is our life, despite being a part of this vast universe, so often defined by duality?
Consider the universe as an immense symphony, where every entity is like a note, contributing to an eternal, harmonious melody. From the most massive stars to the tiniest organisms, everything is in sync, vibrating in tune with the universe. This sense of harmony is a constant, even if it’s not always immediately apparent. However, the human experience often feels at odds with this cosmic harmony. We frequently perceive life through the lens of duality: good vs. evil, happiness vs. sorrow, success vs. failure. Such bifurcations arise primarily from our mental frameworks, shaped by societal norms, personal experiences, and evolutionary predispositions.
In our evolutionary journey, the human brain developed cognitive systems to categorize, discriminate, and simplify the complex stimuli of the external world, making it digestible and navigable. This cognitive system is a survival tool, enabling us to swiftly identify threats from non-threats, edible food from inedible, and so on. Over time, as societies became more sophisticated, these dualistic mental models began to govern not just our interactions with the environment but also our self-perception, aspirations, and relationships. This dualistic approach further feeds into the illusion of separateness — a feeling that we are distinct from the rest of the universe. Despite being made of stardust and sharing common atomic ancestors with everything around us, we often feel isolated or alienated. Such feelings intensify when we face adversities, leading many to question the harmony and purpose of existence.
Our understanding of freedom is entwined with our perception of duality. True freedom is not just liberation from external constraints but also from internal ones, like prejudices, fears, and limiting beliefs. To break free from the life’s cycle, one needs to reconcile with dualities, recognizing them as constructs rather than inherent truths. As we delve deeper into the framework of existence, we find that duality isn’t inherently detrimental. Instead, it provides contrast, lending depth and dimension to our experiences. Just as the contrasting strokes of a painting give it life and depth, the dualities of our lives add vibrancy and richness to our existence. Without dark, there would be no understanding of light; without sorrow, the true essence of joy would remain unknown.
Much of our attachment to duality stems from societal and cultural conditioning. From childhood, we’re taught to label and categorize experiences: winning is good, losing is bad; happiness is desirable, sadness is not. Over time, these labels solidify into beliefs, shaping our perceptions and reactions. For instance, consider the universally accepted notion of success. Societal metrics of success often revolve around material wealth, social status, and professional achievements. However, if we were to strip away these conditioned beliefs and look at life through an unfiltered lens, we might find that true success lies in inner contentment, meaningful relationships, and personal growth.
Our fixation on the ephemeral aspects of life — fleeting emotions, transient experiences, and temporal possessions — further entrenches us in the duality trap. In the rush of life, we often overlook the eternal — the unchanging, omnipresent essence that underlies all existence. This essence, often referred to in spiritual contexts as the ‘Self’ or ‘Consciousness,’ remains unaffected by the dualities that play out on the surface.
By connecting with this eternal aspect of ourselves, we begin to view dualities with a sense of detachment. They appear as passing clouds against the vast sky of our existence, impactful in the moment but not defining our eternal essence. Aligning with the duality doesn’t mean becoming passive or indifferent. It means engaging with life wholeheartedly, experiencing every emotion, every high and low, but without letting them dictate our inner state. With heightened awareness, we can navigate the complexities of life with grace, recognizing the transient nature of our experiences.
This awareness doesn’t diminish our experiences but rather enriches them. When we embrace both the joys and sorrows of life with equanimity, we live more fully, more authentically. We begin to see challenges as opportunities for growth, failures as lessons, and successes as moments of gratitude.
Our perception of disharmony is influenced by our thoughts, emotions, and our attachments to outcomes. When we find ourselves in situations we didn’t desire or anticipate, our immediate response is resistance. This resistance, this non-acceptance, creates friction – a perceived disharmony.
The journey to non-duality is a continuous process of introspection, reflection, and growth. Various spiritual traditions offer paths to transcend duality: the Yogic tradition advocates for meditation and self-inquiry, Buddhism emphasizes mindfulness and compassion, while Taoism teaches the art of flowing with life, embracing both its yin and yang.
The common thread across these traditions is the idea of returning to one’s true nature — a state of pure consciousness, free from the constraints of duality.
Possessive possessions
As human beings, our relationship with possessions is multi-faceted and complex, steeped in a variety of psychological, sociological, and cultural influences. Why do we cherish and cling to material objects? How do these objects gain such profound significance in our lives that their loss can trigger profound distress?
The roots of possessiveness can be traced back to our earliest stages of development. Attachment theory, proposed by psychologist John Bowlby, suggests that as infants, we form attachments to our caregivers, perceiving them as a source of security. Objects, such as a favourite blanket or toy, can also become “attachment objects,” imbued with emotional significance and seen as sources of comfort and safety.
As we grow older, this tendency to form attachments does not diminish but simply evolves. We begin to assign emotional significance to a wider range of objects: a cherished book, a childhood home, a prized car, an heirloom passed down through generations. These objects are no longer just inanimate items; they become extensions of our identity, symbolic representations of our personal history, achievements, relationships, and aspirations.
These possessions reflect who we are, who we have been, and who we aspire to be. They’re a reflection of our interests, experiences, values, and dreams. A stamp collection is not just a bunch of stamps; it’s a testament to a person’s love for history and travel. A guitar is not just an instrument; it’s an emblem of someone’s passion for music and creativity.
However, our deep emotional attachment to our possessions has a flip side: the fear of losing them. The possibility of someone taking away our prized possessions triggers a fear of losing a part of ourselves, of our identities being eroded. This fear is the seed of possessiveness. We resist anyone interfering with our possessions, seeing such interference as an intrusion into our personal domain, a threat to our sense of self.
Our possessions also offer us a sense of control in a world often marked by uncertainty and unpredictability. In a life full of variables beyond our control, our possessions are something we can manage, organize, and control. This perceived control can offer us comfort, helping us navigate the unpredictability of life.
This dynamic of possession and control extends to our relationships as well. We might view our partners, friends, or family members as ‘ours,’ a part of our identity. In healthy relationships, this feeling manifests as a deep sense of connection and commitment. However, when driven by insecurity or fear of loss, it can devolve into possessiveness, stifling the other person’s freedom and autonomy.
Ironically, the attachment to possessions can create both a sense of fullness and emptiness. Fullness, because these objects can offer comfort, joy, and a sense of identity. Emptiness, because possessions, being impermanent, can be lost, damaged, or taken away. We might also feel empty when we realize that possessions, while they can offer temporary happiness, cannot provide the deep, lasting fulfillment we ultimately seek.
In this journey of understanding possessions, it’s critical to consider another aspect, the societal and cultural influences that shape our attitudes towards ownership and possession. Our societies, through advertising, media, and peer pressure, often promote materialism and the idea that acquiring possessions is a path to happiness and success. We’re constantly bombarded with messages that equate possessions with personal worth and social status. This reinforces our attachment to material objects, making them seem even more essential to our identities and well-being.
Take, for example, the car someone drives. It’s more than just a vehicle for transportation; it’s often seen as a status symbol, an outward sign of wealth and success. We assign value to the person based on the value of their car. This societal norm can significantly reinforce our desire to possess and protect our belongings, linking them directly to our self-worth and societal standing.
However, this attachment can lead us into a cycle of endless striving, where we’re constantly seeking the next thing to acquire, hoping it will bring us the satisfaction we crave. But as we’ve often seen, this satisfaction is usually temporary. The excitement of a new purchase eventually fades, and we’re left seeking the next thing, caught in an endless cycle of desire and dissatisfaction.
This cycle of possession and dissatisfaction is also reflected in our relationships. In an attempt to find security and happiness, we may seek to ‘possess’ people, to make them ‘ours.’ This can manifest in various ways, from the relatively benign (e.g., wanting to spend lots of time with a loved one) to the more harmful (e.g., trying to control a partner’s behavior or friendships).
When we treat people as possessions, we run into two main problems. First, people are autonomous beings with their own desires and needs, not objects to be owned or controlled. Trying to ‘possess’ a person invariably leads to conflict and harm. Second, like with material possessions, the security and happiness we seek in ‘possessing’ others are elusive. People change, relationships end, and the sense of security we hoped to find proves fleeting.
The idea of possession also often extends to the intangible elements of our lives, such as ideas, beliefs, and ideologies. These can also become ‘possessions’ we fiercely cling to and defend. For instance, political, religious, or philosophical beliefs often become integral parts of our identity. Just as with material possessions, we can react negatively if these beliefs are challenged, seeing such challenges as attacks on ourselves.
One reason we attach so deeply to these kinds of possessions is that they help to structure our understanding of the world. They provide a framework that makes sense of our experiences, giving us a sense of control and predictability. Therefore, when these beliefs are threatened, it can feel as though our whole understanding of the world is under threat, triggering a defensive reaction.
However, just as with physical possessions, this attachment can lead to problems. When we’re so deeply invested in a particular belief or ideology, it can close our minds to new ideas and perspectives. We can become rigid and inflexible, unable to adapt to new information or changing circumstances.
This rigidity can also lead to conflict with others who hold different beliefs. When our identities are so tied up with our beliefs, it can be challenging to engage in open, respectful dialogue with those who see the world differently. Instead, we may feel threatened by these differing viewpoints and respond with hostility.
Yet, one might ask, how can we not hold onto beliefs? Aren’t they necessary for making sense of the world? While it’s true that beliefs play a crucial role in our understanding of the world, the problem arises when we cling to them rigidly, refusing to consider alternative viewpoints or update our beliefs in the light of new information.
Just as we can enjoy material possessions without being attached to them, we can hold beliefs without being enslaved by them. This requires a certain level of open-mindedness, a willingness to question our beliefs and consider new ideas. It also requires a level of humility, an acknowledgment that our understanding of the world is always limited and imperfect.
By developing this kind of flexible, open-minded approach to our beliefs, we can avoid much of the conflict and suffering that comes with rigid attachment. We can engage more productively with those who hold different views, seeing these interactions not as threats, but as opportunities for learning and growth.
The concept of possessions, whether tangible or intangible, thus challenges us to reassess our relationship with the world around us. While possessions can provide a sense of security and identity, our attachment to them can also lead to suffering and conflict.
Divinity – an escape to fear ?
As we delve into the concept of divinity, we encounter a landscape of varying interpretations and perceptions, shaped by the human quest for understanding and meaning. Divinity refers to the state of things that are believed to come from a supernatural power or deity, such as a god, or spirit beings, and are therefore regarded as sacred and holy. Such things are regarded as divine due to their transcendental origins or because their attributes or qualities are superior or supreme relative to things of the earthly world.
But why, one might ask, is divinity interpreted differently by different individuals and cultures? And how can something considered divine and universal also be understood subjectively?
While it may seem paradoxical, the reason lies in the intersection of the human cognitive apparatus with the profound mystery that the concept of divinity embodies. Even though divinity may represent universal principles or realities, the ways in which we understand, relate to, and express these principles are inherently influenced by our cultural, psychological, and experiential contexts.
Cultural factors play a significant role in shaping our views of the divine. Different religions and spiritual traditions have unique ways of conceptualizing and relating to divinity, reflecting their historical, cultural, and philosophical contexts. For instance, monotheistic religions like Christianity, Islam, and Judaism conceive of divinity as a single, all-powerful God, while polytheistic traditions like Hinduism and ancient Greek religion portray divinity in the form of many gods and goddesses, each representing different aspects of reality.
Psychological factors also contribute to the subjective experience of divinity. Our personal beliefs, emotions, experiences, and cognitive processes shape our understanding and experience of the divine. Some people might experience divinity as a personal relationship with a divine being, while others might perceive it as a transcendent state of consciousness or a profound sense of connection with all of life.
As for why divinity appears to wear ‘multiple masks,’ this is again a reflection of the diversity and complexity of human understanding and experience. Just as a multifaceted diamond reflects light in various ways, the concept of divinity can manifest in countless forms, reflecting the myriad ways in which human beings perceive and relate to the mystery of existence.
One might wonder: if the laws of nature are universal, why is our understanding of divinity so diverse? This discrepancy can be understood by considering the difference between objective and subjective realms of knowledge.
The laws of nature belong to the realm of objective knowledge. They can be studied, tested, and validated using the scientific method, which is designed to minimize the influence of individual bias and subjective perception. This is why scientific knowledge, including our understanding of the laws of nature, is largely consistent across different cultures and societies.
On the other hand, our understanding of divinity belongs primarily to the realm of subjective knowledge. It’s rooted in personal experience, cultural context, and introspective understanding, all of which are inherently subjective. While subjective knowledge can be deeply meaningful and transformative, it is also diverse and multi-dimensional, reflecting the complexity of human perception and experience.
Despite this diversity, there may be universal principles or realities underlying our various perceptions of the divine. These might include principles like the interconnectedness of all life, the transformative power of love and compassion, or the existence of a reality that transcends our ordinary perception.
However, just as a map is not the territory it represents, our concepts and images of the divine are not the divine itself. They are human-made representations, shaped by our cognitive capacities and cultural contexts. The divine itself, whatever it may be, likely transcends our human capacities for understanding and conceptualization.
To further elaborate, let’s consider an analogy. Picture a group of people standing around a magnificent sculpture placed in the center of a room, each person looking at the sculpture from a different angle. While they’re all observing the same object, the perspective they have of the sculpture is unique to their standpoint. Some will notice features that are invisible to others, while some aspects remain hidden to everyone. In essence, they are all viewing the same objective reality, yet their individual subjective experiences differ.
This analogy provides some insight into how people perceive divinity. Even though there may exist an objective divine reality (the sculpture), the way people perceive and experience it (their view of the sculpture) is dependent on their individual perspectives. These perspectives are shaped by a variety of factors including personal experiences, cultural backgrounds, religious beliefs, and individual psychological make-up.
In other words, the “masks” of divinity that different cultures, religions, and individuals see are representations tailored to their unique viewpoints and contexts. This diversity in divine interpretation does not necessarily imply that divinity itself is subjective or inconsistent, but rather that our understanding and experiences of it are.
Moving forward, it’s important to differentiate between the objectivity of the laws of nature and the subjectivity of our experience and understanding of divinity. The laws of nature operate independently of human perception or consciousness; they govern the physical world whether or not anyone is aware of them. Scientists strive to discover and understand these laws through a methodical, systematic process that aims to be as objective and unbiased as possible.
In contrast, our relationship with divinity is deeply personal and subjective. It depends largely on individual consciousness, belief systems, and experiences. Unlike the laws of nature, our experiences of the divine cannot be measured or empirically verified. They lie beyond the domain of scientific investigation and are instead in the realm of personal and spiritual exploration.
This doesn’t mean that our experiences of the divine are less “real” or valuable than scientific knowledge, just that they operate within a different sphere of human experience and understanding. Both realms – the objective and the subjective, the scientific and the spiritual – are crucial aspects of our quest for knowledge and meaning.
Many of the world’s religious and spiritual traditions point towards the possibility of experiencing divinity directly, beyond conceptual understanding. This direct experience, sometimes described as “mystical” or “transcendent,” is often said to transcend ordinary categories of thought and perception, providing a profound sense of unity, sacredness, or ultimate reality.
However, the path to such experiences is highly individual and cannot be standardized or prescribed. It often involves practices like meditation, contemplation, devotion, ethical living, or service to others, aimed at cultivating qualities like mindfulness, compassion, humility, and openness to the divine.
Ultimately, our understanding and experience of divinity are part of the rich tapestry of human existence, reflecting our deepest yearnings, questions, and potentials. They invite us to explore the mysteries of life, to cultivate virtues and wisdom, and to connect with something greater than ourselves. Despite the diversity of divine interpretations, they all point towards a reality that transcends the limitations of our ordinary perception, inviting us on a journey of discovery, transformation, and awakening.
Abhishek Fanse 