The Complete Works of Yogy Ramacharaka. William Walker Atkinson
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Fo in that moment of spiritual distress when all is being taken away from you, there is coming to you that peace which passeth all understanding, which will never leave you, and which is well worth the stress of a thousand storms. The time of mere blind belief is passing from you—the time of knowing is at hand.
It is difficult to speak of the higher spiritual experiences in the words of the lower plane Emerson, who had experienced that consciousness of which we speak, says of it: “Every man’s words, who speaks from that life, must sound vain to those who do not dwell in the same thought on their own part. I dare not speak for it. My words do not carry its august sense; they fall short and cold. Only itself can inspire whom it will * * * Yet I desire even by profane words, if sacred I may not use, to indicate the heaven of this deity, and to report what hints I have collected of the transcendent simplicity and energy of the Highest Law.” It is a thing to be felt rather than to he intellectually grasped—and yet the Intellect may partially grasp it, when the illumination of the Spirit has raised it (the Intellect) to higher planes.
Knowing what lies before it, the hand that writes these words trembles over its work. To attempt to put into plain words these experiences of the Higher Life seems futile and foolish—and yet we seem called upon to make the effort. Well, so be it—the task is set before us—we must not shrink from it.
In our “Fourteen Lessons” we have told of the three-fold mind of man—the three mental principles—the Instinctive Mind; the Intellect; the Spiritual Mind. We advise that you reread the lessons bearing upon this subject, paying particular attention to what we have said regarding the Sixth Principle—the Spiritual Mind. This Illumination—this flower that blooms in the silence that follows the storm—comes from that part of your nature.
But, first, let us consider what is meant by "the storm” which precedes the blossoming of the Bower.
Man passes through the higher stages of the Instinctive Mind on to the plane of the Intellect. The man on the Instinctive Plane (even in its higher stages where it blends into the lower planes of the Intellect) does not concern himself with the problems of Life—the Riddle of Existence. He does not recognize even that any such problem or riddle exists. He has a comparatively easy time, as his cares are chiefly those connected with the physical plane. So long as his physical wants are satisfied, the rest matters little to him. His is the childhood stage of the race. After a time, he begins to experience troubles on another plane. His awakened Intellect refuses to allow him to continue to take things for granted. New questions are constantly intruding themselves, calling for answers. He begins to be pestered by the eternal “Why” of his soul, As Tolstoi so forcibly puts it: “As sow as the mental part of a person takes control, new worlds are opened, and desires are multiplied a thousandfold. They become as numerous as the radii of a circle; and the mind, with care and anxiety, sets itself first to cultivate and then gratify these desires, thinking that happiness is to be found in that way.” But no permanent happiness is to be found in this state—something fills the soul with a growing unrest, and beckons it on and on to higher flights. Rut the Intellect, not being able to conceive of anything higher than itself, resists these urgings as something unworthy—some relic of former superstitions and credulity. And so it goes around and around in its efforts to solve the great problems—striving for that peace and rest which it somehow feels is awaiting it. It little dreams that its only possible release lies in the unfoldment of something higher than itself, which will enable it to be used as a finer instrument.
Many who read these lines will recognize this stage of terrible mental unrest—of spiritual travail– when our Intellect confesses itself unable to solve the great questions pressing upon it for answers. We beat against the bars of our mental cages—or like the squirrel in the wheel, rush rapidly around and around, and yet remain just where we were at the beginning. We are in the midst of the mental storm. The tempest rages around and about us—the winds tear our cloaks from us, leaving us at the mercy of the tempest. We see swept away from our sight all that has seemed so firm, durable and permanent, and upon which we have found much comfort in leaning. All seems lost and we are in despair. Peace and comfort is denied us—the storm drives us hither and thither, and we know not what the end shall be. Our only hope is that reliance and trust in the Unseen Hand which prompted Newman to write those beautiful words, which appeal to thousands far removed from him in interpretation of the Truth, but who are, nevertheless, his brothers in the Spirit, and who therefore recognize his words:
“Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead thou me on.
The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on.
Keep thon my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me, Lead thou me on.”
In due time there comes—and it always comes in due time—a little gleam of light piercing through the clouds, lighting up to the feet of the stormbeaten wanderer—one step at a time—a new path, upon which he takes a few steps. He soon finds himself in a new country. As a writer has said:
"Soon he becomes conscious that he has entered into a new and unknown land—has crossed the borders of a new country. He finds himself in a strange land—there are no familiar landmarks—he does not recognize the scene. He realizes the great distance between himself and the friends he has left at the foot of the hill. He cries aloud for them to follow him, but they can scarcely hear him, and seem to fear for his safety. They wave their arms, and beckon with their hands him to return. They fear to follow him, and despair of his safety. But he seems possessed of a new courage, and a strange impulse within him urges him on and on. To what point he is traveling, he knows not—but a fierce joy takes possession of him, and he presses an;"
The light pouring forth from the Spiritual Consciousness, leads the traveler along the Path of Attainment—if he has the courage to follow it. The light of the Spirit is always a safe guide, but very few of us have the confidence and trust which evil] allow us to accept it. The original Quakers knew of this inner light, and trusted it—but their descendants have but a glimmer of what was once a bright light. Its rays may be perceived by all who are ready for it, and who look with hope and confidence to the day when their eyes may view it. For know you, that this inner light is not the special property of the Orientals—far from it. The men of the East have paid more attention to the subject than have those of the West—but this Illumination is the common property of the race, and is before each and every man and woman. Instances of it have been known among all peoples—in all times. And all the records agree in the main, although the interpretations vary widely. The first indications of the coming of Spiritual Consciousness, is the dawning perception of the reality of the Ego—the awareness of the real existence of the Soul. When one begins to feel that he, himself, is his soul, rather than that he possess a wonderful something called the "soul" of which he really knows nothing—when, we say, he feels that he is a soul, rather than that he has or will have a soul—then that one is nearing the first stages of Spiritual Consciousness, if indeed he is not already within its outer borders.
There are two general stages of this blossoming of the flower, although they generally blend into each other. The first is the full perception of the "I Am" consciousness—the second the Cosmic Knowing. We will try at least clumsily and crudely to give an idea of these two stages, although to those who have experienced neither our words may appear meaningless, the perception of the "I Am" consciousness may be likened to the bud of the flower—the flower itself being the Cosmic Knowing. Many, who have not as yet experienced this "I Am" consciousness, may think that it is simply the intellectual conception of the self or perhaps the faith or belief in the reality of the soul which they may possess by reason of their religious training. But it is a far different thing. It is more than a mere intellectual conception, or a mere blind belief upon the word or authority of another—more indeed than even the belief in the Divine promise of immortality. It is a consciousness—a knowing—that one is a soul; an awareness that one is a spiritual being—an immortal. Here, dear friends, we are compelled to pause for lack of words adequate to describe the mental state. The race, having had no such experiences, have coined no words for it. The Sanscrit contains words which have been injected into the language by the ancient Yogis, and which may be at least intellectually comprehended by the educated Hindu, but our Western tongues contain no words whereby we may convey the meaning. We can only try to give you the idea