EXCERPTS FROM THE PAMPHLET “MEDITATION” BY HENRY BEDINGER MITCHELL, PUBLISHED BY THE THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY HEADQUARTERED IN NEW YORK.

FROM PART I
CONCENTRATION (DHARANA) – CONTEMPLATION (DHYANA) – MEDITATIVE ABSORPTION (SAMADHI)

The subject of meditation is of primary importance to every genuine student of occultism. It is inculcated as a religious practice in all systems of religious teaching, and is found playing a principal part in the life of every saint. In lay fields, as well, it seems an invaluable concomitant of creative genius. It is spoken of as more
than the door to the inner life — even as the inner life itself. Therefore, it is quite indispensable to all who seek to know this life directly rather than by hearsay.
Despite the incessant allusions to meditation in religious treatises it is difficult to refer to any one clear and adequate explanation of its rationale. In Theosophical literature Light on the Path, Voice of the Silence, the Bhagavad-Gita, Patanjali’s Yoga Aphorisms,
and Letters That Have Helped Me, all touch upon this topic and treat some of its different aspects. In explicitly Christian literature a host of references might be given, of which Fénelon’s Letters, and Thomas a Kempis’s Imitation of Christ may serve as examples. But in each alone the treatment is fragmentary, and when the different aspects are compared they at first appear paradoxical if not contradictory, and the whole subject is left in a mist of obscurity or vague confusion.
Part of this difficulty is due to the indiscriminate manner in which the terms concentration, contemplation and meditation are used by different writers. But a larger part has its origin in the nature of the subject itself. Meditation is only partly a mental
process, and that in its preliminary stages. In its later stages it quite transcends the mental plane, and so refuses to be completely describable in mental terms, save as a series of apparently contradictory statements.
. . .

Meditation has been defined as that state which ensues from the centring of our consciousness in the soul rather than in the mind or the emotions. The first step toward meditation is concentration, and until considerable power of concentration is acquired true
meditation is impossible. It is, doubtless, true that each of us can concentrate his mind in some one or other direction fairly easily and completely. Indeed, if we could not, we realize how ineffective our daily work would be. But few of us have much general power of concentration available at the dictates of the will in any direction. To convince yourself of this it is only necessary to lay this paper [i.e. or the device you are reading this online article from] down and endeavour to concentrate your thoughts for, say, three minutes upon any topic not associated with your ordinary hopes and fears and duties. Try it, for example, on the “idea of duty” and note how many other thoughts crowd into your mind in that brief period. Under the influence of hope or fear or desire, or even of daily custom, the
mind is held fairly steady and one-pointed. But under the influence of our will it is not. We have not yet become the masters of our own minds, nor can we hold them attentive, focused and fixed for any lengthy period. Our attention is continually distracted and our
mental states modified both by the discursive tendency of the mind itself and by the influence of our emotions. Therefore, we see, first, why it is said that the mind is dominated by desire, and second, why Patanjali defines concentration as “the hindering of the modifications of the thinking principle.” The effort to increase the power of concentration by consistent and systematic training is the first step in practical occultism. This
training may be acquired by anyone who so desires and will give to it the requisite attention through the incidents and duties of daily life. It consists, on the one hand, in concentrating every faculty upon each task and duty as it presents itself, and that whether the duty of the moment is hoeing corn or listening to a concert; and on the other, of never permitting the mind to act undirected in idle dreams or anxieties. Always set it a topic. Three things will result which are really one. First, we shall gain enormously in the control of our minds by the will and in the power of concentration; second, we shall do far better work and be far more effective; third, there will drop away from us a great burden of useless fear and anxiety. This training is not easy at first but it has very rich rewards. There is another stage of concentration which may be called
contemplation, though this name is used by many writers for something far higher. Having learned to concentrate our minds on a single line or sequence of thought [i.e. general concentration in life, the perfectly fixed attention on one particular chain of successive and related thoughts; in other words, living life in a deeply concentrated way, but which is not the same as the specific concentrating on one particular idea, image, or thought, to the exclusion (for as long as one is doing the practice) of all else], we now attempt to hold them upon a single aspect or idea. Let us say, as before, upon the idea of duty. We are not to think “Our duties teach us much,” “I wonder what duties I have left undone,” etc., but simply contemplate the bare abstract notion of duty. Patanjali tells us that one of the aids to this form of concentration is “mutterings.” In a certain way this
contemplation is not unlike the continued even repetition of the name of the idea, which “muttering” Patanjali puts forth as an adventitious aid. Every notion or idea has innumerable aspects, and its correlations and correspondences run into all manner of direc-
tions. It is something to be able to follow one of these lines — without jumping to other things altogether —but is more difficult to hold the mind immovably fixed in contemplation of the central concept. We begin by attempting this practice at stated times, and gradually we are able to perform it with greater ease and for longer periods without undue strain. As we master it, we find that in this state all the ordinary mental processes are quieted and held in abeyance, as is the activity of the senses. That which remains active
is the bare faculty of awareness, if one may use a rather technical term. We are aware of the idea or thing we are contemplating, and we are aware of it very keenly — of its unity and essence. We are contemplating, as it were, all its properties at their root, so that we find a little of this contemplation of the essence of a thing
extraordinarily clarifying to our understanding of its diverse characteristics and ramifications. This state has also been described as “the merging of all the
senses into one sense.” Such a statement sounds rather more formidable than it is, for a like result follows every very strong concentration of attention. For example, when deep in a book we probably all have been suddenly aware that someone had entered
the room. Our whole attention had been concentrated in our reading; the senses, save for the almost automatic action of the eye, had sunk into abeyance (retired into the central power of awareness of which they are differentiations). We cannot tell whether we
heard someone enter, or saw them, or felt a current of air, or how our attention was called to this presence, but suddenly we are aware of it. This illustrates the negative aspect of the merging of the senses into the one sense of awareness. It is, however, only the negative [i.e. in the sense of “passive,” in contrast with the “positive,” “active,” “assertive” polarity which is its complement] aspect, or, perhaps, more properly, the negative correspondence. The positive aspect of awareness is the sense of unity or of being. We actually become the thing we are contemplating, and thus know it as it knows itself. This may be explained and
illustrated in many ways. When we concentrate and focus all our mind and senses upon a certain object, our mind, as a plastic material, takes the form characteristic of the object of contemplation, or, in terms of vibration, vibrates in unison with its object.
This unity of form or identity of vibration attracts similar force. We see something like this in the force felt around the statue or photograph of a forceful man. The similarity of form has attracted similarity of force. On this principle also the ancient Egyptians placed statues of the dead in their tombs that their force might thereby be conserved. But all this will become clearer as we make its application to meditation, and indeed it is chiefly in this last connection that contemplation becomes a useful practice. Having learned from our daily lives some power of concentration together with control and one-pointedness of mind, we can now turn to meditation itself. The effort to meditate is the effort to centre the consciousness in the soul. It is made by concentrating
upon the soul. In the daily thought of the ordinary man the soul is a good deal of an abstraction. This he expresses when he says “I have a soul.” He does not say “I am the soul.” Indeed, he would hardly be justified in this latter statement, for to him the “I” is the centre of the consciousness, and this he has not yet placed in the
soul. He might be, as are most of us, quite willing to grant that all life, his own as well as that of all nature, only existed as expression of soul. But that, he will tell you, is more theoretical than practical. Yet it is precisely to experience this fact as a practical conscious
reality that is his task in the preliminaries of meditation. In the effort to concentrate upon the soul we thus meet our first vagueness of direction. What are we to concentrate upon? Surely not upon some glorified image of our everyday selves separate and
apart from other souls. But rather upon the highest abstract ideal that each of us possesses. The form in which this presents itself differs with the individual. To one it may be the law of love, to another the law of justice, to another an inexpressible being or vision of majesty and power. The form matters little. What does
matter is that it is his highest conception, his ideal, the nearest approach to the oversoul or to God of which he can conceive. It is upon this he is to concentrate his mind and attention with that one-pointedness which we have described as contemplation. As he holds this ideal in his mind — and, since it is his ideal, also in his heart — the process we have already outlined takes place. The numerous voices of the mind and senses die down and become still. He is no longer conscious of anything other than this object of his contemplation. The senses are drawn in, automatically and uncon-
sciously, and become merged into the single perceptive power of awareness or intuition. The consciousness of the mind, as we have known it, active and concerned with change, undergoes a subtle transformation. In its place the consciousness of the heart awakes. We may be able to make this transformation clearer by considering a very noticeable characteristic of our ordinary mental
processes. This characteristic is that of duality and multiplicity. The mind always relates one thing to another, compares and correlates. It is thus by nature many-pointed, and even the correction of its discursive tendency does not alter this fundamental characteristic. On the other hand, the effect of love, or desire, or any act which we associate with the heart is to concentrate the attention and consciousness quite singly and one-pointedly upon the object loved. Stop a minute and call to memory some friend. We have before us some mental picture which we are regarding as we would any physical object. Now think about your friend. You will find yourself instantly making comparisons of some sort, either between him and others or between some of his characteristics or occupations. This process of relation will quickly lead to consideration of quite other topics if the mind be untrained in concentration. But even where trained, we see it continually as a rational act. Now, return again to the mental image of your friend. Keeping your attention fixed upon him, yield yourself to the feeling of friendship or love you have for him. You will find that in this no element of comparison is present, your whole attention is held fixed, not upon his personal characteristics, but upon the man himself. Indeed, if your love be strong you will quite lose thought even of yourself, feeling only a sense of his presence, which grows keener and more absorbing with your love. After you have withdrawn your attention, you will feel that you have been curiously at one with him, but at the time even this sense of unity is lost in the sense of his presence, for you have lost the thought of yourself.
Thus it is that when the mind is stilled in contemplation the heart can become dynamic and bring us into unison with the object we are contemplating, provided that we actually desire it, and have for it a real, not a sentimental, love. It is this dynamic action of the heart which is next operative in meditation. The mind, though fixed in direction, has become entirely quiescent. In this condition it has been likened to a placid lake — no longer itself flowing or dynamic but capable of reflecting the still glory of the stars and their mighty movements. The consciousness is now held by the desire of the heart. This desire is a real and living force. It draws toward us, and us toward
the ideal to which it is directed. Gradually we begin to feel the reality of its presence. At first this presence is reflected in the mind, held fixed in contemplation, in that form in which we at the outset phrased or pictured it. But just so far as it is a real and genuine ideal it pertains to the formless soul, and this is the reason that to us it is an ideal, and this is why we have loved it. Therefore, our desire penetrates beyond the form or phrase. Little by little this mental picture grows more attenuated and sinks from sight. There fall upon us a great stillness and silence, formless and wordless, but full of power. When we have entered this stillness we have begun to meditate, for in it is wrapped the soul of each as is the soul of all the world. Of the consciousness that then ensues I cannot write. It has been described by the prophets and seers, the saints and poets and great artists of the race, in every age. The words and imagery of these are infinitely various, as are the aspects of the soul of man. But in each is the same feel, the same subtle rhythm, the same light. So that anyone who has known the illumination will recognize its description, as well in the Upanishads as in Wordsworth’s verse, in the Hebrew prophets and in the lives of the Christian Saints. Soon we find the silence is not silence but full of a mighty song. Like the deep notes of an organ which we feel before we can hear, so we feel this song before we hear it. It is the song of life, the rhythm of the law, the breath of God. And through our contemplation and our love we become at one with this — one with all that is — part of the great law, part of the moral order. We sink back from this consciousness into that of our daily lives. But we are never afterward quite the same. The cares and anxieties, the hopes and fears and ambitions of the outer world return to us, but they return with a curious colouring of unreality. We have experienced, even if only for a moment, a life in which they played no part, and they can never again have quite the same dominion over us, nor can they any longer wholly satisfy us. This
is symbolized in the first of the Temptations of the Wilderness, where Jesus replies: “It is written, man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”

FROM PART II
SOME BARRIERS AND OBSTACLES

Most of us if we were told to be silent would think we had complied with this direction if we refrained from speech. We know what it is to stop talking and be orally silent. But having done this we can, if we care to listen, hear the mind continue actually talking to itself and phrasing its thoughts in words no less real because inaudible to the physical ear. These we can silence by an act of will. Indeed, we must learn to silence not only these voices of the mind but those of the senses and emotions as well. We can see the need of this not only
for this stage of meditation but to keep us sane. Anyone who seriously enters upon the path of mental discipline outlined for the acquirement of concentration will find how necessary it is to learn to rest. It is an art that few know, and its secret is in silence. Mental silence is, however, often sought quite wrongly by attempting to empty the mind of content by repressing each thought
as it arises. This leaves the mind unfixed and undirected; and so receptive to and reflecting every passing thought form or current of the psychic world. This is the danger of psychism, the astral cul de sac [i.e. dead end] of which we have been warned so often. It has its origin in the negative condition of the mind and the mistaken method in which silence was sought. The mind should be quieted by the intense attention given to one single ideal or object. To this ideal it is receptive and passive, to all else it is exclusive and positive. . . .

As the mind is silenced some lose consciousness and fall asleep. This is in part due to a negative condition akin to that just described, but more of the heart than of the head. We have seen that at this stage the consciousness passes to the heart, and there are those whose consciousness is not easily centred in the heart or carried by love. Such natures are generally unemotional, which, though here a difficulty, is elsewhere a great safeguard. Indeed, this consciousness [of the spiritual heart] is by no means emotional. It is the still, deep current of love which the emotions more often obscure than express. It is aspiration; but it is of the heart, not of the head.

The next difficulty . . . is that as the consciousness of the heart awakes and rises upward, the mind, quieted for a time, reasserts itself and acts upward with it, seizing upon the consciousness of the heart and weaving around it dreams and visions of the most varied beauty. These visions may seem very good and true and at first be very helpful, but there is great danger in them. For not only is our attention arrested and our consciousness carried no further, but these visions turn upon us later. The inner light which gave them their beauty is of the soul, and being of the soul is loved and reverenced. But the threads and colours of which they are woven are drawn from the thoughts of daily life, from its dreams and hopes and fears. . . . Then comes a day when we recognize the source of all this imagery. Our minds turn upon us and deride us for deluded dreamers caught in the snare of our own fancies. This has proved a shock and barrier beyond which many have been unable to pass. . . . This is the difficulty of the emotional man of strong imagination.

There are many minds whose tendency is to make concrete all they touch upon. They crystallize and harden into set forms and dogmas. These are often those of greatest intellectual power. For this reason they progress to this point rapidly and easily, but here they become blocked. They are unable to pass behind form, or to cast aside words and imagery and
lay hold upon reality. Such natures can sometimes be helped by forcing themselves to study and to think in other systems, even in other languages, than those to which they have been accustomed. If they are Christians let them study Buddhism, if Buddhists let
them turn to Christianity; let them seek by any or all means to break up their hard set forms and habits and learn to look at life — not words.

The last barriers lie in the silence itself. The symbol of silence is darkness, and darkness is to many an immediate and instant source of fear. This is true of the great stillness which from the beginning of contemplation has grown more and more intense. It
has become a silence of the senses, of the emotions, of the mind, and now even of the heart itself. Only after it has become complete does the moment of illumination dawn. Therefore, to many it has appeared as a great terror and they have fled it full of fear. To them it
has seemed an abyss of nothingness in which even their own existence was slipping away from them into the void. Both courage and faith are needed here, and a certain effort that is never again exactly duplicated. It is the sort of effort required to leap in the dark in obedience to a voice that is no longer heard. After it is taken, and we have experienced this silence, just this same trial can never occur. For the darkness has passed.

FROM PART III
SUMMING UP

As our own lives become richer in meaning and purpose, the lives of those around us reveal a new dignity and beauty. We see beyond and through the mask of the personality to the soul behind which uses it. We see that all souls are one in the oversoul, and in
the light of this greater revelation the old clash and conflict of personalities gives way to the love and sympathy of the soul. We begin to learn the unity of life and the brotherhood of man. The last effect of which I would speak may seem to those who have not experienced it the strangest of all. We find ourselves no
longer alone. The sense of companionship we spoke of in connection with spiritual reading deepens and becomes more personal. We become aware of a mighty company around us, and we realize that we are in the presence of all the great of all the past. We enter upon
the heritage of the soul.

THESE, then, are the steps in meditation which lead us from the outer world to the inner:

1. Concentration: a power to be acquired in the tasks of daily life.

2. Contemplation: the keeping of the mind fixed in direction but without activity.

3. The awakening of the consciousness of the heart; the surrender to the love of the ideal.

4. The feeling of the presence and power of this ideal caused by the love we have for it.

5. The passage of the consciousness behind the forms of the ideal to its inner essence. With this, real meditation may be said to begin.

6. The resulting consciousness of a great stillness.

7. Dwelling in this stillness till we find its peace and power and illumination.

. . . Having experienced, even if only imperfectly, the illumination of meditation, we enter upon a cycle of outer activity in which though the light is itself obscured its effects become manifest and permanently our own. This cycle is marked by these stages:

1. A feeling of the unreality or unimportance of the outer life.

2. This corrected by the sense of duty.

3. The recognition of the sequence of our individual duties as the reflection of the law of the soul.

4. The performance of our outer duties from this point of view, as an expression of the inner life, looking always back to it for inspiration and rest.

5. The coming to the surface of all the desires of the personality.

6. The definite choice between these and the call of the soul.

Any earnest student may follow these various steps for himself and verify the statements made of them. It is written that a very little of this practice saves one from many evils and brings a great reward.