The great amnesia

I still remember the walk home through the streets of Berlin after my first ayahuasca experience. The city by night, bathing in dull orange street lighting, looked like a ramshackle puppet theatre, a joyless parody of true creation. It stood in stark contrast with what I had experienced a couple of hours earlier. During my ayahuasca journey I felt I had direclty witnessed Creation at work. I had heard the all-pervading voice of our Source, singing everything into being. I had opened my ears in a depth of listening that seemed to have no end and heard the song that is the uni-verse, the eternal music of creation, the sacred sound that tuned my being back into alignment with truth. I was still awestruck. Drinking ayahuasca had turned out to be an experience so infinitely bigger than I had ever dreamed possible in this world, this dimension of space and time in which an odd apparatus made of flesh and bones seems to be the only door of perception.

On my way home I was accompanied by a couple of friends, seasoned ayahuasca travellers who had also participated in the ceremony that night. Listening to their conversation, I wondered how they managed to make such a quick shift from the spiritual dimension back to the world. How could they be chatting so casually after just having had an epiphany in which the secrets of the universe had been revealed?

Having drunk ayahuasca for the first time, I didn’t realize that the clarity of my insights would also gradually fade away. Still under the influence of the brew, I somehow believed my new perception and insights would, from that point on, always stay with me, with the same vividness and clarity. Now, many ayahuasca journeys later, I also became familiar with the process in which the light gets dimmed and what was revealed veiled again. The conditioned mind is like a polar sea, freezing again in the wake of every ship that breaks its way through the ice.


The human condition is, in many ways, a state of oblivion. Not only are we oblivious of the spiritual dimension of reality and our true nature, we are, moreover, oblivious of our oblivion. In this way the spiritual dimension became doubly veiled by forgetfulness. We forgot and subsequently forgot that we forgot. In this state we make no effort to remember, oblivious of the fact that there is something to remember : an infinite reality beyond the limits of our sense perception, a truth that transcends the scope of our human understanding, a freedom beyond the confines of what we believe to be possible.

In ‘The man who mistook his wife for a hat’ the neurologist Oliver Sacks wrote about a man who, after a stroke, lost the functioning of all visual parts of the brain. He became completely blind, but, surprisingly, wasn’t aware of his blindness. He had no complaints. He was blind without knowing. Tests showed that he had lost all visual images and memories. And yet he had no sense of any loss. ‘He lost’, writes Sacks, ‘the very idea of seeing – and was not only unable to describe anything visually, but bewildered when I used words such as ‘seeing’ and ‘light.’ He had become, in essence, a non-visual being. His entire lifetime of seeing, of visuality, had, in effect, been stolen. His whole visual life had been erased – and erased permanently in the instant of his stroke. Such a visual amnesia, and, so to speak, blindness to the blindness, amnesia for the amnesia, is in effect a total Korsakov’s, confined to visuality.’

From a spiritual perspective, human kind can be said to be blind to its blindness, suffering from amnesia without knowing. We live in a world where everything is turned upside down and inside out. The shadow appears to be the real, the real the shadow. The spiritual dimension, transcending space, time and sense perception, seems to be an illusion, unreal and insubstantial, whereas the world of matter appears to be the only reality. We dream without realising we are dreaming. We are blind without knowing. And as far as we are unaware of our blindness, unaware we are asleep, we have no desire to see, no desire to wake up.

‘The Kingdom of Heaven is spread out upon the earth and people don’t see it.’  Gospel of Thomas

Goethe wrote that none are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free. In the same vein we could say that none are more ignorant than those who falsely believe they know. Entranced by consensus reality, unaware of the dreamlike nature of reality, we think we know the world outside there. We knock on a table to prove its solid reality, its undeniable matter-of-factness, without seeing the circularity of our reasoning. Our bodily senses are made of the same stuff as what we perceive with them. Perceiver and what is perceived are essentially one and the same. We prove the reality of matter by matter of matter. The world we perceive thus becomes a self-validating feedback loop in which our minds run circles, oblivious of the infinite reality beyond the reach of our bodily senses. We dream we are a body, pinching itself to prove it is awake.

In another case study of a neurological disorder in which we can see an analogy for the human condition, Oliver Sacks writes about a man who had a memory of only a few minutes. Sacks first met his patient, who suffered from Korsakov’s syndrome, in 1975. He was a forty nine-year old man who still believed to be a nineteen-year-old living in the year 1945. Time, for that man, had come to a stop in 1945. His memories before that time were still intact, but he retained no memories beyond that point. His failing memory had fossilised him in the past. On their first meeting, Sacks placed a mirror in front of him and asked to tell him if what he saw was a nineteen-year-old looking out from the mirror. Upon seeing the grey-haired man in the mirror, he turned ashen and gripped the sides of the chair. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘Christ, what’s going on? What happened to me? Is this a nightmare? Am I crazy? Is this a joke?’ But, due to his amnesia, the whole incident was forgotten again a few minutes later. Next time he would look into a mirror he would be struck by the same panick all over again. Everything that occurred fell almost immediately into the black hole of his amnesia. And every time it dawned on him that something was horribly wrong, he forgot about the problem again.

We are, in a way, like that man. Entranced into a constant forgetting of what we truly are, our minds are not able to hold the realisation of our true nature, and the illusionary nature of the world that appears within the limits of our sense-perception, longer then a few brief moments. Then we get caught up in the dream again. And every time the truth dawns on us, we tend to fall back into forgetfulness. Oblivion of the spiritual dimension of reality seems to be the default mode of our minds in this world. We cannot focus. Buddhists speak of the monkey mind, restlessly jumping from branch to branch, incessantly chattering and so drowning the still small voice of our own deeper nature.

The human brain and sense organs have been thought of as a kind of ‘reducing valve’, a filter that prevents us from experiencing the full spectrum of reality. Our brain and nervous system filter out the fullness of reality’s scope so as to enable us to function within this world without being overwhelmed by information that is irrelevant to our biological survival. We could compare the information given us by our bodily perception with artificial streetlights ; they help us to perceive our immediate environment more clearly, but they also make it impossible to see the stars of the night sky. ‘Each one of us’, writes Aldous Huxley in The Doors of Perception, ‘is potentially Mind at Large. But in so far as we are animals, our business is at all costs to survive. To make biological survival possible, Mind at Large has to be funneled through the reducing valve of the brain and nervous system. What comes out at the other end is a measly trickle of the kind of consciousness which will help us to stay alive on the surface of this particular planet.’

48259_226750424148652_2087683470_oThe idea that our brains and nervous system are a reducing valve for ‘Mind at Large’ could be considered a contemporary version of Plato’s allegory of the cave. Through the filter of our sense perception our consciousness is reduced to a state in which only echo’s and shadows of a much fuller, transpersonal dimension of reality reach our awareness. And because those shadows are everything we know, they constitute reality for us.

In Plato’s allegory a man is freed from the darkness of the cave and brought into the open sun. At first he is blinded by the light, but gradually his eyes get used to it and for the first time he feels he truly sees. Wanting to share this light, he decides to return to the cave to tell the other cave dwellers about his discovery, but upon re-entering the cave he is blinded again, his eyes no longer adapted to the obscurity of the cave. Seeing his blindness, the prisoners of the cave conclude that his journey into the light brought him nothing but harm and decide that leaving the cave must be dangerous. The man who saw the world outside of the cave couldn’t find a way to convey his experiences to the cave dwellers since their language and understanding only referred to the echoes and shadows perceived in the cave. Eventually, the prisoners of the cave might start seeing him as a treath to their beliefs, and attempt to kill him.

We could think of an alternative ending of Plato’s allegory, in which the man who saw the light outside the cave, upon re-entering the cave, gradually gets used to the darkness again and in getting adapted to seeing in the dark, relapses into his old worldview and loses the memory of the light he had experienced outside of the cave.

‘Ah, behold that man, freed, he hastens back to his chains!’ Dhammapada, Sayings of the Buddha

In the days following an ayahuasca journey in which I had a transpersonal experience of all encompassing love and union, I more than once found myself falling back into oblivion again. After having been flooded with insights of such clarity that it seemed impossible to ever lose them again, I nevertheless managed to forget. Although I still remembered something extraordinary had happened, the memory had lost its immediate potency for directing my steps and transforming my live. What seemed so real at the time of the experience, faded away and lost its urgency. I fell back to a state in which the spiritual union became a distant memory and got in the grip of ego all over again. As if this seemingly unforgettable light experience never took place. In this dispirited state I might even be tempted to discard my previous transpersonal experience as an illusion. Or something once experienced but now forever out of our reach again. In this I behave like a child that doesn’t have a clear concept of object permanence yet.

The term object permanence is coined by psychologist Jean Piaget, who studied the development of infants and childrens mental capacities. Object permanence is a child’s ability to understand that something still exist even if it is no longer perceivable. For very young babies, when something is out of sight it is also out of mind. But at a certain stage in its development, typically around eight or nine months, a child starts realizing that an object still exists even when it can’t be seen. Piaget conducted a series of simple tests to study object permanence on infants. In one test he would present a baby with at toy and then cover it with a blanket. A child who had a clear concept of object permanence might try to grab the blanket off the toy, whereas a child who had not yet reached this crucial step in his cognitive development might be confused and distressed that the toy had so suddenly vanished.

Some spiritual teachings have spoken about the human condition as an infantil stage in spiritual development. From this viewpoint we could say that we are like infants who still have to learn object permanence regarding the reality of the spiritual dimension. We have to learn by experience that when a state of spiritual union is no longer within reach of our conscious awareness, that doesn’t imply it has vanished or that we can’t reach that state again. Believing that would leave us in a state of desperation in which we no longer make any attempts to reach out again.

How can we function in a world of duality while holding the vision of oneness? How can we remember in a world where everything is set up to forget? How can we ‘be in this world but not of the world’? The gravitational field of oblivion is strong. It takes effort and a conscious choice to rise above it. There are many spiritual practices that can help us with that. But they are of little help without our willingness to change. Insights we don’t act on get lost again. Without embodying our newly gained understanding by changing our habits, we find ourselves falling back to the conditioned self we thought ourselves to be.

Many spiritual traditions have spoken of the importance of vigilance in our spiritual practice. Vigilance is needed because of the inherent tendency of our mind to distract us from our purpose. If forgetfulness and distraction is our minds default mode within this world, we have to make a conscious effort to remember. A daily practice, like meditation, can be of tremendous help. It is a way to keep up the momentum so we don’t fall back into forgetfullness. It helps us to keep the flame of transformation alive and carry it through our daily lives.

As we grow spiritually and live through the returning sequence of forgetting and subsequently remembering more often, we learn that every height of consciousness once reached, can be reached again. And the more often we forget and remember anew, the smaller the interval between forgetting and remembering becomes. Every time we fall back in the ego mode of being after having transcended it, we find that the ego has lost some of its persuasiveness. Its sales talk has become less convincing. Its imaginings less frightening. And we find ourselves waking up from it faster then the previous time we fell under its spell. Often with a burst of laughter and a sigh of relief. The more we practice, the more often we go through the sequence of forgetting and then remembering anew, over and over again, the more remembering becomes second nature. Second nature in this world of oblivion, first nature in reality.







Falling through the looking glass


‘The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me; my eye and God’s eye are one eye, one seeing, one knowing, one love.’

Meister Eckhart


This morning I looked into the mirror and experienced an unsettling alienation from my own face, as if the lifelong identification with my own reflection had started to falter. I was leaning on the sink and watched layer after layer of meaning falling off my face, the now full-grown rendition of the same face I have once, as a child, in a past before language and beyond recall, learned to call my own.

I imagined myself as a baby in front of a mirror, my young parents cheerfully repeating my name while pointing at my reflection – Look, that’s you ! – and I, eager to construct a world, and in need of a semantic foundation, smilingly accepting everything I am told. A ritual of words and gestures that magically installed the identification of myself with the face that so faithfully appears every time I look into a mirror.

But now, decades later, I was looking at my features as if I had been incarnated in this full-grown body just a minute ago and had hurried to a mirror to see what kind of face I had been allotted. The more attentively I observed it, the more trouble I had to recognize the face in the mirror as my own.

When I brought my face a little closer to the mirror, I noticed that the whole of its reflection was in its turn reflected in the shiny blackness of my pupils, which were functioning as a mirror within the mirror, thus reflecting back and forth an infinite number of ever smaller images of my face, containing an endless tunnel of eyes within eyes within eyes. I imagined Infinity being shown its own reflection – Look, that’s you ! – causing it to gasp at the sight of its own boundlessness, and in that gasping ever so more expanding itself.














I brushed my teeth and lost myself in speculations about the infinite tunnel effect created by two opposing mirrors, wondering if the seemingly infinite depth of outer space might be a similar illusion, a side effect of the original schism, the division of the primordial One into object and subject, who came to face each other as two opposing mirrors, and thus created what seems to be an infinite depth, but is actually nothing more than an optical illusion of our consciousness.

Could it be that the seemingly infinite depth of outer space, the darkness beyond the reach of our telescopes and computations, is only an outward projection of the unenlightened part of our own mind? Could it be that the universe out there is nothing but a veil we have woven to hide ourselves from ourselves?

I was looking into the eyes with which I was looking into my eyes. My gaze sank ever deeper into the mirror. Thus far the strangeness of my reflection had still been within the limits of what is human, but now it became utterly unrecognizable, as if I was looking at a member of an unknown species, its eyes looking into mine from the depths of an unfathomable otherness.

What is this thing that so confidently calls itself I, therewith meaning me, and yet cannot answer the simplest and most fundamental of questions : what am I? It seems that I am the one not knowing. But maybe this doppelgänger in the mirror is the real ignoramus. Maybe my ignorance is just a superimposed reflection of the blindness of this it that calls itself I.

There was a slight crackle in my brain, as if my thought process had been short-circuited. Unwilling to accept the defeat of my human understanding, I sought refuge in scientific classification. I started examining the creature in the mirror with the eyes of a zoologist. The shape of its skull, the dark brown fur on top of its head, the pinkish, hairless ears, the two lines of fur called eyebrows.

All in all this creature has a lot in common with a monkey, I thought, but less hairy, smoother and paler, with a higher curvature of the skull and a finer nose. But as hard as I tried to break the face up into insignificant fragments as to avoid dealing with its incomprehensible totality, I could no longer ignore its aliveness, the unknown principle that at every moment glued the meaningless fragments of my analysis back into a meaningful but ungraspable whole. And I could no longer ignore the obvious, but for some reason unsettling fact, that the being in the mirror was watching me in return.

I looked him in the eyes. There was an imperturbable calm about him, without appearing indifferent, on the contrary, he seemed to look at me with a warm but nonetheless detached attentiveness. I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze more steadily on his.

What followed was both absolutely strange as totally familiar. His eyes seemed to come forward from behind the surface of the mirror, with a gaze so full of kindness and goodwill, that all of my perplexity evaporated. There was a sigh of relief on both sides of the mirror. A profound and mutual recognition started bouncing back and forth from our faces. Of course, I thought, I know you – I just can’t seem to remember where from.

Then, unexpectedly, the being in the mirror, who seemed to have guessed my thoughts, spoke to me : ‘My eyes are the mirror in which you see I live in you as you in me’. And although I felt I couldn’t fully grasp what was meant by that, I nodded, smilingly, and felt an overwhelming sympathy for the unknown creature in the mirror. I wished him well, with all my heart. I took a deep breath and plunged into his twinkling eyes. The blackness of his pupils was a universe in itself, a star-filled infinity. We both smiled, in silent recognition.


An Iboga Vision

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Last winter I had my first journey with the sacred root Iboga. While laying on a couch in a living room somewhere in the north of Holland, I was taken on an odyssey not unlike the one described by Dante in his Divina Commedia. It makes one wonder about the use of visionary plants in medieval Europe. I was shown both the underworld, the illusionary hell realms sustained by the machinery of fear and the indescribable realm of light that is both our origin and destination.

In the Iboga experience, visions can come and go at an incredible speed; hundreds, thousands of ephemeral images paralleling a highly increased spiritual combustion process. But then there are also visions of a very different kind, much more stable, and of a phenomenal clarity and depth.

One of those visions, and one I will never forget, was that of our planet earth, the blue sphere nobody ever saw directly in its breathtaking entirety, except for the handful of astronauts who ventured far enough in space, the very planet on the surface of which you are sitting at this moment, whirling in an elliptical dance around this other absolutely mind-boggling phenomenon we call the sun.

In my vision I saw the earth from a distance far enough to enable me to  see it as a whole, majestically hanging in space, surrounded by millions of stars. A truly awe-inspiring sight.

I always found the joining of immensity and stillness to be something absolutely sublime. Like the jaw-dropping enormity of a snow peaked mountain range, resting in deep stillness, totally unaware of our awe. Seeing the sheer vastness of this luminous blue jewel that is our planet earth, imbedded in the absolute stillness of space, was like the culmination of every solitary exaltation I ever had in the Alps or Himalayas.

But the way the vision unfolded drove my awe to a peak. What came next was both the most powerful as the most gentle thing I ever witnessed : slowly, starting with a delicate glow of the atmospheres edges, the Sun, Taita Inti, the central Symbol, came rising from behind the globe, shedding its golden light like a blessing over the surface of the earth.

Obviously this vision wasn’t just about my little life. I was in a realm way beyond the personal. The deeper we go within ourselves, the more we come in touch with what connects us all. We are all branches on the same tree. If we go within to explore our inner worlds, we will first encounter our personal subconscious, that which relates to the specific history of the little twig that we are in this lifetime. If we go deeper, we will encounter the branch we share with other twigs. If we go deeper still, we will see that this branch is in its turn attached to a bigger branch, etcetera – until we arrive at the trunk and the roots, our shared being, that which carries and sustains us all.

During the experience I had a very distinct feeling that this vision of the sun, rising above our planet, was a dream of the whole tree, so to speak, coming from deep within the collective unconscious, and as such a message that is addressed to us all.


Imagine that tonight, in a sudden blast of cosmic fireworks, every single star in the sky would explode into an infinite multiplicity of itself, transforming the night sky into one big radiating sea of light. If that would happen, it would still take many years before we would be able to see the change with the naked eye, considering that the light of even the most proximate star takes years to reach the earth. Centuries after the cosmic blast into which all the old constellations disappeared without a trace, humanity would still live according to the old order and see darkness where in truth everything is illuminated.

The further we venture out exploring the inner realms, the more we realise that there is no end to them, that the human soul is as deep and infinite as the cosmic space surrounding us. We could think of outer space as a reflection of inner space, and vice versa, relating to each other like two opposing mirrors, thus creating a seemingly infinite depth. Just like occurrences taking place in far-off galaxies need time to reach the earth, just so do occurrences taking place in the depths of our soul, need time to reach the surface of our consciousness.

Entheogens have been compared to instruments to enhance our perception, like microscopes and telescopes. To expand on the metaphor : telescopes not only make it possible to see in the far distance, but also in the future, seen from our relative point of view. Through a telescope, we can witness the birth of a star, the light of which has not yet reached the earth and will only be visible in the sky as seen from our earthbound perspective many years later. In a similar way entheogens enable us to perceive events so deep within the inner space, our psyche, that they have not yet reached the surface of our everyday experience. By the use of entheogens, we become psychonauts, travelling way beyond the boundaries set by the default setting of our perception, thus enabling us to perceive what is yet to come within the dimension of time, but has, in the bigger picture, already happened.

Some of the constellations we see in the sky today, consist of stars that died millions of years ago, but due to the time the light of those distant stars needs to reach our eyes, they still appear to be there. Imagine that all suffering we perceive in ourselves and in the world is like that, an echo of something that since long is over. Imagine that it is only due to its own inertia that it still seems to be a determining factor in our world and that all that is needed for it to disappear is our awakening to the truth.

Imagine that everywhere we perceive darkness, there is in truth nothing but light. Imagine that we never really left the symbolic garden of Eden, that we are still there, right now, but with eyes closed, dreaming  of a darkened sky while the sun is shining on our faces.


‘We are at home in God, dreaming of exile.’   Acim