CHAPTER VII - CONCENTRATION

FEW things more tax the powers of the student who is beginning to train his mind than does concentration. In the early stages of the activity of the mind, progress depends on its swift movements, on its alertness, on its readiness to receive impacts from sensation after sensation, turning its attention quickly from one to another. Versatility is, at that stage, a most valuable quality, and the constant turning outwards of the attention is essential

to progress. While the mind is collecting materials for thought, extreme mobility is an advantage, and for many, many lives the mind grows through this mobility, and increases it by exercise. The stoppage of this habit of running outwards in every direction, the imposition of fixed attention on a single point'— this change naturally comes with a jar and a shock, and the mind plunges wildly, like an unbroken horse when it first feels the bit.

We have seen that the mental body is shaped into images of the objects towards which attention is directed. Patanjali speaks of stopping the modifications of the thinking principle, i.e., of stopping these ever-changing reproductions of the outer world. To stop the ever-changing modifications of the mental body, and to keep it shaped to one steady image, is concentration so far as the form is concerned; to direct the attention steadily to this form so as to reproduce it perfectly within itself is concentration so far as the Knower is concerned.

In concentration, the consciousness is held to a single image; the whole attention of the Knower is fixed on a single point, without wavering or swerving. The mind—which runs continually from one thing to another, attracted by external objects and shaping itself to each in swift succession—is checked, held in, and forced by the will to remain in one form, shaped to one image, disregarding all the impressions thrown upon it.

Now, when the mind is thus kept shaped to one image, and the Knower steadily contemplates it, he obtains a far fuller knowledge of the object than he could obtain by means of any verbal description of it. Our idea of a picture, of a landscape, is far more complete when we have seen it, than when we have only read of it, or heard it described. And if we concentrate on such a description the picture is shaped in the mental body, and we gain a fuller knowledge of it than is gained by mere reading of the words. Words are symbols of things, and concentration on the rough outline of a thing produced by a word descriptive of it fills in more and more detail, as the consciousness comes more closely into touch with the thing described.

It must be remembered that concentration is not a state of passivity, but, on the contrary, one of intense and regulated activity. It resembles, in the mental world, the gathering up of the muscles for a spring in the physical world, or their stiffening to meet a prolonged strain. In fact, this tension always shows itself in a corresponding physical tension with beginners, and physical fatigue follows the exercise of concentration—fatigue of the muscles, not only of nervous system. As fixing the eye steadily on an object enables us to observe its details, unnoticed in a hasty glance, so does concentration enable us to observe the details of an idea. And as we increase the intensity of the concentration, we take in more in the time, as a runner passes more objects-in a minute than does a walker. The walker will expend exactly the same amount of muscular energy in passing twenty objects as will the runner, but the swifter pouring out of energy corresponds to the shorter time of passage.

At the beginning two difficulties have to be overcome. First, the Knower must disregard the impressions continually being thrown on the mind. The mental body must be prevented from answering these contacts, and the tendency to respond to these outside impressions must be resisted; but this necessitates the partial direction of the attention to the resistance itself, and when the tendency to respond has been overcome the resistance itself must pass; perfect balance is needed, neither resistance nor non-resistance, but a steady quietude so strong that waves from outside will not produce any result, not even the secondary result of the consciousness of something to be resisted.

Secondly, the mind itself must hold as sole image, for the time, the object of concentration; it must not only refuse to modify itself in response to impacts from without, but must also cease its own inner activity, wherewith it is constantly re-arranging its contents, thinking over them, establishing new relations, discovering hidden likenesses and unlikenesses. It has now to confine its attention to a single object, to fix itself on that. It does not, of course, cease its activity, but sends it all along a single channel. Water flowing over a surface wide in comparison with the amount of water will have little motor power. The same water sent along a narrow channel, with the same initial impulse, will carry away an obstacle. Hence the value of the " one-pointedness " so continually insisted on by the teachers of meditation. Without adding to the strength of the mind, the effective strength of it is immensely increased. Steam allowed to expand in the free air does not move a midge out of its path; but along a pipe, the same steam would drive a piston. This imposition of inner stillness is even more difficult than the ignoring of outside impacts, being concerned with its own deeper and fuller life. To turn the back on the outside world is more easy than to quiet the inner, for this inner world is more identified with the Self, and, in fact, to most people at the present stage of evolution, represents the " I". The very attempt, however, thus to still the mind soon brings about a step forward in the evolution of consciousness, for we quickly feel that the Ruler and the ruled cannot be one, and instinctively identify ourselves with the Ruler. "quiet my mind", is the expression of the consciousness, and the mind is felt as belonging to, as a possession of, the "I".

This distinction grows up unconsciously, and the student finds himself becoming conscious of a duality, of something which is controlling, and something which is controlled. The lower concrete mind is separated off, and the " I " is felt as of greater power, clearer vision, and there is evolved a feeling that this " I " is not

dependent on either body or mind. This is the first realisation, i.e., feeling, in consciousness of the true immortal nature, already intellectually seen as existing, such vision having, in fact, prompted the very concentration which is thus rewarded. As the practice goes on, the horizon widens out, but as though inwards, not outwards, inwards and inwards continually, inimitably. There unfolds a power of knowing Truth at sight, which only shows itself when the mind, with its slow processes of reasoning, is transcended. [The reader must never forget that " the mind " is used throughout as meaning " the lower mind", the mental body, plus manas.] For the " I " is the expression of the Self whose nature is knowledge, and whenever he comes into contact with a truth, he finds its vibrations regular, and therefore capable of producing a coherent image in himself, whereas the false causes a distorted image, out of proportion, by its very reflection announcing its nature. As the mind assumes a more and more subordinate position, these powers of the Ego assert their own predominance, and intuition-—analogous to the direct vision of the physical plane—takes the place of reasoning, which may perhaps be compared to the physical plane sense of touch. In fact, the analogy is closer than at the first glance may appear. For intuition develops out of reasoning in the same unbroken manner, and without change of essential nature, as the eye develops out of touch. There is certainly a great change of " manner", but this should not blind us to the orderly and sequential evolution. The intuition of the unintelligent is impulse, born of desire, and is lower, not higher, than reasoning.

When the mind is well trained in concentrating on an object, and can maintain its one-pointedness —as this state is called—for some little time, the next stage is to drop the object, and to maintain the mind in this attitude of fixed attention without the attention being directed to anything. In this state the mental body shows no image; its own material is there, held steady and firm, receiving no impressions, in a condition of perfect calm, like a waveless lake. This is not a state which can last for more than a very brief period, like the " critical state " of the chemist, the point of contact between two recognised and defined sub-states of matter. Otherwise put, the consciousness, as the mental body is stilled, escapes from it, and passes into and out of the " laya centre", the neutral points of contact between the mental body and the causal body; the passage is accompanied by a momentary swoon, or loss of consciousness'—the inevitable result of the disappearance of objects of consciousness—followed by consciousness in the higher. The dropping out of objects of consciousness belonging to the lower worlds is thus followed by the appearance of objects of consciousness in the higher. Then can the Ego shape that mental body according to his own lofty thoughts and permeate it with his own vibrations. He can mould it after the high visions of the planes beyond his own, that he has caught a glimpse of in his own highest moments, and can thus convey downwards and outwards ideas to which the mental body would otherwise be unable to respond. These are the inspirations of genius, that flash down into the mind with dazzling light, and illuminate a world. The very man who gives them to the world can scarce tell in his ordinary

mental state how they have reached him; only he knows that in some strange way " ...... the power within

me pealing

Lives on my lip and beckons with my hand."

CONSCIOUSNESS is WHEREVER THERE is AN OBJECT TO WHICH IT RESPONDS

In the world of form, a form occupies a definite place, and cannot be said to be—if the expression may be pardoned—in a place where it is not. That is, occupying a certain place, it is closer to or more distant from other forms also occupying certain places in relation to its own. If it would change from one place to another, it must cross over the intervening space; the transit may be swift or slow, rapid as the lightning flash, sluggish as the tortoise, but it must be made, and it occupies some time, whether the time be brief or long.

Now, with regard to consciousness, space has no such existence. Consciousness changes its state, not its place, and embraces more or less, knows or does not know of that which is not itself, just in proportion as it can or cannot answer to the vibrations of the not-selves. Its horizon enlarges with its receptivity, i.e., with its power of response, with its powers to reproduce vibrations. In this there is no question of travelling, crossing over intermediate intervals. Space belongs to forms, which affect each other most when near each other, and whose power over each other diminishes as their distance from each other increases.

All successful students in concentration rediscover for themselves this non-existence of space for consciousness. An Adept can acquire knowledge of any object within His limit by concentrating upon it, and distance in no way affects such concentration. He becomes conscious of an object, say on another planet, not because his astral vision acts telescopically, but because in the inner region the whole universe exists as a point; such a man reaches the Heart of Life, and sees all things therein.

It is written in the Upanishads that within the heart there is a small chamber, and therein is the "inner ether", which is co-extensive with space; this is the Atma, the Self, immortal, beyond grief:

" Within this abide the sky and the world; within this abide fire and air, the sun and the moon, the lightning and the stars, all that is and all that is not in this [the universe]." 1

This " inner ether of the heart " is an ancient mystic term descriptive of the subtle nature of the Self, which is truly one and all-pervading, so that anyone who is conscious in the Self is conscious at all points of the universe. Science says that the movement of a body here affects the farthest stars, because all bodies are plunged in, interpenetrated by. ether, a continuous medium which transmits vibrations without friction, therefore without loss of energy, therefore to any distance. This is on the form side of Nature. How natural, then, that consciousness, the life side of Nature, should be similarly all-pervading and continuous. 1 Chhandogyopnishad, VIII. i. 3.

We feel ourselves to be " here " because we are receiving impressions from the objects around us. So when consciousness vibrates in response to " distant " objects as fully as to " near " objects, we feel ourselves to be with them. If consciousness responds to an event taking place in Mars as fully as to an event taking place in our own room, there is no difference in its knowledge of each, and it feels itself as "here" in each case equally. There is no question of place, but a question of evolution of capacity. The Knower is wherever his consciousness can answer, and increase in his power to respond means inclusion within his consciousness of all to which he responds, of all that is within his range of vibration.

Here again physical analogy is helpful. The eye sees all which can send into it light-vibrations, and nothing else. It can answer only within a certain range of vibrations; all beyond that range, above or below it, is to it darkness. The old Hermetic axiom: "As above so below", is a clue in the labyrinth which surrounds us, and by a study of the reflection below we can often learn something of the object above which casts that reflection.

One difference between this power of being conscious at any place and "going to" the higher planes is that in the first case the Jiva, whether encased in its lower vehicles or not, feels himself at once in the presence of the " distant " objects, and in the second, clothed in the mental and astral bodies, or in the mental only, travels swiftly from point to point and is conscious of translation. A far more important difference is that in the second case the Jiva may find himself in the midst of a crowd of objects which he does not in the least understand, a new and trange world which bewilders and confuses him; while in the first case he understands all he sees, and knows in every case the life as well as the form. Thus studied, the light of the One Self shines through all, and a serene knowledge is enjoyed which can never be gained by spending numberless ages amid the wilderness of forms.

Concentration is the means whereby the Jiva escapes from the bondage of forms and enters the Peace. " For him without concentration there is no peace," quoth the Teacher,1 for peace hath her nest on a rock that towers above the tossing waves of form.

How TO CONCENTRATE

Having understood the theory of concentration, the student should begin its practice.

If he be of a devotional temperament, his work will be much simplified, for then he can take the object of his devotion as the object of contemplation, and the heart being powerfully attracted to that object, the mind will readily dwell on it, presenting the beloved image without effort and excluding others with equal ease. For the mind is continually impelled by desire, and serves constantly as the minister of pleasure. That which gives pleasure is ever being sought by the mind, and it ever seeks to present images that give pleasure and to exclude those that give pain. Hence it will dwell on a beloved image, being steadied in that contemplation by the pleasure experienced in it, and if forcibly dragged away from it, will return to it again and again. A devotee can then very readily reach a considerable degree of concentration; he will think of the object of his devotion, creating by the imagination, as clearly as he can, a picture, an image of that object, and he will then keep his mind fixed on that image, on the thought of the Beloved. Thus a Christian would think of the Christ, of the Virgin-Mother, of his Patron Saint, of his Guardian Angel; a Hindu would think of Maheshvara, of Vishnu, of Uma, of Shri Krishna; a Buddhist would think of the Buddha, of the Bodhisattva; a Parsi of Ahura-mazda, of Mithra; and so on. Each and all of these objects appeal to the devotion of the worshipper, and the attraction exercised by them over the heart binds the mind to the happiness-giving object. In this way the mind becomes concentrated with the least exertion, the least loss of effort.

Where the temperament is not devotional, the element of attraction can still be utilized as a help, but in this case it will bind to an Idea not to a Person. The earliest attempts at concentration should always be made with this help. With the non-devotional the attractive image will take the form of some profound idea, some high problem; such should form the object of concentration, and on that the mind should be steadily bent. Herein the binding power of attraction is intellectual interest, the deep desire for knowledge, one of the profoundest loves of man.

Another very fruitful form of concentration, for one who is not attracted to a personality as an object of devotion, is to choose a virtue and concentrate upon that. A very real kind of devotion may be aroused by such an object, for it appeals to the heart through the love of intellectual and moral beauty. The virtue should be imaged by the mind in the completest possible way, and when a general view of its effects has been obtained, the mind should be steadied on its essential nature. A great subsidiary advantage of this kind of concentration is that as the mind shapes itself to the virtue and repeats its vibrations, the virtue will gradually become part of the nature, and will be firmly established in the character. This shaping of the mind is really an act of self-creation, for the mind after a while falls readily into the forms to which it has been constrained by concentration, and these forms become the organs of its habitual expression. True is it, as written of old:

Man is the creation of thought; what he thinks upon in this life, that, hereafter, he becomes.

When the mind loses hold of its object, whether devotional or intellectual-—-as it will do, time after time—it must be brought back, and again directed to the object. Often at first it will wander away without the wandering being noticed, and the student suddenly awakes to the fact that he is thinking about something quite other than the proper object of thought. This will happen again and again, and he must patiently bring it back—a wearisome and tiring process, but there is no other way by which concentration can be gained.

It is a useful and instructive mental exercise, when the mind has thus slipped away without notice, to take it back again by the road along which it travelled in its strayings. This process increases the control of the rider over his runaway horse, and thus diminishes its inclination to escape.

Consecutive thinking, though a step towards concentration, is not identical with it, for in consecutive thinking the mind passes from one to another of a sequence of images, and is not fixed on one alone. But as it is far easier than concentration, the beginner may use it to lead up to the more difficult task. It is often helpful for a devotee to select a scene from the life of the object of his devotion, and to picture the scene vividly in its details, with local surroundings of landscape and colour. Thus the mind is gradually steadied on one line, and it can be led to and finally fixed on the central figure of the scene, the object of devotion. As the scene is reproduced in the mind, it takes on a feeling of reality, and it is quite possible in this way to get into magnetic touch with the record of that scene on a higher plane—the permanent photograph of it in the kosmic ether—and thus to obtain very much more knowledge of it than is supplied by any description of it that may have been given. Thus also may the devotee come into magnetic touch with the object of devotion and enter by this direct touch into far more intimate relations with him than are otherwise possible. For consciousness is not under the physical space-limitations, but is wheresoever it is conscious —a statement that has already been explained.

Concentration itself, however, it must be remembered, is not this sequential thinking, and the mind must finally be fastened to the one object and remain fixed thereunto, not reasoning on it, but, as it were, sucking out, absorbing, its content.