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Maya Indian Terra cotta



















































 

 
THE INNER AND THE OUTER PERSON 

"God has given you one face,
and you make yourself another."
— William Shakespeare

If you ask me, "Who are you?"
I would respond, "I am me."
 
Notice something interesting: You addressed 'me,' but it was 'I' who answered. Before 'I' spoke, there was a pause—a moment of reflection.

What did 'I' reflect on? Myself? Or perhaps... 'me'?

What can we infer from this brief, fictional dialogue? First and foremost, we can deduce that we are composed of two entities: an 'I' and a 'me.' Secondly, the dialogue suggests that 'I' serves as the representative of 'me' in the external world.

Me and I

In this exploration, I will define 'me' as follows:

• An inner person, grounded in the body through sensations and emotions. These instinctual sensory perceptions are registered in awareness, as  described on Meditation.dk. The body's interoceptive system functions as an antenna, receiving and processing these signals. This is 'Me.' 'Me' experience itself through the ancient evolutionary mechanisms embedded within us. It is the cumulative sum of all biological beings that have, in some form, survived and evolved within us since the pre-Cambrian sea. The biological circuits comprising 'me' are varied and, due to their different evolutionary ages, often operate out of sync. What unifies them as 'me's' are their ancient lack lack of language and self-reflection. 'Me' operates instinctively because it predates the evolution of reflective cognition.

And 'I' as:

• An outer person, interacting with both the external world and 'me' using language, reason, and feelings. In this context, 'feelings' are defined according to modern psychology as sensory signals and emotions interpreted and narrated by 'I.' Thus, 'I' becomes a socially driven intro- and extrovert storyteller, weaving narratives for the world and for myself about 'me.' This system unfolds in consciousness (as defined on the site), and although slower than 'me', it has gained the advantage of language-based cognition.

Ocram's Razor Dualism
Broadly speaking, the distinction between 'I' and 'me' builds upon the age-old dichotomy of emotion and reason, yet here we see it connected to the vastly different operating systems of consciousness and awareness. 

In reality, the interaction between 'I' and 'me' is highly complex—consider symbolic thinking, dream sequences, and visions, which bridge both realms. However, this dualistic model offers us an Ockham's razor, providing a precise conceptual cut through this organic complexity.
 
This distinction between 'I' (the outer, rational self) and 'me' (the inner, emotional self) echoes William James's ideas. As an early psychologist, James differentiated between the "I" as 'the self as knower' and the "Me" as 'the self as known.' This mirrors how contemporary psychology views the self: both an active agent (the "I") and an object of awareness and consciousness (the "me").

Now a question arises: Am I me?
 
Out of mutible reasons it is not possible to give a satisfactory answer to this question. Nevertheless 'I' will serve this question as a subcurrent for you to ponder through the whole chapter. Here is the first stream of the current:

'I' Live in an Apartment... 'Me' Lives in My Body... The Body is 'Me's' Home.
 
'I' now repeat to myself the question you asked me at the beginning:

Who am 'I'?
 
The simplest answer, again: I am me.
'I' am not 'I', but 'me'.

Or is that really true?  'I' might just pretend to be 'me'.
 
Another question is: Who or what is that 'me'? Is there a core we could call 'me'? My core truth seems to be closer to 'me' than to 'I', but does it give meaning to talk about an essential 'me', a true self or an inner core? Before we procede with the 'I' & 'me'-duality we need to addres the following question:
Is there something we could call a true and essential individuality?

IS THERE ANYTHING AUTHENTIC IN 'ME'?
Who am I? Both modern science and ancient Indian Buddhist philosophy suggest that the concept of an "authentic self" may be an illusion. Yet, like "redness," which cannot be measured or weighed but still holds meaning in human consciousness, the idea of self, though seemingly illusory, serves a profound purpose. The same can be said of free will—abstract, perhaps, but integral to our experience of being.
  
Even when acknowledging the potential illusion of individuality and identity, it remains meaningful to characterize individuality as a dynamic flow-state. Our true nature, then, becomes the most deeply felt and consciously realized balance point among the conflicting impulses and inner voices that make up our psychological and biological existence.

The Scientific Drive to Substatiate Existence
Lord Kelvin, the influential 19th-century physicist and engineer, once said:

"When you can measure what you are speaking about, and express it in numbers, you know something about it; but when you cannot measure it, when you cannot express it in numbers, your knowledge is of a meagre and unsatisfactory kind."

Though scientific philosophy has evolved significantly since the heyday of logical positivism, this type of rigid empiricism remains embedded within the framework of modern science. It lingers, much like a subconscious trauma from childhood, influencing the way we approach and understand the world. From here it penetrates psychology and even social sciences
 
This mindset — which seeks to reduce all phenomena to measurable quantities — can be limiting when applied to the question of individuality or the self. How many grams does the soul weigh? The laboratory's pursuit of tangible evidence for individuality, while valuable in specific contexts, reflects a deep-seated bias that favors solidity as the primary criterion for existence.

The hard problem of consciousness—which asks how subjective experiences arise from physical processes—mirrors the scientific struggle to substantiate existence through empirical measurement. Just as individuality defies reduction to quantifiable data, consciousness resists being fully explained by neural activity alone, pointing to the limitations of a strictly materialist approach. This parallels the broader challenge of acknowledging realities like the "self" that, while not directly measurable, are undeniably integral to human experience.

In summary, the scientific approach has been invaluable in many domains, but it falters when addressing subjective, experiential phenomena.
 
In this light, the urge to define the "self" as a fixed, unchangeable entity not only becomes unnecessary but ultimately restrictive. Rather than searching for a soul that can be captured, weighed, or quantified, it is more apt to conceptualize individuality as a dynamic equilibrium within a biological network. This network stretches back to the primordial beginnings of life in the pre-Cambrian seas, extending forward to the complex interweaving of emotions, cognition, and consciousness that define modern human experience.
 
The subjective but authentic experience of flow embodies this dynamic equilibrium—a state where our diverse biological systems harmonize and work together, much like a democratic society where every voice, even the minority, is heard and respected as part of the decision-making process.

The Deeper the Flow, the Truer the Glow and the more Real I feel
Our sense of genuine individuality is intimately tied to this experience of flow. The deeper, more profound, and expansive the point of balance, the more it resonates with the deepest, oldest, and most unconscious layers of our cellular existence. The more we feel, see, and listen into the dark evolutionary abyss inside of us, the more the Nietzschean “monsters” within us smile—and as they do, the more meaningful and essential our sense of self becomes.
 
By "deep," I refer to consciousness' ability to bring awareness to the most hidden, primal aspects of our biology. This is the path of true introspection.
 
Paradoxically, this inward journey toward the true, fluctuating self makes life’s external actions remarkably tangible: every word and action matters. Each small movement in life either brings us closer to or pulls us further from the deep flow-feeling of purpose. In this sense, I am not a fixed thing but a dynamic state—much like the experience of "redness" or the subjective feeling of freedom.
 
In the end, perhaps the question is not whether I am 'solidifyable', but whether I am in touch with the dynamic flow of me. The deeper I allow myself to venture into the shifting currents of my being, the more vividly I can experience life as a living process—ever-changing, always in motion. It is in embracing this fluidity that I find my true authenticity, not as something fixed or predetermined, but as an ever-evolving state of becoming. The higher I flow, the deeper I glow.
 
A NEW 'I' AND AN OLD 'ME'
Having defined what constitutes true individual essence, it's now essential to anchor this concept within the 'I' and 'me' duality. It is highly meaningful to view this deeply personal balance as a dialectical dance between the two. 'You' and 'us' are also key dancers in this broader play, but for now, we'll focus on 'I' and 'me.'

In reality, the boundary between 'I' and 'me' is not as clear-cut as it might seem. In essence, 'me' can be understood as a collective term for older, instinctual biological systems, while 'I' refers to the newer cognitive systems that have evolved over time—from the primordial seas to the present. Together, these form the composite of what we call the human being, viewed through the lens of evolutionary bio-psychology.

Our outer 'I'-personality is, in more than one sense, superficial. The brain can be compared to a tree in its evolutionary development. The deeper we go into the brain, the older its "rings" become. Deeply buried at its core, in the brainstem, lies the 'me,' representing the evolutionarily older and ancient layers of the brain. The outermost and newest part is the cerebral cortex. 
 
In the cerebral cortex, specifically in the neocortex and primarily the frontal lobes, lies what defines us most as human. This is the command center of our most recently evolved, conscious awareness. From here, commanding neurons send messages to the control centers in the primal brain. Our wild, ancestral Fenrir wolf or even deeper, the Indian reptile Kundalini snake, is, in brain mythology, bound by these neural threads.

When we hide or control our instincts, we simultaneously conceal our oldest biological layers. Our essence, our “me,” is hidden in the depths. To be a deep person means to be in contact with these oldest layers of the brain. Self-control leads to behavior that, like a layer of civilizing lacquer, varnishes over the inner animals.

The Inner Bodily Being
Deep within the dark spaces of the body, centered around the abdomen, we carry a small, sensitive, childlike, instinctual creature. It has direct sense-based instinctual contact with the outside world way before we as 'I' have. Let me give a short example: Someone in a social gathering craks a joke about you. Everybody, including you, laugh. The next morning your 'I' comes to realise that 'me' did not like the joke. In fact, me did not understand the joke a all, but 'me' sensed the carrier wave of micro-aggressive emotion in it.
 
This inner bodily being is 'me'. 'Me' is ancient and, in that sense, more of a hybrid being than a person. This inner being thrives on and exists within what on this site is defined as awareness. Meditation.dk consistently distinguishes between 'awareness' and 'consciousness'. Although all sensations and emotions are products of brain activity, they are subjectively experienced in the body's inner space. As mentioned, these sensations are registered in awareness; they are noticed before being consciously recognized by the 'I'.
 
Our connection to 'me' happens instinctively through attention. Attention, in its purest form, is wordless, while consciousness is inextricably tied to language and reflection. A split second later, 'I' translates this awarenes consciously and, therefore, also in verbal form.

Total Recall 1990

'Me' as Biochemical Sensations
Now the challenge arises: Can we describe 'me' before 'I' interprets it through language and culturally accepted norms? For instance, what is the raw sensation of love before it was ever named or categorized?
 
'I', 'Me', and Language
In this exploration, it is the conscious 'I', the outer person, that interprets the 'me' through the tool of language. Language, invented by 'I', serves as a means of external communication, allowing us to plan and coordinate complex survival strategies with others. As language evolved, so did our capacity for internal thought, turning our thoughts into a form of heard language, shaped by the sounds we use in speech.
 
As mentioned, 'me' stretches from a child’s undeveloped sense of identity back to our evolutionary history, where 'me' is more like a wordless, sensing creature. It resides in the bodily darkness, from the pelvic floor to the throat, experienced as bundles of biochemical sensations. When processed by 'I', these sensations are translated into feelings such as joy, anger, fear, or love, stored in 'I's linguistic archive. The task of 'I' is to name and give form to these raw sensations.
 
However, 'me' exists in a state of wordless attention, abstract bundles of sensations and emotions, unique to each individual. The sensational aspect of 'me' is evolutionarily much older than its emotional counterpart.
 
When 'me' is accessed through meditative awareness and consciousness, we can trace the process backward—from feeling to emotion to raw sensation—before 'I'-consciousness interferes with its usual interpretation. In this state, 'I' must invent new language, often in the form of pictures and symbols, to approach understanding this unknown territory. Dreams serve as an example of this symbolic language.

Take, for example, a friend of mine who, during an LSD session, experienced a meat-eating plant growing in his stomach. This image represented the second brain in his gut, trying to communicate that 'me' was displeased with how his 'I' was treating him. One take away here is that the greater the dissonance between 'me' and 'I' is, the more profound the unhappiness and depression.

The unfoldment of an Iconic Language
AAnother key insight suggests the possibility of what could be termed an iconic language, capable of reaching deeper into the ancient "me" layers of our psyche. This is the realm of symbolic thinking, explored through dreams, psychedelics, and even in practices like astrology and tarot. These modes of interaction communicate with our inner self, bypassing conventional language and speaking directly to parts of our being that are older and more primal.

For example, when people use tarot cards, they engage in a symbolic dialogue with their subconscious. The archetypal imagery in each card taps into collective human experiences and emotions that transcend the boundaries of spoken language. Whether or not one believes in the predictive power of tarot, the process itself facilitates a deeper connection to intuition and inner wisdom.

Astrology, too, operates on a symbolic plane, and in this context, it matters little whether its claims are scientifically "true." The signs, planets, and houses in astrology represent various facets of the human experience and psyche, providing individuals with a framework to explore themselves. The meaning people derive from it is rooted in the symbolic connections they make, much like interpreting a dream where a snake might symbolize transformation or danger, depending on one's personal or cultural associations.

Historically, symbolic thinking permeated ancient and medieval worldviews. In ancient cultures, the flight of birds or the movement of the stars was imbued with meaning, seen as direct communication from the gods. Medieval society viewed comets as omens of impending change, while sacred texts, religious rituals, and alchemical symbols were understood not just as literal facts but as guides to deeper spiritual truths. The symbolic language of these eras connected people to the mysteries of life in a way that rational discourse could not.

Dreams, too, remain one of the most profound forms of symbolic thinking, offering insights through imagery rather than logic. The work of Carl Jung highlights this, as he believed that dream symbols arise from the collective unconscious, containing universal archetypes—figures like the hero, the shadow, or the mother—that speak to our deepest psychological and emotional states.

In all of these examples, symbolic thinking has the power to evoke a felt sense of meaning and purpose that conventional language often struggles to articulate. Whether through the images of tarot cards, the astrological map of the stars, or the potent symbols in our dreams, this iconic language reaches parts of ourselves that are otherwise inaccessible, bridging the gap between the rational 'I' and the instinctual 'me.'

A new Symbolic Language in which 'I' can Understand 'me'
Let us now explore the potential for creating a new symbolic language as an extension of the 'I's' vocabulary of feelings and sensations. I will illustrate this shift from conventional language to the realm of imagination and symbolism:

There are countless ancient parts of 'me' that are felt but remain wordless. In line with the earlier example of LSD-induced imagery, let’s consider how a particular sensed configuration—perhaps an almost electric, tingling sensation in the torso—could be symbolized as an inner jellyfish or, depending on the perceived intensity of threat, a Portuguese man-of-war. The jellyfish, with its soft and flowing body, might represent a state of vulnerability, its center pulsating in the primordial sea of the abdomen, connected to our oldest emotional and physical instincts. However, when 'me' feels threatened or angry, this vulnerable creature transforms into a more defensive figure—a man-of-war, with its tentacles charged and ready for combat.

This metaphor illustrates how symbolic thinking enables us to externalize and give form to sensations that are otherwise elusive, providing 'I' with a richer, more nuanced vocabulary to describe the inner workings of 'me.' Through this symbolic imagery, we bridge the gap between raw sensation and conscious understanding, allowing us to navigate and articulate the complexities of our emotional landscapes.

This experiment in symbolic language expands 'I's' ability to engage with 'me' on its own terms, recognizing the dynamic, often subconscious layers of experience that conventional language cannot fully capture.

C.G.Jung and the Jungian school after him have in the exploration of archetypes and myths made familiar theories. However, there is a great difference

THE SURVIVAL OF 'ME'
Within us lie ancient survival systems, inherited from our evolutionary past. These instinctive circuits continuously evaluate external inputs with one core question: Is there a threat? Will I survive?

The inner person operates its own survival systems, with the greatest strength being their instinctual speed. However, what it gains in speed, it sacrifices in creativity. These older systems, suited for simpler environments, struggle to cope with the complexities of modern life, which require more nuanced responses.

This is where the outer person comes into play. The inner person is protected and regulated by a reflective, slower outer person, bridging the gap between instinct and the demands of contemporary life.

The Guard
The primary role of the outer person is to safeguard the inner 'me'. The 'I’s task is to ensure the survival of the inner being by using a broader repertoire of thoughtful, verbalized strategies.

The outer person acts like a knight in armor, guiding the inner "primitive" creature through life’s dangers. The sensations of the inner me inform whether to attack, flee, or wait. The knight also considers whether these reactions are appropriate.
 
The outer person wields reason as its most powerful tool. This ability to control impulses, analyze situations, and communicate improves me’s survival chances. While me’s instincts are quick, they often fall short in navigating the complexities of modern life.
 
The Outer Person's Dual Role
The outer person plays a dual role, much like an actor. On one hand, it performs the life that the modern control society has programmed into us, while on the other hand, it acts as a parent, protecting and guiding the inner person. The mask serves both as a tool for survival in relation to the world and as a protective helmet.
 
This psychological split is the price we have paid since ancient times to enjoy the benefits of being a member of society.
 
Who Came First: Me or I?
'Me' came first. As children, we express "me" long before we learn to say "I." This mirrors our evolution: the emotional brain developed before the rational neocortex. Similarly, attention precedes consciousness—animals are attentive but not self-aware in the human sense.
 
In times of acute stress, it is the outer person that falters first. Higher functions like planning deteriorate under stress, exposing the primal inner me. Evolution has prioritized me’s reactive instincts over I’s reflection. In breakdowns, 'I' collapses, and me persists. 'Me' can survive without 'I', but not the reverse.
 
'I' and 'Me' in Constant Conflict

"Nobody, as long as he moves about the chaotic
currents of life, is without trouble."
C.G. Jung

The inner person is full of varied ancient sensations and emotions, which often push 'I' into rigid conclusions based on survival instincts.
 
The outer person, in contrast, has the gift of reflection, allowing reconsideration after the fact. This ability to strategize and apologize tempers the inner person’s more primitive systems. The outer 'I' constantly evaluates and controls the inner person’s impulses.
 
Being human is a balance between bio-operating systems. The outer person reflects, strategizes, and gives us the capacity to plan, but this comes at the cost of time. Instinctual responses from the inner system are faster and often more critical in immediate survival scenarios.

Both systems are necessary, and neither can function in isolation.

Who Holds the Power?
At first glance, the outer person seems in control, suppressing the instinctual reactions of the inner person. Social norms help us override our emotions. However, this control is superficial. In reality, the emotional, instinctual me holds fundamental power. The outer rational brain exists to serve the survival of the primal systems.

I Know 'Me', But 'Me' Does Not Know 'I'

Of What is significant in one's own existence one is hardly aware,
and it certainly should not bother the other fellow. What does a
fish know about the water in which he swims all his life?
Albert Einstein

In its simplest form, 'me' is like an attentive animal, reacting instinctively but unaware of identity. 'I', however, is self-aware and can verbalize me’s emotions. 'I' tells the story of 'me', interpreting its reactions.

Despite this, 'me' remains unaware of 'I'. The inner me doesn’t need words or reason; it simply reacts. Without language, 'I' wouldn’t exist in its current form.

In practice, 'I' often interprets me’s reactions, creating narratives to explain emotions. However, the body, closely aligned with 'me', responds to physical sensations—touch, warmth—better than words ever could.

'I' lives in the realm of language and reason, constantly aware of itself and 'me'. Yet much of 'me' remains in a state of wordless sensation. As Einstein noted: "What does a fish know about the water in which he swims all his life?"

THE INFLUENCE OF SOCIETY AND THE ROLE OF THE MASK

There's a bluebird in my heart that want to get out,
but I am too tough for him. I say, stay in there,
I'm not going to let anybody see you.
Charles Bukowski

Society interfaces with our bio-operating systems. The outer 'I' is crucial for navigating social life, shaped to perform self-control and interaction. The "mask" we wear manages how we present ourselves to protect the fragile inner me.

The Civilized Masquerade
Every advanced civilization creates and depends on a masquerade. Since ancient times, we have worn the outer mask of self-control. In the theaters of ancient Greece, actors performed with masks. These masks were called "personas," a word from which we derive the term "person."

The Ironic 'I'
The outer person manages social interactions, often through projecting a polished version of ourselves. Irony and humor are key tools in this social navigation, demonstrating mastery of these interactions.

Outer persons not only control themselves but also engage in complex social "games" aimed at managing each other’s inner persons. The late-modern outer human has donned a verbal armor of irony for this purpose.

The Outer Person's Irony Hinders Spontaneous Spiritual Growth

"Then turn to great and serious objects that make you feel small and helpless.
Search out the deeper level of things to which irony never descends."
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

The outer person becomes especially active in groups, taking on a performative role. In such settings, we protect ourselves by playing ourselves rather than being ourselves. Often, this protection manifests through irony, used to conceal the vulnerability of inner presence.

In social gatherings, ironic behavior frequently serves to wage subtle, hierarchical power struggles, masked by polite, almost invisible insults. This small, daily demonstration of personal dominance forms the first defense in verbal duels, fought in the borderlands between seriousness and humor. This type of irony is cynical, reflected in its narrative that it's all "just friendly."

The fast-paced, humorous, and ironic exchanges are common in workplaces or casual social settings, like when friends gather for a drink. Here, individuals duel with seemingly harmless wordplay, as the group or its leader instinctively picks a target. The target is expected to show strength by laughing along, maintaining self-control. It's all just fun and games, after all. Yet, these interactions always have winners and losers. The "loser" is tasked with shielding their inner self behind a persona, hiding any small emotional wound. Their only recourse is to return a clever, cutting remark that catches the original "winner" off guard.

In this group dynamic, the collective laughter over the target's perceived foolishness offers temporary relief from each member's own inner turmoil. As the laughter fades, so does this fleeting sense of camaraderie. Meanwhile, the one who initiated the jabs feels a momentary sense of control, an ephemeral pleasure in being on top.

This borrowed sense of power compensates for a lack of inner flow. In the long run, the victor in this cynical, ironic social interaction is always the outer person. The loser is the inner self.

It may seem as if I’m indulging in an overly sentimental defense of the fragile inner child. In most other contexts, this critique might seem trivial, but not when the goal is to cultivate a strong, meditative group dynamic. The ironic mode of interaction is simply incompatible with the meditative process.

Irony and Meta-Awareness
Irony, in itself, isn’t necessarily a negative thing. It can be a tool for fostering meta-awareness. A good friend, with a well-timed, ironic remark, can make you see yourself from an outside perspective.

Thus, the issue is not irony itself but the intention behind it.
 
This form of irony that cultivates meta-awareness works best in one-on-one interactions. In larger group dynamics, there is often a lowest common denominator, and it's rare that irony will be used with the right motivations in such settings.

In modern society, individuals must control their inner selves. The outer person has developed an elaborate "armor" to keep vulnerabilities hidden. This mask is not just for survival but also a performance aligning with societal expectations.

Cultures create pressures that shape the outer person. The outer self becomes adept at managing the inner me, often suppressing emotions deep into the subconscious. Today, the mask is not just external but part of how we think and feel.

However, the more we develop the outer 'I' for society, the more distant we become from the inner me. This can lead to feelings of inauthenticity or burnout, especially in high-stress environments.

When the Outer Person Takes Over
There is often a complementary relationship between the inner and outer person, where many people today invest nearly all their energy in developing a compensatory outer persona. The primary function of the outer person in this context is to conceal the vulnerability of the inner self.

Leaders, highly ambitious individuals, and perfectionists frequently invest most of their energy in the outer person, intending to compensate for the inner self’s unruly sense of lostness—a feeling that only deepens as the outer person gains more control. The more dominance the outer persona exerts over the inner, the less capable one becomes of feeling connected to oneself, of sensing the untamed, chaotic life within the body’s dark interior.

Stress and the Erosion of the Outer Person
The more society emphasizes control and productivity, the more fragile the outer person becomes under stress. Chronic stress strips away the outer 'I', revealing the primal me beneath. As higher functions deteriorate, the emotional, instinctual me takes over.

In this process, the polished self cracks, and society’s masks begin to fail. We are left with raw emotions and primal instincts. The more the outer person is forced to control, the more fragile it becomes. In the end, the inner me proves more resilient in facing life’s challenges.

 
MEDITATION AS A BRIDGE BETWEEN ME' AND 'I'

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."
C.G.Jung

In meditation, we focus not on controlling thoughts or emotions but on being present with them—just as they are, in their purest form. The paradox is that while only 'I' can be aware of me, true insight arises from simply observing, rather than trying to understand or control. As Meister Eckhart said, "In unknowing knowing shall we know God." Through stillness and attention, we allow 'me' to surface, unfiltered by language or cognition.

Meditation, then, is primarily directed toward 'me'. It seeks to bring attention to the body’s inner depths, where the primal, instinctual 'me' resides. In this space, 'me' is free to express itself, to sense, to be. The outer I simply watches, cultivating awareness without interference. And in this process, 'me' can finally be seen and felt.

The irony is that I is the only part of us that can be aware of this process. I cannot "create" meditation, but it can facilitate the conditions in which meditation naturally arises. In the same way that grass grows without effort, meditation happens when we stop trying to control it. It is in letting go—of effort, of understanding, of the need for outcomes—that the deep, wordless flow of me comes alive.

The Foolish Inner Self
The emotional well-being and potential growth of the inner person are crucial to our overall quality of life. However, the inner person itself is far from ideal. It is often childish, animalistic, selfish, and biased. For this reason, the slower, more reflective "I" has often locked away this unruly side of ourselves, sometimes so deeply that we aren't even aware of its existence. Releasing the inner person into the world requires courage, as doing so may unravel the life we know.

The issue is that imprisonment does not rehabilitate; instead, it breeds more disorder. Suppressive and disciplinary thoughts, no matter how wise, struggle to change the inner, animalistic "me" because the inner self does not understand words. It responds to touch but not language. Therefore, the wise and rational part of us delivers sermons to deaf ears.
 

ONLY THE INNER PERSON CAN MEDITATE

Meditation in Vulnerable Strength

"Rip off your mask!
Your face is glorious."
—Rumi
•
"Appear as you are,
be as you appear."
—Rumi

•

"A human has many layers of skin covering the depths of its heart.
Humanity knows many things; it does not know itself.
Yes, thirty or forty skins or hides, like those of an ox or a bear,
thick and tough, cover the soul.
Go into your own ground and learn to know yourself there."
—Meister Eckhart

I often hear from people who have started meditating that their practice no longer really works—they find themselves bored or distracted by thoughts. They ask for more instruction and techniques.

It is our 'I' that demands techniques and fixed meditative routines. The 'I' is a vital part of our ego's ability to plan mental strategies that allow us to act rationally. This survival and protective system is useful for putting bread on the table but functions poorly as an engine for meditation.

That’s why I repeat my life experience like a mantra on meditation.dk:
'I' cannot meditate... but 'I' can allow myself to be meditated."

Meditation is a spontaneous and uncontrollable process where the 'I' surrenders by mindfully doing nothing.

In surrender, there is no space for understanding or will-based action.
The more 'I' tries to understand and control meditation, the "drier" and less inspired it becomes.
 
You cannot create a meditative flow through understanding and will.
You cannot "bodybuild" consciousness.

However, what stands in the way of meditation is deeply affected by understanding and will.
My intellect’s task is to realize that it fundamentally cannot understand meditation, and therefore, cannot create or control the process.

Next, my task is to understand what hinders meditation rather than figuring out how to meditate. For instance, 'I' can analyze and identify the life situations where meditation does not occur naturally.

For anyone drawn to a life of meditation, it’s always important to ask: Am I in the right work situation? Am I surrounded by people who are in flow themselves? This kind of analytical self-awareness is often a necessary broom, a life GPS, enabling us to identify all the situations where we are likely not in flow and far from the inner river that can carry us to the sea.

Now the question is: If I cannot figure out how to meditate, then who is the one meditating?

Where Buddha pointed to the moon, it is now time to point to the moon as it is reflected in the emotional sea within the inner body. In this context, meditation refers to the process in which pure awareness spontaneously scans the inner body, gradually dissolving emotional wounds and blockages. Feel to heal. Wellness here is a byproduct, not the ultimate goal of life in meditation.

Meditation as a Bio-Feedback Process
Self-referential feedback arises only in sensitivity. As mentioned on Meditation.dk, a crucial yet overlooked aspect of the meditative phenomenon is the self-referential feedback that emerges when sensitive awareness turns inward, much like a microphone coming too close to a speaker.
 
The foundation for effortless meditation is created through this introverted bio-feedback, which only the sensitivity of the sensory "microphone" can generate.
 
This is where our new nervous system has its greatest strength: sensitivity itself is the key. It’s a new key, designed to open a door we haven’t yet seen.

The keys of the past cannot open the doors of the future.

Meditation is a form of neurofeedback, where heightened awareness leads to an automatic, self-reinforcing bio-feedback loop as described in the chapter, The Ouroboros Consciousness. In this context I will concentrate on this feed back as a process happening between the inner and outer self.
The duality of self is here tied to both biological evolution, 'me' and 'I', and social constructs.
 

The Meditating Animal
"Me," the inner person, is partly a little animal residing in the sensed space of the body. Only when 'I' am fully in contact with this "me," and willingly let it take control, does meditation happen spontaneously. In this sense, both sex and meditation are rooted in animalistic desire. The inner person can only be in meditation when the flow to do so is driven by pleasure. Immediate gratification—pleasure and play in a broader sense—provides the best motivation for the inner "me." However, pleasure requires me to let go of control. Just as someone using technique during sex moves away from their natural instinct, no one can "technique" their way to meditative bliss.

The reason I have remained in meditation year after year is that it feels good for the little monkey inside me—not because I planned it as a way to become a better person.

Meditation is both as easy and as difficult as love. Just as we can never master love, meditation eludes those who chase it.

If meditation does not passionately meditate you, then you're simply wasting your time by trying. It's better to wait for the inspiration, much like a surfer waiting for the right wave.

When the right wave comes, and you are awake and aware enough to see and feel it approaching, you can joyfully ride it in a flow of awareness—a wordless sensation flowing through the inner body. If you want anything other than what this moment is giving you, you will immediately be thrown off the wave. It is this flowing feeling that gives life its meaning, because in the instant it arises, all questions disappear.

The meaning of life is not found in a golden pot at the end of a rainbow of thoughts. The inner meditative flow is much closer to an artistic act, where the artist is the artwork. We are meditated like a dancer in free movement. This flow-dancer lives in and through mindful silence. He never repeats himself but cultivates life’s ever-fresh answers in all their unpredictable and unruly forms.
 

The Inner Person within the Outer Person

Ripples in the water from 'me' to 'I' to 'you'.

"When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew"
—William Shakespeare

"Never wear a mask... To be authentic means to be true to oneself. It is a very, very dangerous phenomenon; only rare people can do that. But whenever people do it, they achieve. They achieve such beauty, such grace, such contentment that you cannot imagine. Be true to yourself ... to be oneself ... moment to moment... Never wear a mask."
—Osho

What awaits the inner person as the prison doors open?

This feedback loop requires a sensitivity that reaches out to the very edges of our nerves, where sensitivity turns into vulnerability. Without this, your "microphone of awareness" cannot go into meditative self-resonance.

Spontaneous self-resonance in meditative flow existentially requires you to be as honest as possible with yourself. Even the smallest inner lies prevent you from sensing yourself enough to allow the feedback between your "I" and "me" to reach that point of no return, where you are meditated rather than meditating. Stress does exactly the same thing. The purpose of self-deception is to protect you from pain, but without confronting that pain, you cannot enter into inner resonance. Meditation is not about cultivating pain, nor is it about chasing positive thinking. It’s about simply, wordlessly revealing and being in what is.

This is one of the central realizations here on Meditation.dk:

Only those who dare to be honest with themselves in utmost sensitivity can be meditated. This honesty is happening in the space between 'me' and 'I'.
 
The greatest gift we can give another person is pure, wakeful, thought-free attention. Now, offer that same gift of attention to yourself. Why does the inner person understand attention? Because it can feel attention. The inner person feels. Its self-referential system consists of attention. The sense of touch is our most significant and crucial organ, not only responsible for sensing through the skin but more importantly, for registering the incredible variety of nameless sensations within the inner body.

Without this awareness, the inner person would be in poor condition. In pure awareness, there’s nothing to understand—only space for feelings, for the inner person is, above all, a bundle of emotions.

In a life cultivated by meditation, you gradually bypass the overheated thought-operating system. What replaces it? A new, intuitive, hyper-awake, and almost non-cognitive system. In this hyper-aware state, you can live happily with 90% fewer thoughts. Here, we are not just aware; we are aware that we are aware.

We need two wings for our flight into the skies. One is a bodily felt awareness. The other is hyper-awake, thought-free consciousness.

The vision is to bring the inner person into the light of consciousness and the warmth of wakeful, narrative-free attention so that it can grow wise like a tree in a fairytale. Slowly, this hyper-aware, inward-focused attention causes the inner and outer persons to stop fighting and start merging into a coherent being. This takes time... a long time... for Rome wasn’t built in a day. This fusion is created by the micro-actions of our lives. We are composed of micro-moments. Every time you remember—not only during meditation but throughout the day—turn your attention inward with an innocent "aha." Every time we consciously sense ourselves in wordless awareness, we create a small micro-change in the right direction.

Thus, even a single second of thought-free inner awareness is a victory.

The ideal here is to be able to say about oneself: "I rest in myself. I am at home in myself."
 
I live in an apartment... Me lives in my body... The body is me’s home.
Meditation creates a happy me who feels at home in the body.

The intimate sensed connection between "I" and "me" not only constitutes our relationship with ourselves but also with the world. When I rest in myself, this relationship ripples out to our close relationships and surroundings. The more I love me, the more I can embrace the entire world.

I recognize myself with sympathy in what I meet and see.

The inner person can only be meditated by stepping into the daylight. This allows the soul to breathe out through the cracks of the outer person.

Meditation is self-love.

Let us end with a quote from Sylvia Plath:

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart:
I am, I am, I am."

With glow and flow - Gunnar Mühlmann