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TRAUMA AND
TRANSCENDENCE
"The deeper you fly
The higher you fall"
Following this homemade koan, how should I begin
this chapter?
Perhaps with a statement that may seem provocative:
True meditation can only truly unfold in a soul that has been wounded. It is a
gift uniquely reserved for those who have suffered deeply.
Certainly, everyone can benefit from a bit of mindfulness practice. However, the
true, transformative power of meditation lies in the hands of a soul in shock.
In modern times, a quick search of this chapter's title reveals that the link
between trauma and transcendence has become a widely embraced concept within
mainstream New Age thought. Yet, my intention here is to offer fresh
perspectives and alternative understandings, venturing beyond familiar
interpretations to uncover new dimensions of this profound connection.
The Presence of Transcendence in Suffering
The deep relationship between suffering and spiritual awakening is
universal, transcending any single individual or tradition. Mystics from both
the East and the West have explored and exemplified this truth throughout
history.
Ramana Maharshi began his spiritual journey as a young 12 years
old boy after
the sudden death of his father. In India, with its long history of societal
upheavals in the form of powerty, famine and war, it was almost as though saints were forged through
loss and suffering.
In medieval Europe, Meister Eckhart often spoke of discovering God within
suffering. He taught that trials and hardships could bring one closer to the
divine if viewed as a part of God’s plan.
No one has captured the beauty and profundity of human suffering more eloquently
than the Sufis. Rumi once said, "There is a secret medicine given only to
those who are hurt so deeply they feel there is no hope."
Recently, I spoke with a young, successful man who recounted his own story. At
the age of five, he lost his grandfather, the person to whom he felt closest.
The loss overwhelmed him with anxiety, and he resisted going to kindergarten and
later to school. When he turned twelve, his parents invited him to attend a
Silva meditation course, where he might even learn to bend spoons, like Uri
Geller. Whether or not he ever bent a spoon, he found something far more
valuable: In his first meditation he found a glimpse of hope inside himself that empowered him to return to
school.
This boy’s story illustrates how loss and suffering, even in childhood, can open
the door to a deeper awareness of life’s complexities and lead to unexpected
healing. Much like the mystics who discovered profound truths through hardship,
his early experience of loss set the stage for a transformation that he carried
into adulthood.
Across cultures and centuries, whether from individual lives or the shared
stories of entire nations, we see the same message echoed: "What hurts you,
blesses you. Darkness is your candle." (Rumi)
Now the time has come to ask: Why is
suffering—and particularly trauma—so vital for spiritual unfolding? One apparent
answer lies in the impact of trauma, especially during childhood. Those who
endure such experiences often develop a deep-seated mistrust or distaste for the
external world, prompting an inward journey of self-exploration.
A Saint forged by Childhood Loss
It is now time to provide an example. The following excerpt is drawn from Arthur
Osborne's book,
The Teachings of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi - In His Own Words. In
this passage, Ramana recounts a life-altering experience he had at the age of
16:
"It was about six weeks before
I left Madura for good that the great change in my life took place. It was quite
sudden. I was sitting alone in a room on the first floor of my uncle’s house. I
seldom had any sickness, and on that day there was
"nothing wrong with my health, but a sudden violent fear of death overtook me.
There was nothing in my state of health to account for it, and I did not try to
account for it or to find out whether there was any reason for the fear. I just
felt “I am going to die” and began thinking what to do about it. It did not
occur to me to consult a doctor, or my elders or friends; I felt that I had to
solve the problem myself, there and then.
The shock of the fear of death drove my mind inwards and I said to myself
mentally, without actually framing the words: “Now death has come; what does it
mean? What is it that is dying? The body dies.” And I at once dramatized the
occurrence of death. I lay with my limbs stretched out stiff as though rigor
mortis had set in and imitated a corpse so as to give greater reality to the
enquiry. I held my breath and kept my lips tightly closed so that no sound could
escape, so that neither the word “I” nor any other word could be uttered. “Well
then,” I said to myself, “this body is dead. It will be carried stiff to the
burning ground and there burnt and reduced to ashes. But with the death of this
body am I dead? Is the body I? It is silent and inert but I feel the full force
of my personality and even the voice of the ‘I’ within me, apart from it. So I
am Spirit transcending the body. The body dies but the Spirit that transcends it
cannot be touched by death. That means I am the deathless Spirit.” All this was
not dull thought; it flashed through me vividly as living truth which I
perceived directly, almost without thought-process. “I” was something very real,
the only real thing about my present state, and all the conscious activity
connected with my body was centered on that “I”. From that moment onwards the
“I” or Self focussed attention on itself by a powerful fascination. Fear of
death had vanished once and for all. Absorption in the Self continued unbroken
from that time on."
THE REIGN OF THE AMYGDALA
In recent years, I’ve noticed a recurring structural theme in the larger
Rorschach picture of spirituality and trauma. This theme points directly to the
amygdala.
While many New Age influencers have fixated on the
pineal gland as the epicenter
of spirituality, my own explorations have led me down a different path—one that
highlights the central role of the amygdala.
This small, almond-shaped structure within the brain, often associated with fear
and emotional responses, may hold profound significance in the spiritual
unfolding of individuals shaped by trauma. It seems to serve not merely as a
center for processing emotional pain but also as a potential catalyst for deep
introspection and transformation.
What the Amygdala Fears Most
What does Ramana's story have to do with the amygdala? The connection lies in
answering a fundamental question:
What does the amygdala fear above all else?
The answer is simple: death.
The amygdala, an ancient structure in our brain inherited from the earliest
mammals, constantly scans the environment with one wordless query: 'Does this
situation signal danger or safety?
If the answer is safety, the amygdala relaxes. But if it detects danger—whether
through sensory input or imagination—it triggers one of two primal responses:
fight or flight. Interestingly, the amygdala doesn’t differentiate between real
and imagined threats. A vividly conjured scenario of danger can elicit the same
physiological response as a tangible tiger lurking in the jungle.
However, the amygdala has a third mode of operation, often overlooked: the
freeze mode—or what could be described as a death simulation. This ancient
response, likely an evolutionary strategy, involves entering a stillness that
mimics death, potentially deterring predators and/or conserving energy during
moments of extreme threat. When faced with an unavoidable threat, the amygdala
signals a "give-up" response, triggering the brainstem’s
periaqueductal gray
and the autonomic nervous system to initiate a simulated death mode.
MEDITATION AS DEATH SIMULATION
It is precisely this mode that Ramana Maharshi described experiencing in the
self-narrated account above. Meditation unveils a deep connection between our biological instincts and
spiritual practices by confronting us with what the amygdala instinctively seeks
to avoid: death. The connection becomes truly fascinating when we see how radical meditation
aligns with the amygdala’s freeze response.
Ramana's first
Meditation and the Amygdalian Freeze Mode
Ramana's story reveals that his very first meditation was catalyzed by fear,
subsequently initiating an instinctual, biologically embedded death simulation—a
primal response at the core of human survival. By harmonizing with the body’s
innate mechanisms for surrender, this meditation transcended the conventional
understanding of symbolic ego death, transforming into a "simulation of a
simulation." This profound alignment underscores a remarkable synchronization
with the most fundamental instincts of human survival.
This meditative rigor
mortis mirrors the amygdala’s freeze mode, creating a state
that transcends habitual fear-driven cycles. By interrupting the relentless
fight-or-flight programming, it opens the door to a deeper portal—one that
lies beyond the instinctive fear of death.
This profound link between absolute stillness and meditation is a cornerstone of
nearly all meditative traditions. Physical immobility is not merely a practical
guideline; it is foundational to the meditative process. Practitioners, whether
seated or lying down, are instructed to remain utterly motionless, avoiding even
the slightest movements. Zen practice exemplifies this principle to its fullest
extent, with monks often holding unwavering stillness for extended hours,
embodying the transformative power of absolute physical stillness.
The intensity of Trauma ... and Spirituality
I have observed a common trait among those I consider truly spiritual. The first
is their ability to laugh—deeply, genuinely, and often uncontrollably. This
laughter also includes their capacity to laugh at their own folly.
The
second hallmark, and the one most relevant here, is their intensity. Spiritual
individuals often radiate a profound and constant intensity, yet they
simultaneously exude an inner calm.
Through the lens of my life experience, this intensity is not innate; it is
inherited—from previous trauma.
For individuals with
PTSD, this intensity manifests as an unrelenting state of
hypervigilance—a constant state of heightened alertness that is both exhausting
for the individual and challenging for their relationships. It’s as if their
internal systems are perpetually locked in survival mode. This sustained state
often suppresses higher brain functions, impairing memory, problem-solving, and
the ability to utilize full mental capacity, as resources are continually
redirected to address perceived immediate threats. In psychology, this
phenomenon is commonly referred to as
regression.
The Liberation of Survival Energy
For those who have confronted, embraced, and transformed their trauma, the
narrative takes a profoundly different turn.
These individuals retain the same intensity that once fueled their survival
responses, but it becomes transmuted into a source of liberated energy. No
longer driving fear or distress, this energy now enhances a heightened state of
awareness and vitality. The amygdalian energy that once perpetuated
hypervigilance and reactive survival modes is redirected toward higher cognitive
functions. Instead of overwhelming these most recently evolved—and inherently
fragile—parts of the brain, this refined but powerful survival energy now
fortifies and fuels them. In this way, a transformed version of the alarmist
survival response provides the “current” necessary for the mind to shine
brighter and reach new heights of insight and clarity.
An evolutionary example of such bio-operative system alchemy can be seen in the
"fight or flight" response where all the hairs on the body rise. This reaction,
likely evolved to make an individual appear larger and more threatening, was
originally designed to increase survival chances. Yet, the exact same phenomenon
occurs during moments of divine rapture. Well-documented in the lives of saints
and perhaps experienced by you as well, this "raising of the hairs"
happens when we are deeply moved by an overwhelmingly positive event, often with
religious or spiritual overtones.
Paramahansa Ramakrishna
frequently described such states of exaltation, pointing to the profound shift
from primal survival to transcendent experience:
"When, hearing the name of
Hari or Rama once,
you shed tears and your hair stands on end."
In this way, the energy of the amygdala shifts
from a negative force to a positive one, yet retains its raw intensity. One
might say the energy transitions from minus to plus while maintaining its
numeric value—a potent force that, when transformed, becomes a beacon for
growth, wisdom, and spiritual awakening.
Thus, the archaic biological fear response becomes a refurbished gateway to transcendence, but only
when paired with meditative stillness. The amygdalian death mode enables a
profound alchemy where we “die into” our pain fear and from there emerge renewed.
What Dying into Pain can Look Like
What does it actually mean to "die
into" one’s trauma? Ramana Maharshi’s experience as a boy offers one profound
clue. However, the process doesn’t always need to be so radical and permanent as
in his case. Sometimes, a glimpse can serve the same purpose. To illustrate, I
invite you to step inside my own story.
As mentioned earlier in the chapter about
Papaji, my father was a wonderful but also traumatized man. His childhood
as a sensitive boy in wartime Germany during the Second World War and later
being a 16 year old ssoldier left scars
that shaped his life. Additionally, being born out of wedlock in the 1920s—a
source of great social stigma at the time—was something he perceived as a deep
shame. As someone he loved dearly, I often became the recipient of his
unprocessed shame and anxiety.
An intriguing aspect of trauma is its tendency to be passed down through
generations, often manifesting most strongly within the deepest love bonds. It
frequently skips direct transmission from grandparents to grandchildren, finding
its outlet instead in the parent-child relationship. Even in my thirties, my
father would direct his anger and frustration at me while simultaneously
showering his grandchildren—with tenderness and affection. The paradox is that
we unintentionally imprint our deepest shadows onto those we love most. This
phenomenon may stem from an ancient survival mechanism rooted in the
amygdala—where, in times of great danger, heightened vigilance in immediate
offspring could have enhanced their chances of survival.
In my case, my father’s 'amygdalian care' for his
children first appeared when he transitioned from life at sea to a more stable
job on land. My sister and I spent our early years in the Far East aboard the
ship where he worked, a setting far removed from the cultural triggers that
might have resurfaced his shame and PTSD. During this time, he was consistently
loving and kind. However, upon our return to Denmark and his immersion in the
stress of a land-based job, the cracks began to show. From the age of ten, I
often found myself the target of his outbursts—his screams and shouts erupting
in moments of overwhelm. As his Nazi-era teachers and officers had once yelled
at him, so too did he yell at me. In a sense, one might say he "loved me to
death," though I recognize that the scars I bear are minor compared to those
others may carry. I would describe myself as 'only' mildly traumatized, and with
a touch of humor, I might add that this may very well be why I’ve never reached
full enlightenment.
Although I also grew up surrounded by much love, I carried within me a lingering
sense of pain and unworthiness. Instead of finding peace within myself, I developed a
habit of harsh self-judgment, as if constantly viewing myself through the
critical eyes of others. This "curse," referenced in the Bible as the "sins of
the forefathers," became paradoxically the very gift that brought me to
meditation.
The Day I Died to Live
One day, when I was 23 years old, I closed
my eyes for the first time in meditation, and something extraordinary and
completely unexpected happened. Just days earlier, driven by a strange
curiosity, I had borrowed a book about Indian spirituality from the library.
Inspired by what I read about mantra meditation, I invented my own mantra,
closed my eyes, and then experienced a profound inner death, my body transfixed
in complete rigor mortis. My body became as
immovable as a corpse. In that profound moment, I let go of the self I had
always thought I was—the one shaped by shame, judgment, and unworthiness. What
emerged from that silence was not the person I had been, but someone deeply
connected to an inner stillness, a deeper truth. Though this wonderful
realization eventually faded, it marked the beginning of my life long spiritual journey
from trauma to transcendence.
Unlike Ramana Maharshi and other realized souls who disengaged from the world
and body to fully embrace their enlightenment, my path took a very different
turn. A while after this experience I somehow lost the contact with it and
became deeply entangled with the world—navigating distressed relationships with
my family and with the opposite sex while building a career as a high school teacher, a role I excelled at but
secretly disliked. Despite these external involvements, the inner journey remained
ongoing, gradual, and intertwined with the messiness of life. In my case it was
a constant pendulum between having deep insights and then neclecting or forgetting them in the
engagement with the world. I am here reminded by a quote from my favorite mystic,
Meister Eckhart:
"Man has to seek God in error and forgetfulness and foolishness."
What is my takeaway from this? I believe that for those who fully disengage from
worldly attachments, permanent enlightenment may arrive suddenly, like a bolt of
lightning. In such cases, the scars the body has accumulated become irrelevant,
as the body itself is transcended. However, for those who, by choice or destiny,
remain immersed in the complexities of the world and the body, the spirit enters
more gradually. It is a slow unfolding, taking the span of a lifetime. Yet, as I
have discovered, this gradual process has its own unique beauty: each day
becomes microscopically better than the last, a gentle but steady movement
toward wholeness, love and light.
Let me share an example of how a small ray of
light can pierce through even a small ordinary life crisis.
The 'Small Death' of Everyday Life: A Lesson from the Angry Teenager
Many years ago, I was teaching a music class for teenagers. While
accompanying the class in a collective song on the piano, I noticed a girl
sitting quietly, staring ahead with a serious expression. She wasn’t
participating in the singing. In the chaos of managing the class and trying to
keep everyone engaged, I made a grave mistake. I stopped playing the piano and
teased her, playfully accompanying my words with a line from Monty Python’s
famous song, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
What happened next stunned me. The girl looked at me, her face full of anger,
and shouted, “Die, you pig!” before storming out of the classroom.
The incident quickly escalated. Her parents called the school’s headmaster to
lodge a formal complaint and later called me directly, their voices filled with
anger. The situation spiraled into a significant issue, leaving me overwhelmed
with worry. That night, I went to bed dreading the next day’s challenges. Sleep
eluded me as my body churned with turmoil, fear, and pain. My thoughts raced in
a downward spiral, feeding my anxiety.
Amid this storm of emotions and loud mental chatter, a tiny voice emerged—quiet,
almost imperceptible. It wasn’t a voice made of words but a whisper of
intuition. It conveyed only one thing: lie still and surrender.
Deciding to follow this faint inner guidance, I laid flat on my back, completely
still. It was an excruciating position, one I instinctively resisted; I
desperately wanted to curl up on my side instead. Yet, I stayed immobile. I have
no clear memory of how long I remained in that painful stillness.
Then, suddenly, everything shifted. It felt as if a great cathedral of peace
entered my body. The pain that had gripped me moments before was replaced by a
profound bliss, so expansive it felt as though my body dissolved into it. My
entire being became like a tiny droplet suspended within this vast space of
peace. After some time in this state of bliss, I drifted into a deep,
restorative sleep.
The next morning, I woke up fully rested, my mind calm and clear. When I arrived
at work, I was astonished to discover that the crisis had entirely resolved
itself. The girl’s parents had withdrawn their complaint, and even more
surprisingly, the teenage girl approached me with a smile and offered me a
handshake.
After this small incident, I gradually grew more confident in what I now
describe as "dying into" or "collapsing into"
the emotional turmoil stirred by ordinary life's inevitable currents. It
mirrored the larger themes of trauma, surrender, and transformation. While not
on the scale of life-altering trauma, it reminded me that even everyday crises
demand the same act of letting go—of immersing oneself in the
pain rather than resisting it.
Another surprising realization followed: every time I resolved the conflict within
myself, the external crisis seemed to dissipate as well.
Whether this connection is magical or simply the result of a calm and centered
mind being better equipped to navigate challenging situations, I leave for you,
dear reader, to explore and decide for yourself. I am certain many of you have
faced similar situations in your own lives.
THE CRYSTALLIZED POINT OF NO RETURN
As described in the previous chapter,
Meditative Pixellation, a life dedicated to meditation is, for me, about
resting in a non-narrative awareness of the body’s inner life—experienced as a
dynamic, ever-changing dance of energy-pixels.
When constant and focused attention is applied to these pixellated energies,
they can eventually reach a threshold—a moment of profound transformation I call
the crystallization point. This is what happenend to me in the above mentioned
episode with the angry teenager. At this juncture, the energy undergoes a qualitative
shift, fundamentally altering its state. This moment is akin to a phase change
in nature: ice melting into water, and water, when exposed to sustained heat,
reaching a boiling point.
Defining the Crystallization Point
The crystallization point is a point of no return. It is the culmination of
sustained, high-quality awareness within a setting of complete immobility. It
marks a point of no return, where the chaotic interplay of inner energies
reorganizes itself into a harmonious and coherent flow. This shift is neither
linear nor incremental—it is a sudden reordering of the internal landscape,
often experienced as a spontaneous breakthrough.
Crucially, the crystallization point cannot be willed into existence or actively
pursued. Much like a butterfly, it only emerges when the conditions are
right—when awareness is steady, open, and non-interfering. It is a natural
phenomenon, arising from the interplay of focused attention and the energies
being observed.
I sometimes wonder if the universe reuses the same algorithms from the
infinitely vast to the infinitesimally small. In such a case, the sudden
emergence of a butterfly from the remains of a larva serves as a wonderful
metaphor. Subjectively, before crystallization occurs, one can indeed feel like
a decomposing larva.
Metaphorically, this process also resembles an orchestra moving from discordant
noise to harmonious unity. Before the shift, each “instrument” of your inner
energy plays its own disjointed tune. At the crystallization point, awareness
becomes the conductor, transforming these scattered notes into a unified
symphony.
A Subjective Rebirth
On a subjective level, the crystallization point feels like a profound
healing—a small yet undeniable rebirth. In this state, you experience a shedding
of the ego’s constraints and the dissolution of self-defining narratives. The
stories that once confined you lose their grip, replaced by an expansive,
timeless awareness. It is a moment of freedom from the mental constructs that
shape and limit your sense of identity.
This rebirth brings with it a profound sense of renewal. It is a radical reorganization of what was already
present—reframed, harmonized, and imbued with a deeper sense of almost sensual presence.
INNER DARK SPACE: An Experience of Embodied Awakening
Darkness is your candle." (Rumi)
At the crystallization point, the previously chaotic and fragmented energies
within the body spontaneously reorganize themselves into structured, fluid, and
orderly patterns. The inner energy transforms, shifting from states of tension
and discomfort to sensations that are inherently pleasant, even ecstatic.
Awareness simultaneously expands, becoming both more intense and more
spacious.
What makes this transformation truly remarkable is the emergence of what I call
the inner dark space. This is not darkness in a negative sense but a vast,
infinite space of potential—warm, still, and profoundly peaceful. As these
harmonized energies unfold, the sense of self expands to fill and embrace this inner
universe, creating a feeling of boundless openness and serenity.
At this moment, focus is no longer confined to individual sensations or
energies. Instead, awareness encompasses both the energies and the infinite
space in which they exist, unifying them into a single, seamless experience. It
is a state of being where the inner symphony of energies plays effortlessly
within the spaciousness of your awareness.
The "inner dark space" is my personal experience of awareness expansion,
not as a transcendence beyond the body but as an awakening deeply rooted within
it. Unlike the often-used metaphors of white light and cosmic radiance that
describe enlightenment as something beyond physical existence, this space feels
entirely embodied—present, alive, and infinite.
Imagine stepping into a vast, dimly lit cathedral. The air is hushed, enveloping
you in a sense of profound stillness and boundless potential. This darkness is
not fearful or oppressive but comforting like a mothers embrace—a sanctuary where you are held by an
expansive warmth. It is as though the chaos of the external world has dissolved,
leaving only the vast openness within you.
This space arises in moments of complete surrender—during deep meditation, often
combined with a personal crisis. It feels like a merging of self and infinity,
yet it remains grounded in the body.
Old Indian Bronze Figure
Here you mou may sense timelessness, a feeling of
stepping outside the flow of time, where moments stretch infinitely. While your
body may be motionless, a quiet hum of energy dances within, bringing a sense of
joyful, almost sensual aliveness. You may feel dissolved into a vastness, yet
rooted in the body rather than beyond it.
Awareness in
the Dark versus Consciousness in the Light
For me, this inner dark space is not the same as the enlightenment often
described by white-light metaphors—an experience of pure, disembodied
consciousness. Instead of
being an escape from the body, it represents an awakening through it,
manifesting as embodied awareness. It
is a dimension of profound, infinite sanctuary that can arise within us all.
Even a brief experience of this space can reveal a deeper truth: the chaos and
noise we often feel can transform into a still, boundless center. This is not an
abstract concept but a deeply personal and embodied reality—a direct, felt
experience of wholeness through the infinite and dark realms of the
interoceptive body.
In this sense, consciousness
may escape the body to experience itself as light, transcending physical
boundaries. However, the transcendence offered through the body emerges in the
dark, sensory depths of embodied awareness. When pain and fear push us to flee,
it is tempting to escape into the disembodied, depersonalized space of pure
consciousness. Many Western spiritual seekers have followed this path, getting
lost in Vedantic abstractions and declaring,
“I am not the body.”
I have explored this dialectic in detail in the chapter
The
liberation from or of the Body.
Yet what hardship and trauma uniquely offer is a portal of pain—an
opportunity to step not away from but into a paradise of flesh, discovering
transcendence through the embodied, living awareness of our bodily being.
THE GIFT OF TRAUMA
Reaching that embodied point of no return—a transformative entry into a
qualitatively new realm of cellular rooted awareness—demands however, an extraordinary reservoir of
energy. Herein lies the paradoxical gift of a life crisis: the intense survival
energy unleashed during fight-or-flight responses can be redirected into a
steady, transformative current, propelling us toward heightened
conscious 'awared' awareness.
The power of this paradox lies in its proportionality. The greater the intensity
and severity of the crisis, the greater the potential for
transformation—culminating at the threshold we call trauma. Trauma, often
perceived as a curse, harbors within it the raw energy needed to catalyze
profound inner change, offering a unique opportunity for spiritual and
psychological growth.
In this light, the amygdala’s survival mode, often seen as an adversary, reveals
itself as an unexpected 'alchemian' ally. When the raw energy of survival is
consciously redirected from fear-driven reactivity into mindful awareness, it
transforms. This energy flows like current from the amygdalian 'death-mode', illuminating the
path to transcendence and spiritual awakening. Here the demon becomes a dynamo,
a dynamic source of pure vitality for body and soul.
This is why I stated at the beginning of this chapter that only those who have
endured trauma can fully uncover the blessing hidden within the curse. Trauma
becomes a powerful catalyst, transmuting chaotic and intense survival energy into a source
of spiritual transformation and liberation. It is through this alchemy of
extreme suffering that trauma reveals itself as a paradoxical gift—a force
capable of propelling us into states of heightened clarity, awareness, and
profound change.
To uncover the hidden gift within trauma, one must shift from perceiving pain as
a curse to recognizing it as a transformative teacher. This perspective also
liberates us from the seductive poison of victimhood. Identifying as a victim,
in any form, is akin to what I would call "spiritual syphilis"—a gradual erosion
of inner strength and potential. Instead, see yourself not as a victim, but as
someone chosen, entrusted with the unique challenge of transforming pain into
transcendence. Surrendering into pain is no child’s play. It’s understandable
that some may seek the fleeting comfort of victimhood—a drug-like escape from
the deeper work.
"Die! Die! Die in this love!
If you die in this love,Your soul will be renewed.
Die! Die! Don’t fear the death of that which is known
If you die to the temporal, You will become timeless.”
― Rumi
NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES (NDEs)
What is the ultimate traumatic experence? In my view the phenomenon of
near-death experiences (NDEs)
tops the list. A NDE is a profound gateway that
aligns perfect with the concepts of the above mentioned phenomenons of psychological death, the crystallization point, and the birth of inner expension
of consciousness.
The Ultimate "Dying Into"
At the heart of most NDEs is the experience of literal and/or symbolic death.
People often report being forced into complete surrender—whether through
physical trauma, illness, or other life-threatening circumstances. This
surrender echoes the meditative state of stillness described earlier, where
resistance ceases, and one "dies into" the chaos and horror of the moment.
NDEs often reveal how profound suffering can serve as a catalyst for
spiritual awakening. The life-threatening event—whether a heart attack,
accident, or other trauma—forces the individual to confront mortality directly.
However, in NDEs, this surrender is obviously not voluntary; it is thrust upon the individual. Yet,
as described in this chapter, surrender—whether chosen or forced—becomes a
gateway to transformation. The ego dissolves, the amygdala's fear-driven
survival instincts are overridden, and the individual is propelled into a state
that transcends ordinary consciousness.
The Crystallization Point &
Birth of Inner Spaciousness
Many NDE accounts describe a decisive shift—a moment of no return—where the
chaotic, fear-laden experience of dying gives way to a profound sense of peace,
harmony, and unity. This aligns closely with the crystallization point described
in this thread: a transition from chaos to order, from fragmentation to
wholeness.
Individuals often report leaving behind the fear and pain of their physical
bodies to enter a realm of boundless light, love, or spaciousness. The chaotic
"noise" of physical trauma is replaced by a harmonious "symphony" of unity.
One of the hallmarks of NDEs is the sensation of entering a vast, infinite
space—often described as being filled with light or an overwhelming sense of
peace. This aligns with the concept of the birth of the inner dark
space, where consciousness expands beyond the confines of the body and its
limitations.
The experience of dying strips away attachments to worldly concerns, revealing
deeper truths about existence.
Integration into Life
One of the most fascinating aspects of NDEs is how individuals integrate the
experience into their daily lives:
Many report becoming more focused on love, service, and spiritual growth.
The insights gained during the NDE often echo this chapter's theme of gradual
transformation—each day becoming "microscopically better than the last" as they
move toward greater wholeness and light.
THE DANCE OF KALI
What does the mother of meditation, India, say about the amygdalian death? The
Indian image of Kali standing on Shiva offers profound symbolism, especially
when viewed through the lens of trauma, surrender, and spiritual transformation.
Kali as the Force of Transformation
Kali, with her fearsome appearance, represents raw, unfiltered
energy—destruction, death, and the untamed force of nature. In the context of
trauma and spirituality, Kali embodies the chaotic upheaval of trauma itself:
the darkness, the fear, and the raw intensity of human suffering. Her severed
heads and blood-red tongue symbolize the cutting away of ego, illusions, and
attachments that keep us bound to pain and fear. In contemporary terms, Kali
could be seen as the antithesis of the 'safe space,' a personification of
everything that challenges comfort and confronts the very core of our
'trigger words.'
Much like the amygdala’s freeze or death mode, Shiva, through Kali, invites us
to confront what we fear most: death, destruction, and the dissolution of the
self. Through this confrontation, Kali clears the path for renewal and
transformation. Within her destruction lies the seed of creation.
Shiva as the Witness and Stillness
Shiva, lying beneath Kali, represents absolute stillness, surrender, and the
unchanging essence of consciousness. He is the symbol of the Self—the eternal,
silent witness that remains untouched by trauma and chaos. His presence beneath
Kali illustrates the interplay between surrender and intensity: the destruction
and chaos of Kali's dance can only unfold on the foundation of Shiva’s immovable
stillness.
This aligns with the theme of "death-like dissolving into" turmoil. Just as one must surrender
to the pain and chaos of trauma to transcend it, Shiva’s passive, calm surrender
beneath Kali shows the necessity of yielding to higher forces to find
liberation. This interplay reminds us that stillness is not weakness, but the
strength that allows transformation to take place.
Reverse Gender Roles
Traditionally, masculinity is associated with doership and activity, while
femininity is often linked to receptivity and passivity. Interestingly, in this
imagery of Kali and Shiva, these roles are reversed. The male energy, embodied
by Shiva, becomes utterly passive, lying surrendered and immovable, while the
female energy, represented by Kali, is fiercely active, dynamic, and
uncontrollable.
Kali’s wild, unrestrained feminine energy symbolizes the psyche as an extension of the
autonomous nervous system—a force beyond conscious control. This reversal of
roles reminds us that transformation often requires surrendering control,
challenging societal and archetypal norms.
The masculine drive to control is wonderful, but it cannot meditate. Meditation, in its truest sense,
is a process of non-effort, a state of being in which the ego lets go. Here, it
is Kali—the primal, feminine energy—that meditates us, drawing us into her
transformative dance. This surrender into her autonomous energy reveals the deeper truth of
meditation: it is not something we do, but something we allow.
The Dance of Trauma and Transcendence
Kali’s dance on Shiva reflects the paradox of trauma and spirituality. The
external chaos (Kali) may seem overwhelming, but within it lies the opportunity
for profound awakening. Shiva’s stillness suggests that the spirit, when
grounded and unmoving, can endure and transcend even the most intense emotional
upheaval.
Relevance to Meditation and the Amygdala
The stillness of Shiva mirrors the meditative process of entering the
"freeze mode". By becoming motionless and surrendering to the
moment, the fear-driven cycles of fight or flight are interrupted. This
stillness allows the energy of the "battlefield" (symbolized by Kali's
intensity) to be transmuted into a source of spiritual awakening.
Integration of the Inner and Outer Worlds
The dynamic between Kali and Shiva reflects the principle that inner
resolution often impacts the outer world. When Shiva (inner peace and awareness)
remains steady, Kali’s destructive dance (external turmoil or emotional chaos)
ultimately leads to transformation rather than annihilation. This imagery
reminds us that when we resolve our inner chaos, we often see the crises of the
outer world begin to dissipate.
Together, Kali and Shiva embody the alchemical process of transforming pain and
trauma into intensified consciousness. They reveal that the path to transcendence
requires both surrender to chaos and the unyielding stillness to endure it. This
dance is the ultimate balance: the interplay of destruction and creation, fear
and surrender, darkness and light.
THE 'CRUCIFIXATION' OF CHRIST
We do not, however, need to go to India to find one of the most powerful
metaphors for spiritual transformation through suffering and death. The
crucifixion of Jesus Christ, central to the Christian tradition, offers a
profound Western lens through which to view the alchemy of suffering into
transcendence.
The Cross as the Symbol of Surrender
In the act of crucifixion, we witness the ultimate surrender. Jesus,
stripped of all worldly power, possessions, and dignity, is nailed to the
cross—a posture of complete immobility, much like the freeze mode. This stillness, enforced by the crucifixion,
parallels the meditative practice of absolute immovability of the body. Jesus
cannot escape or fight his way out of the situation.
The cross itself, with its vertical and horizontal axes, symbolizes the
intersection between the bodily finite and the conscious infinite, the material
and the spiritual. Jesus’ suffering on the cross embodies the ultimate releasing
into pain, where resistance becomes futile, and the only remaining path is
surrender.
Forgive me for saying so, but I personally find Jesus' approach more courageous
and more resonant with the many small crisis-surrender-deaths-resurrections I
have experienced in my own life.
Embodied Suffering vs. Divine Detachment: The Human Connection
The crucifixion of Jesus and the dance of Kali on Shiva offer two profound
metaphors for surrender and transformation. However, they differ radically in
their portrayal of suffering. Shiva’s passive surrender under Kali’s cosmic
dance reflects a state of transcendence, where suffering is observed from a
distance, untouched by the turmoil of the body. Shiva smiles, embodying the
detached consciousness that witnesses suffering without being consumed by it.
In contrast, Jesus’ suffering is intensely embodied. His agony on the cross is
not abstract or symbolic—it is visceral, grounded in the raw vulnerability of
human existence. He does not smile in detachment; he cries out in despair, “My
God, My God, why have You forsaken me?” This cry echoes the very real and often
unbearable depths of human suffering—moments where we feel abandoned, trapped,
and powerless.
This embodiment makes Jesus’ story uniquely relatable. While Shiva represents
the divine witness, distant and untouchable, Jesus descends fully into the human
experience of pain. His suffering mirrors our own struggles in the flesh—the
grief, fear, and anguish we face in our darkest moments. Yet, in embracing this
suffering, Jesus demonstrates how the body itself becomes the crucible for
transformation. His scars remain after the resurrection, not as reminders of
pain but as symbols of the triumph and beauty that can emerge from it.
By living through suffering in such a profoundly human way, Jesus becomes a
model not of divine invulnerability, but of embodied courage and transcendence
through the body. His narrative reassures us that we do not need to escape our
humanity to find redemption; rather, it is through fully inhabiting it that we
reach the divine. In this sense, Shiva shines
consciousness,
while Jesus embodies awareness.
"My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?"
This cry, uttered by Jesus in his final moments, mirrors the climax phase of trauma,
where the soul, trapped deep within the body, feels abandoned, isolated, and
stripped of meaning. In this suspended state, there is no smile or laughter, no
distance from pain. At this very moment, Jesus embodies the universal human
experience of despair—an essential confrontation with darkness that precedes
transformation.
These famous words offer profound insight into the inner event horizon of
transformation's "black hole." It is at this impossible balancing point—where
suffering becomes unbearable yet somehow there is surrender—that the path to
resurrection begins to open. This mirrors the crystallization point right in its
needlepoint of change from chaos to a new order.
In both Shiva's and Jesus' cases, this alchemy can only unfold when the
masculine doership is replaced by feminine receivership. This shift, almost
Lacanian in nature,
represents a profound reversal: consciousness no longer objectifies the world
around us but instead allows the body to be objectified by it, experienced
through the gaze of introverted awareness. Here, we are almost spiritual
hermaphrodites being both feminine 'looked at' and masculine 'looking at.' This is
the gaze of ouroboros consciousness or
god if you prefer that term.
Shiva represents the witness—an eternal, unshakable consciousness untouched by
the chaos and pain of existence. His surrender beneath Kali’s dance is passive,
transcendent, and cosmic. In this state, suffering is observed but not felt; it
dissolves into the infinity of a detached satelite view. Shiva smiles because he
embodies the serene, all-encompassing consciousness that transcends the body.
Christ, by contrast, represents embodied suffering and transformation. His agony
on the cross is raw, visceral, and deeply human. His cry—“My God, My God, why
have You forsaken me?”—speaks to the universal experience of abandonment,
despair, and the depths of human pain. Unlike Shiva, Christ does not transcend
suffering; he fully inhabits it. Through his embodied surrender, his scars
become symbols of redemption, not escape.
These archetypes offer complementary paths: Shiva’s path through disembodied
consciousness and Christ’s path through embodied awareness. Together, they
illustrate the duality of spiritual transformation—whether we rise
above the
body or find transcendence through it.
Their dual archetypes remind us that both paths—the still witness and the
suffering redeemer—are necessary for the complete alchemy of the soul.
The "Death Mode" as a Gateway
In summary the crucifixion of Jesus, like the Kali-dance on the lying Shiva, is not
just about physical death; it symbolizes the death of doership—the ultimate
relinquishment of control. Jesus' words, "Father, into your hands I commit my
spirit," reflect the total annihilation required for spiritual rebirth.
The Resurrection: Transformation and Transcendence
For Shiva, the resurrection of the body is not a central part of the
narrative. Shiva represents pure omnipresent consciousness, which already exists
in countless bodies and beyond. By contrast, the resurrection of Jesus is the culmination
of his transformative process in its fully embodied form. It signifies that
through surrender to suffering and letting go into pain, the self is not destroyed
but reborn into a higher state of existence. The scars remain—visible in the
wounds on the resurrected Christ—but they are no longer sources of suffering.
Instead, they become symbols of triumph and redemption. Jesus becomes the
"broken beauty" or the "wounded healer" who, through a deep dive into flesh, meets humans precisely where they feel most trapped.
The resurrection of the body itself, as exemplified by Jesus, can here also be
understood on a more immediate, human level. Just as Jesus arose in bodily form
after profound suffering and death, we too experience smaller resurrections in
our lives after crises. Each time we are entering fully into a crisis—letting go of
resistance and fully surrendering to the transformative process—we emerge
renewed, like a butterfly from the larvae. These personal resurrections may
not involve literal death but echo the same pattern: through the metaphorical
death of old patterns, identities, or ways of being, we are reborn into a more
whole, resilient, and healthier version of ourselves. In this way, Jesus' bodily
resurrection becomes a profound symbol for our own cycles of surrender,
transformation, and renewal, reminding us that, paradoxically, we must die in
some form to truly live in a new form.
In this sense, the resurrection is not merely a historical or religious event
but a universal story about the human capacity to transcend trauma. It
demonstrates that by fully engaging with our pain, surrendering to the process,
and allowing the "crucifixation" of the ego, we can access a new realm of
spiritual wholeness without letting go of our physical living. We are like
Christ, on a smaller scale of course, resurrected in human form.
One might gather the impression that I favor the awareness embodied by Christ
over the conscious light of Shiva. This impression is accurate, but only in the
sense that our primary endeavor should be to embrace our humanity before
aspiring to become beings of light. First of all be a human and that means not
running away from unpleasant situations.
Carl Jung aptly highlighted that true enlightenment does not stem from
envisioning radiant images, but from confronting and integrating the darker
aspects of the unconscious. As he famously said, "One does not become
enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness
conscious."
The Gift of the 'Crucifixation'
The crucifixion offers a profound teaching: just as trauma can fuel the
energy needed for spiritual awakening, the cross symbolizes that no pain is
meaningless if it is accepted, faced and transcended. In this sense, the crucifixion is
not merely an event of the past but a living, universal metaphor—a testament to
the power that embraced death brings to life - a power that strategies and doership
cannot reach.
This, for me, is the essence of true alchemy—a transformation not reserved for
spiritual icons of history but alive in the everyday lives of those who have
faced and transcended their pain.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be
comforted."
(Matthew 5:4)
Dear reader, how might you approach your own pain
with surrender and acceptance? Perhaps you can draw inspiration from the
chapter,
Amygdalian Death Meditation, which
offers a step-by-step guide for those courageous enough to embark on this
transformative journey.
With kind regards
Gunnar Mühlmann
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