"Penetrating the Illusion of a Separate Self"

by Stephan Bodian

(Originally published in Yoga Journal. Copyright 2004 by Stephan Bodian)

Like most meditators, I began my spiritual journey with a single,
time-honored technique: counting my breaths. After six months of
practice, bored with counting, I transitioned to following the
sensations of the breath and, a few years later, graduated to "just
sitting," the relaxed, focused, all-inclusive awareness considered by
many Zen masters to be the complete expression of enlightenment itself.

Just sitting succeeded in relaxing my body and calming my mind, but it
never brought the breakthrough insights this young Zen student eagerly
longed to experience. Sure, I could concentrate for extended periods
of time and bend spoons with my laserlike focus (just kidding!). But
after five years of intensive retreats, I hadn't yet achieved kensho,
the profound awakening that Zen folks herald as the pinnacle of the
spiritual path.

So I changed teachers and took up the study of koans, those ancient
enigmatic teaching stories like "What is the sound of one hand?" that
aim to baffle the mind, force it to let go of its limited perspective,
and open it to a radically new way of perceiving reality. With the
help of the Zen stick and "encouraging" words like "Die on your
cushion", I succeeded over the years in producing satisfactory
responses to several hundred koans. Yet I still hadn't experienced a
breakthrough glimpse of my Buddha nature!. Assuming I must be poor
koan material, I returned to "just sitting" and eventually drifted
away from Zen entirely.

After meditating sporadically for several years, I came upon a teacher
of the Hindu Advaita ("nondual") Vedanta tradition, Jean Klein, whose
wisdom and presence reminded me of the great Zen masters I'd only read
about in books. From Jean I learned a simple question, "Who am I?"
that immediately captured my imagination. Several months later, as I
gently inquired, this question suddenly revealed the answer I had been
seeking for so many years. For some reason the clarity and directness
of the question, along with the relaxed receptivity of the inquiry,
allowed it to penetrate deep inside and expose the secret that lay
hidden there.

Both koan study and the question "Who am I?" are traditional methods
for peeling back the layers of mind stuff that hide the truth of our
essential nature the way clouds obscure the sun. Called kleshas by the
Buddhists and vasanas or samskaras by the Hindus and yogis, these
obscurations are the familiar stories, emotions, self-images, beliefs,
and reactive patterns that keep us identified with our limited
ego-personality and seem to prevent us from opening to the nondual
enormity of who we really are: the timeless, silent, ever-present
ground of being, which the Hindus and yogis call Self and the Zen
masters call true nature.

Most basic meditation techniques, such as following the breath or
reciting a mantra, aim to relax the body, quiet the mind, and
cultivate mindful awareness of the present moment, but they don't
encourage "the backward step" described by Zen Master Dogen "that
turns your light inwardly to illuminate" your true nature. In the
terms of a traditional metaphor, they calm the pool of mind and allow
the sediment to settle, but they don't take us to the bottom where the
dragon of truth resides. For this we need what the great 20th-century
Advaita sage Ramana Maharshi called atma vichara, "self-inquiry,"
probing questions like "Who am I?" or provocative Zen koans that plumb
the depths of our being.

Now, you may be quite content with your meditation practice and feel
no particular motivation to "plumb the depths" or meet the "dragon of
truth," thank you very much. Admittedly, self-inquiry is only for the
spiritually adventurous, those who are obsessed with finding the
answers to life's deepest questions. People like the Buddha, who sat
down after years of asceticism and vowed not to get up until he knew
who he was, or Ramana Maharshi, who, when overtaken by the fear of
death at the age of 16, fervently inquired into who he was if not his
physical body and spontaneously awakened to his identity as the
deathless, eternal Self.

Not everyone has profound and transformative experiences like these
renowned spiritual masters, but each of us in our own way has the
potential to catch a life-altering glimpse of the radiant sun of true
nature. In fact, only such awakening glimpses have the potential to
free us from suffering once and for all. Traditionally, self-inquiry
is an advanced practice often reserved for the spiritually mature. In
the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, for example, practitioners may spend
years developing concentrated presence, known as "calm abiding," or
shamata, before proceeding to the penetrating practice of "insight,"
or vipashyana.

In my experience, the twin practices of "abiding," or "resting," and
"inquiring" work together like the left and right foot in walking.
First we rest in the calmness and clarity of our basic sitting
practice, whatever it may be. Then, when the waters are relatively
still, we inquire, and the inquiry may reveal a new level of insight
into the silence and stillness of our essential nature that allows us
to rest even more deeply. And so, from this deeper resting, we have
the capacity to inquire even further.

To begin the practice of self-inquiry, sit for meditation as usual. If
you don't have a regular practice already, just sit quietly and allow
the mind to settle naturally. Don't attempt to focus your mind or
manipulate your experience, just rest as awareness itself. (Your mind
won't know what I'm talking about, but your being will.) After 10 or
15 minutes, when the mind is relatively open and present, introduce
the question "Who am I?" The point of this question is not to engage
the mind, because the mind inevitably gnaws on questions endlessly
like a dog on a bone, with little nutritional benefit. Instead, drop
the question into the stillness of your being like a pebble dropped
into a still forest pool. Let it send ripples through your meditation,
but don't attempt to figure it out!

When the pond is tranquil again, drop another pebble and see what
happens. Set aside any conceptual answers, such as "I am a child of
God," or "I am consciousness," or "I am a spiritual being of light,"
and come back to the question. Though true at a certain level, these
answers won't satisfy your hunger for spiritual sustenance any more
than a picture of a cake can satisfy your longing for sweets. As you
continue your self-inquiry, you may find that the question begins to
catch fire and you notice yourself asking it not only during
meditation, but at unexpected times throughout the day.

Instead of "Who am I?" you may prefer asking, "Who is thinking this
thought? Who is feeling this feeling? Who is seeing through these eyes
right now?" These questions direct your awareness inward, away from
the external world and toward the source from which all experiences
arise. Indeed, anything you can perceive, no matter how intimate,
including the cluster of images, memories, feelings, and beliefs you
take to be you, is merely an object of perception. But who is the
experiencer, the perceiver, the ultimate subject of all of those
objects? This is the real question at the heart of "Who am I?"

For the practice of self-inquiry to work its magic, you must already
recognize at some level that the word "I," though superficially
referring to the body and mind, actually points to something much
deeper. When we say "I feel," "I see," or "I walk," we're talking
about the experiencer or doer we iimagine to be inside. But what does
this I look like, and where is it located? Sure, your body walks and
sees and registers feelings, but is this bundle of physical substance
the I to which you refer, the self you spend so much time protecting
and expressing? Yes, your mind thinks, feels, and perceives, but do
you really believe you reside in the brain? If not, then who are you
really? Let your inquiry be fervent but effortless, without tension or
anxiety. Here's a hint: You definitely won't find the answer in the
file folders of spiritual beliefs you've amassed over the years, so
look elsewhere, in your actual, present experience. Ask yourself:
"Where is this I right here and now?"

Eventually, the question "Who am I?" reveals the answer, not as a
thought or a particular experience, but as a vibrant, timeless
presence that underlies and infuses every experience just as light
infuses and illuminates the visual field.When you awaken to this
presence, you may be surprised to discover that it has been there all
along, as the unacknowledged context and space in which life unfolds.

Both Zen and Advaita masters teach that this awake, aware presence
that gazes out through your eyes and my eyes right now is the very
same awakeness that peered through the eyes of the sages and roshis of
old. Though your realization may not be as clear or as stable as
theirs, this timeless presence is actually the Buddha nature or
authentic Self to which the great scriptures point.

Once you know who you really are, you can never forget it, though the
mind will do its best to obscure this truth with its urgent demands
for your attention. As you keep returning to rest in the silent
presence you now know yourself to be, your habitual identification
with the body-mind gradually releases, and you begin to taste the
peace and joy of true spiritual freedom. In the words of another great
Indian sage, Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, "You merely need to find out
your source and take up your headquarters there."

Former YJ editor-in-chief Stephan Bodian is a psychotherapist and
spiritual teacher and the author of several books, including
Meditation for Dummies. He leads workshops at Omega Institute and
offers phone counseling to seekers worldwide. He can be reached at
www.stephanbodian.org