The Work of Karlfried Graf Dürckheim



I re-encountered the remarkable work of Karlfried Graf Dürckheim (October 24, 1896 – December 28, 1988), German diplomat, psychotherapist and Zen-Master recently in the autobiography of Alan Watts: In My Own Way. According to Wikipedia: Dürckheim was born in Munich. He was a descendant of old Bavarian nobility whose parents still had a fortune, eventually lost during bad economic times. In his early twenties, he was reading in the Tao Te Ching of Lao-Tzu.

“Suddenly it happened! I was listening and lightning went through me. The veil was torn asunder, I was awake! I had just experienced ‘It’. Everything existed and nothing existed. Another Reality had broken through this world. I myself existed and did not exist… I had experienced that which is spoken of in all centuries: individuals, in whatever stage of their lives, have had an experience which struck them with the force of lightning and linked them once and for all to the circuits of True Life.”

Meister Eckhart became very important for him. ”I recognize in Eckhart my master, the master. But we can only approach him if we eliminate the conceptual consciousness.”

Dürckheim was a professor at Kiel for a few years. Then it was discovered that he had a Jewish grandmother. Eventually he became an envoy for Nazi Germany’s foreign ministry under Joachim von Ribbentrop. Before World War II, in 1938, he was sent to Japan, residing there for eight years.

After the war, Tokyo was occupied by Americans. Dürckheim went into hiding in Karuizawa and was arrested on October 30, 1945 by agents of the US Counter-Intelligence Corps. He was imprisoned for a year and a half in Sugamo Prison.

“That time of captivity was precious to me because I could exercise zazen meditation and remain in immobility for hours.”

Graf “Duerckheim” is identified by Albert Stunkard in Zen Teaching, Zen Practice, (Weatherhill 2000) edited by Kenneth Kraft, as the person who suggested to Stunkard that he should visit D.T. Suzuki in Kita Kamakura, not far from the Sugamo prison. That visit started a chain reaction of visitors to the Suzuki residence, one of whom was Philip Kapleau, author of The Three Pillars of Zen and founder of the Rochester Zen Center. Dürckheim thus was directly responsible for launching Zen into the American mainstream.

Along with psychologist Maria Hippius, Dürckheim founded the “Center of existential and psychological formation and encounter” in the early 1950s. It was located in the Black Forest village of Todtmoos-Rutte. His books were based on his conferences, and were influential in Europe.

“What I am doing is not the transmission of Zen Buddhism; on the contrary, that which I seek after is something universally human which comes from our origins and happens to be more emphasized in eastern practices than in the western.”

Dürckheim’s “Initiation Therapy” dealt with the encounter between the profane, mundane, “little” self — the ego — and the true Self. “The therapist is not the one who heals, that is, who intervenes with his own skills; he is a therapist in the original meaning of the word: a companion on the way.”

***

Here are the words of Karlfried Graf Dürckheim recounted in Alan Watts’ autobiography:

“A great deal of my present work is in helping people who underwent great spiritual crisis during the war. We know, of course, that sometimes, in extreme circumstances, people have a natural  satori or spiritual awakening when it appears that all is finished for them–and they accept it. This happened often in the war, and when those who lived through it tried to tell the tale to their friends it was shrugged off as some king of hallucination, a brief fit of insanity in a desperate situation. When these people come to me, as they often do, I have the happy opportunity of showing them that, for once in their lives, they were truly sane.

There were three typical ways in which these crisis came about. You heard the whistle of a bomb falling straight at you, and you knew that this was quite certainly the end. You accepted it, and quite suddenly the whole universe made sense. All problems, all questions vanished, and you understood that there was no ‘you’ other than the eternal. But the bomb was a dud, and you lived to remember the experience….You were in a concentration camp, and you had been there so long that you were fully convinced that you would stay there for the rest of your life. Finally, you had to accept it, and in that moment you understood everything….You were a displaced refugee far from home. You had utterly lost your friends and relatives, your possessions, your job, your very identity, and saw no hope of regaining them. You accepted it, and suddenly you were light as a feather and as free as the air.”

–Alan Watts: In My Own Way (California: New World Library, 1972), 321.

James George “Who am I? And for What?”

     Before I die, I want to understand what life is, and what or who I am. A few days before her death at the Prieure with Gurdjieff, Katherine Mansfield wrote in her Journal “the question is always: Who am I? You see,…if I were allowed one single cry to God, that cry would be: I want to be REAL.” Years later, Gurdjieff  put the title on the 3rd Series of his All and Everything: “Life is Real Only Then When I Am.” Now it is my turn to ask who am I, and for what?

These are two ways, it seems to me, of putting the same question—a question that may only be answerable after I am freed of the body with its limited perception of reality, inner and outer. Yes, I am grateful that, even during my lifetime, homo sapiens has, inspite of these limitations, come a great deal closer to understanding the nature of reality and life and consciousness. But we are still embedded in bodies that have senses for only a fraction of what we now know to be the whole spectrum of vibrations that constitute what our ancestors used to call manifested reality. Have we now unconsciously come to assume that there is nothing beyond this manifestation, that there is no evidence for a Manifestor or Creator? Where does the Law of Causality stop, then? Most contemporary scientists would, I believe, hold that we cannot look for answers beyond manifested reality. They are clearly uncomfortable with anything they cannot measure, with infinity, with time, and with consciousness. From the time of the ancient Greeks, “man is the measure of all things.” In fact, most scientists would still agree with Max Planck’s dictum a hundred years ago that, “if it cannot be measured, it is not real.”

In the 9th century, Shankar Acharya of India spoke for a very different world view when he affirmed that all that can be measured is illusion; that even the Sanskrit word maya means both “measure” and “illusion.” From his perspective, if I may borrow Kant’s terminology, all measureable phenomena can only be understood in their relations to the noumenal world from which they come and to which they return. In all spiritual traditions, this noumenal world is the Source of all that is. It is the underlying Reality.

Over the years, I have come to realize that there is a remarkable unanimity among spiritual pioneers of every stripe, from St Augustine to Gurdjieff, that this Source Reality is everywhere. For St Augustine, there “is nowhere God is not.” For Gurdjieff, Consciousness is “omnipresent.”

These are difficult truths for the scientific mind-set to swallow but after long reflection I have come to accept that this is the View opening towards an expanding future for humanity, towards a View that embraces the best of Western science and Eastern insight, uniting what we call the outer and the inner worlds in One. This is the mysterious Unity “in which we live and move and have our being,” as St. Paul puts it. This is “I, You, Me, We,” as Rumi says. “I and the Father are One,” Christ affirms.

If we live with the scientific view of Max Planck, we are imprisoned in what Humberto Maturana and most other scientists call a “closed domain,” a measureable finite world with all the mystery squeezed out of it and not a hint of the noumenal Unity that underlies and subsumes the known phenomenal world. In a closed system, there can only be an end in death through entropy. Life requires an open domain, open to life, to mystery, to the unknown.

If we train our attention properly, I have found through observation that both views can be well justified by our own experience. Most of the time I am totally unaware of the noumenal Reality, caught in what Gurdjieff calls “hypnotic sleep,” an abstract world of  associations expressed in language with which my attention is identified passively. But there are moments of presence when I become directly aware of my actual experience, unmediated by thought or language which can never be directly aware. It is the nascent human capacity for awareness that is our opening to the noumenal world and to a quality of awareness that shows us everything at once, wordlessly, in an instant of realization that can transform our being for the rest of our lives, awakening us to our essential nature and its relationship with the noumenal. That quality of awareness I cannot maintain, but through years of practice I have found that it can be briefly extended and found again more often than when I began on this path. It is in these moments of awareness that I am open to the Presence of God, to Life. The rest of the time I am as good as dead—passive, asleep.

This direct awareness of presence, I have come to see, is only possible because the essential experiencer, or the “I” in me, is a particle of the omnipresent Reality which it is given to glimpse occasionally. Without it, I would not be alive. If it were otherwise, how could there be any relation between my lowly level of being and the Highest One? But this unparalleled opportunity naturally carries with it a sacred obligation unconditionally to serve the One. That appears to be the cosmic purpose for which we were designed. But who can say that they do that?

Does this mean that the human enterprise is a cosmic failure, unable to realize the expectations of the Designer? Not if we regard it as an evolutionary work in progress, still in its very early stages. In the last few years, cognitive scientists have been amazed to discover how much of the brain in our ordinary state is waiting to be used and how it “lights up” during peak experiences of Wholeness.

During my sitting one morning recently, I was given another burst of light, starting from the head but soon enveloping the entire body and spreading into the surrounding space. In that state, I understood far more than I can now, or even an hour later, put into words or remember. I know only that it happened and that the quality of knowing was completely different from the successive “knowings” of daily life which follow a logical sequence along a horizontal time line. This was simultaneously knowing everything in the moment that was out of time, in a vertical dimension, eternal and endless, but then distracted and lost in the next moment of ordinary time.

Now I only know that it happened and left another trace of blessing for which I am immensely grateful to I know not what. To Life, let us say, or to Consciousness, or to God, as humans begin to comprehend the Unknown “Being of Beings,” to borrow Gurdjieff’s apt phrase. Even as I slowly write these words on my keyboard, I am feeling the impossibility of keeping up with the flow of impressions arising from the well of this fresh experience of the sheer energetic abundance of what is available when we begin to open to our potential to live consciously, not only in the phenomenal world but also in the noumenal, which is the source of all creativity and ultimately the source of Life.

Just as in the phenomenal world there are many levels of matter and energy, so too, we may guess, there are many levels in the ontological or noumenal world of being. In both worlds, it seems, no energy can be alone, independent. There are just an infinity of vibrations of different wave lengths and qualities, interacting and interconnecting on every scale we know anything about, from nano to cosmic, and probably beyond in both directions. The phenomenal world is the world more or less accessible to our senses and to our sciences. The noumenal world is also a broad category for the reality of being and consciousness and life that is not yet directly accessible to our sciences but is palpable to spiritual pioneers and to most humans in their more sensitive moments. Whenever we are fearless enough to drop our habitual “thinking about it,” the awareness of presence lights up in us naturally, without any effort, when we relax and await it with fully attentive equanimity.

This, I have found, is a way to connect with the subconscious (as Gurdjieff called it) or the unconscious (to use Jung’s term) where the invisible noumenal, the real “I,” is hiding.

Science, and mainstream culture, are no longer (as they were with Max Planck) confined to the measureable or phenomenal world, but are now exploring the noumenal which they are beginning to call the world of information. In the Smithsonian for May, 2011, James Gleick writes: “Most of the biosphere cannot see the infosphere: it is invisible, a parallel universe humming with ghostly inhabitants. But they are not ghosts to us—not anymore. We humans, alone among the earth’s organic creatures, live in both worlds at once. It is as though, having long co-existed with the unseen, we have begun to develop the needed extra-sensory perception.”

So what am I afraid of? Death? Or the responsibility for living? Maybe both but in my case, especially the latter. As Nelson Mandela famously said at his Presidential inauguration, we are all more frightened of success than we are of failure, more afraid of our power than of our weakness. We lack trust in the power of presence which can manifest in us when we drop our self concern and self importance, our egotism and narcissism dressed up as spirituality. That is what keeps us powerless. I can see it in my posture, I can hear it sometimes in my tone of voice, and recognize it in my associative thinking, all of which can show me my lack of presence. But whenever I AM, I see and feel and know the difference at once. To the extent that I am present, I am a different being, a human being. At such moments of presence, I see that I embody a Life that is in resonance with the Great Life, and I am aware that I share that Life with other beings. In that sense, there are no “others.” None of us is alone. At our most awake moments, we  know without the least doubt that we are designed for such an awakening, for such a transformation. That is our inner purpose and the cosmic purpose.

My outer purposes keep changing, but my inner purpose, whenever I remember it, is as unchanging as the compass needle heading north. I wish to BE! To be REAL!  What more could any of us wish for at this early stage of human evolution?

James George, from a talk given at  the Toronto Institute of Noetic Sciences, October © 2011. Used with permission by the author.

PHOTO: BERNARD WEIL – James George, 92-year-old former high commissioner to India and former ambassador to Iran, relaxes in his Toronto apartment. In the 1960s, the Dalai Lama asked Canada to resettle Tibetan refugees. Canada refused. George convinced Trudeau (an old friend of his) to do it. In 1971, 228 Tibetan refugees came – in small groups and at different times – to Quebec, Ontario, Manitoba and Alberta. From the Toronto Star.

 

Simply Being Present

You have scattered your awareness in all directions,
and your vanities are not worth a bit of cabbage.
The root of every thorn draws
the water of your attention toward itself.
How will the water of your attention reach the fruit?
Cut through the evil roots, cut them away.
Direct the Bounty of God to spirit and insight,
not to the knotted and broken world outside. 

–Rumi

In our ordinary state of being, both the outer demands of life and the inner processes of thinking and feeling alternatively monopolize our attention to such an extent that we cannot sustain true consciousness. By consciousness I mean not just perception or awareness, but a field of awareness that includes both the contents of an experience and the one who experiences.

Spiritual work involves maintaining some balance between the demands of outer life and a conscious presence. We wish to enter freely into the life of the world and still know presence, the dimension of consciousness and freedom. We can live through the essence, which is the light behind the personality, rather than through the limited, superficial personality, which is identified with each passing thought and feeling.

The personality is our superficial identity, our learned behavior and attitudes; it is tied to the conditions of outer life, to disapproval and approval, like and dislike, praise and blame. We are working so that this essence, which can truly say “I am,” may come forward in the midst of life.

The personality, which is absorbed in the external world and forgetful of the possibility of an inner life, is governed by that world. All its inner events are tied to outer events and things. The personality exists first of all in relation to other people and things and wants to have its way with them. It feels its own existence through what it achieves and what it possesses. Conversely, each disappointment, each rejection, and each failure is experienced as a challenge and threat to its own existence.

Are we consumed by the experiences of life? Or do we consciously experience life with mindfulness and trust? Is our inner life dependent on outer conditions, or is it becoming free of them?

The transformation with which inner work is concerned allows the “I” to exist more independently as a pure presence or witness. The slavery to like and dislike is diminished to the extent that our feeling of “I” is grounded in pure Being and not in things. The need to achieve our own specialness, for instance, or receive attention from others, is experienced as less important as a stable inner presence develops. This inner presence is satisfying in itself; it enables non-attachment, equanimity, and greater objectivity.

Presence guides us to a healthy sense of self-restraint and self-sacrifice, enabling us to play with our attachments, to confront our own prison. We may learn to slip out of the stranglehold of egoism, which is based in desire and in the thoughts generated by desire. In being present to the play of desire we can diminish the ego’s power over our inner being. Eventually we reach a certain invulnerability in relation to outer things, so that we do not depend on them, but live from this presence instead. To look only outward is to miss the point, to stray from the straight path. It is to go begging for outer satisfactions, while we ignore the hidden treasure inside us.

There is an energy of attention that we at first have in only limited amounts, and it must be conserved. Can we see ourselves throwing it away? Can we see ourselves wasting it on outer desire and satisfactions, intoxicated with the random demands of the ego, reacting to all the needs of outer approval and validation? Our dependence on outer satisfactions and requirements leads us to envy, resentment, pride, guilt, and anger. Isn’t this the contemporary idolotry?

Whoever makes all cares into a single care, the care for simply being present, will be relieved of all care by that Presence. We can take a step back from the world of attraction, comparison, and dependence on externals, remember this vitality within us, and connect with it. Perhaps then we can be liberated from our compulsions and can learn to act through Spirit, rather than through our limited egos. If remembering Presence becomes our single care, then we will waste less of our inner energy.

–excerpted from Living Presence, by Kabir Edmund Helminski.
PHOTO: Louis Faurer, “Construction Site on Madison Avenue,” 1947. With thanks to First Time User.

Utterly and Magnificently… Useless.

I started writing at the local library today, just a couple of blocks away from my house. I found an unoccupied table by a large window overlooking College Street. It turned out to be pleasant day–a grey morning transformed into perfect blue. I sat myself in a large sprawling room with several shelves of books cloistered in the middle of it. The library was full of people, especially in the magazine and newspaper section where I happened to be. A pile of Rolling Stone magazines sat on the table to my right left behind by a bald middle-aged man, and a Chinese woman in a red sweater sat across from me, leafing through the latest glossy issue of House and Home. I looked out the window and wondered how long it’s been since I’ve spent this much time in a library. They are still remarkably quiet like I remember, and they still have that aged professor in a tweed jacket smell about them. Maybe it’s really that nourishing silence that makes libraries sacred, even if it’s cracked open once in a while by a cough or the hush of human voices. Somehow, that silence always seems to  return naturally.

I am writing at the library for a couple of reasons. First of all, I had forgotten how much I really love libraries, and I am really just reacquainting myself with one of the places that I found sacred as a child. And secondly, I have been neglectful of my writing because of the demands of my computer and the interweb. It seems easier here to just show up and begin. At home there are a thousand distractions, and the struggle to throw words onto paper is easily eclipsed by the difficulty of just getting down to it. So there I was, writing. Freed from the ordinary way of going about things, sticking it to the familiar and filling hours with words.

I started my writing session by reading a little essay from The Observer by Paul Auster that I had printed out and saved as a way of encouragement. It’s a wonderful response to the question: Why does someone embark on this “magnificently useless” endeavor of writing. The piece is actually from Paul Auster’s acceptance speech for the Prince of Asturias Prize for Letters, Spain’s premier literary honor. It’s definitely worth a read or two. Here a few excellent quotations from the piece:

I don’t know why I do what I do. If I did know, I probably wouldn’t feel the need to do it. All I can say, and I say it with utmost certainty, is that I have felt this need since my earliest adolescence. I’m talking about writing, in particular, writing as a vehicle to tell stories, imaginary stories that have never taken place in what we call the real world. Surely it is an odd way to spend your life – sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist – except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.

***

In other words, art is useless, at least when compared, say, to the work of a plumber, or a doctor, or a railroad engineer. But is uselessness a bad thing? Does a lack of practical purpose mean that books and paintings and string quartets are simply a waste of our time? Many people think so. But I would argue that it is the very uselessness of art that gives it its value and that the making of art is what distinguishes us from all other creatures who inhabit this planet, that it is, essentially, what defines us as human beings.

To do something for the pure pleasure and beauty of doing it. Think of the effort involved, the long hours of practice and discipline required to become an accomplished pianist or dancer. All the suffering and hard work, all the sacrifices in order to achieve something that is utterly and magnificently … useless.

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…human beings need stories. They need them almost as desperately as they need food and however the stories might be presented – whether on a printed page or on a television screen – it would be impossible to imagine life without them.

***

Every novel is an equal collaboration between the writer and the reader and it is the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy.

I have spent my life in conversations with people I have never seen, with people I will never know and I hope to continue until the day I stop breathing.

It’s the only job I’ve ever wanted.

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So may you write until you drop, or as my favorite columnist, Sugar on the Rumpus says: “Write like a motherfucker.”