Dimensions of being human that go beyond this are not part of it. Thus, essential aspects of the cultural heritage of humanity, both in the East and in the West, are not taken into consideration.

Our state of consciousness is our state of life.

Many people feel deeply that we are lacking something. Something is missing, even if everything is available on the outside – often even in abundance. This would not be experienced if there were not a criterion deep within ourselves that something like fulfilment, completeness, satiety, true satisfaction and ultimately a sense of arrival truly existed. As we often feel inadequate, as deficient beings, we are searching. We look for a solution to our dilemma. Animals do not do this. As seekers, we find ourselves on an unknown path that is supposed to lead us “home” again, into fullness and fulfilment. Like strangers who don’t really know what exactly they are looking for and what they are lacking, but who know deep down inside: THIS HERE cannot be everything, THIS HERE can only be a transitional state, THIS HERE is not my true home.

The problem lies in our state of consciousness. In our purely human-creatural state, our consciousness is almost completely identified with the material body and the material world, which includes both the visible physical matter and the invisible subtle worlds. This is where we feel at home. This is where we seek fulfilment. But is it to be found here?

Most people are convinced that they really are this natural being, this ego, this personality with its name, history, feelings, thoughts and beliefs and, above all, this body. They equate themselves with this deficient being and believe that their own personality completely defines them. Physical death inevitably becomes something tragic for them and is perceived as the worst-case scenario. Sigmund Freud called death the ultimate “narcissistic insult” to the human being, because it shatters the human self-image existentially. Death means finiteness; the fragility of physical existence; it reveals our powerlessness in relation to the most fundamental aspect of our lives: our existence here on earth.

But there is more. Consciousness does not come to rest where death is concerned. The fact that the body decays is obvious. The dying process is also something that we can observe (in others). But the state of death, our own death, cannot be imagined by the conscious mind. It appears to it as an eerie nothingness from which it must protect itself. So we search for solutions and, how could it be otherwise, we try to find solutions on the material level we are familiar with.

The vision of transhumanism

Transhumanism (from Latin trans = over and humanus = human, “h+” for short) is an intellectual, cultural and philosophical movement that aims to transform the human species, both biologically and intellectually, through the use of advanced technologies. The core idea is to overcome the biological limits of human beings in order to achieve a new, better form of existence. The aim is for humans to significantly improve and expand their physical and cognitive abilities through technology such as biotechnology (genetic modification), artificial intelligence (AI), nanotechnology, robotics and brain-computer interfaces. Life extension is also on the horizon. Some even believe they will be able to overcome death in the long term.

The term transhumanism was formulated early on, but especially in the 1950s by Julian Huxley (1887-1975), a British biologist and philosopher who propagated the idea of completing human evolution through technological means. The movement itself gained in importance in the 1980s and 1990s. It now has a firm place in the common mindset.

One of the best-known advocates of transhumanism today is Ray Kurzweil, a leading futurist and director of engineering at Google, who wrote the 2005 bestseller The Singularity Is Near. Briefly summarised, the book deals with the technological “Singularity”, a groundbreaking event that Kurzweil predicts to occur in 2045. Singularity is the point at which artificial intelligence will be so advanced that it will surpass human intelligence, and humans will overcome their biological limitations with the help of technology. This scenario will have massive implications for humanity, such as the merging of man and technology. Unpredictable and radical changes to individuals and society will be the result. So much, in a nutshell, for the vision of futurist Ray Kurzweil.

Prominent promoters of these ideas include Aubrey de Grey, a biogerontologist known for his work on life extension, and Nick Bostrom, philosopher and director of the Future of Humanity Institute at Oxford University.

The current driving forces behind the topic include financially strong US tech companies such as Google and Tesla, as well as many smaller tech companies. Well-known personalities such as Elon Musk are among the proponents. Musk is the founder of companies such as Tesla and SpaceX and also founded Neuralink, a company that develops brain-computer interfaces. This technology aims to connect the human brain with computers. Prototypes have already been developed. They are intended to help paraplegics, for example, to control so-called exoskeletons with their brain power, which will enable them to regain mobility.

Visionaries in the scene dream of one day being able to transfer human consciousness to microchips and store it permanently. In this way, humans could achieve immortality through technology. The age-old dream of cheating death is being dreamed of in a new way by transhumanists. State-of-the-art technology should first prolong life in the body and then capture and store consciousness. The American computer scientist and Silicon Valley insider Jaron Lanier writes in his book Who Owns the Future? about “the tech circles where one finds an obsession with the technologies of immortality. […] What most people have failed to grasp is that the rise to power of net-based monopolies coincides with a new sort of religion based on becoming immortal. ”

Attempt at an interpretation.

The goals and promises of transhumanism are manifold and plausible. Humans should live much longer and healthier lives, free from illness and physical limitations. Technological advances should make it possible to expand human capabilities to an unimagined extent. This should usher in a new era for the human species.

The transhumanists’ view of humanity is limited to existence in this world. Dimensions of being human that go beyond that are not included. Essential aspects of humanity’s cultural heritage, both in the East and in the West, are ignored. This includes, in particular, the knowledge that there is something immortal in man. The original impulses of all great cultures bear witness to this. What is striking and paradoxical about transhumanist philosophy is that the idea of an immortal and perfect existence is one of its guiding principles. It is not recognised that such an idea can only come from the immortal itself. In Sri Aurobindo’s (1872-1950) philosophy of evolution, man is a transitional being. He warned against viewing the future development of man only in linear terms, i.e. as a mental being with enhanced abilities. Instead, man should grow beyond his mental thinking through a change of consciousness and achieve a supramental awareness of truth, which he also called “gnosis”.

Transhumanism forms a kind of antithesis to the origins of human cultures and their spiritual knowledge. These origins go back thousands of years and tell of the divine origin of man and the divine seed that remains in him. They also tell how early humanity, embodied on earth, interacted with the gods. At that time, the human soul space was an arena, a field of activity for the activities of the gods. In it, they could reveal themselves directly; they could powerfully work into man, shaping and guiding him.

Corresponding testimonies from sacred writings and the findings of anthropologists and spiritual teachers usually appear to modern man as pious fairy tales. Remnants of this early existence, which can still be found among some indigenous peoples, are dismissed as fantasies.

How our current state of consciousness came about

Cultural history contains clues as to how our current state of consciousness came about. In this light, transhumanism appears as a possible consequence of a path that has long been taken. Man began (thousands of years ago) to build a barrier against the world of the gods, a certain protective space for his soul and his consciousness. He did this with the help of developing thought. Whereas he had previously focused primarily on the divine-spiritual world, he used his incipient thinking to attune himself more and more to the visible world. The enormous diversity in nature helped him to develop a differentiated thought life. Thus began a path that led him outwards, away from the innermost, unfathomable depths. Although thinking itself is also an inner process, it became a resonance chamber, a sphere of reflection for the outside world.

It was evident to the early philosophers that the gods gave humans the ability to think in order to mirror themselves and their impulses in a conscious counterpart. To understand themselves through man “understanding them”. The word “reflect” expresses the mirroring function of thinking. Today, however, it is primarily the world that is reflected in human consciousness.

In the inner space that separated itself from the divine, man was one day able to say “I” to himself. Odysseus was, as far as can be seen, the first to do so. The barrier to the divine-spiritual world gradually became denser and denser, and with it the ego became stronger. Everything transient is a likeness, a reflection of the imperishable, the eternal. This also includes the ego. The One, the Universal, made itself recognisable to man. This gave rise to monotheism, the belief in the one divine “I am” – and with it its reflection in human consciousness, human individuality, the earthly ego. All of this may have been forgotten, but the memory of what happened can still light up. It is also a reflection of the origin, of the transcendent within us.

Thinking in spheres of freedom makes transhumanism possible, along with many other things. Being enchanted by the magic of what is possible leads to many things, including tragic dead ends. What we undertake does not always turn out well. Our immanent greatness, the freedom we have within us, the great power of our innermost light corresponds to the greatness of the misfortune and suffering that we can bring upon ourselves. They arise as a warning call, as a “stop”, when we venture too far into the outer world, when the arc of our being, which ends in the divine, threatens to break. When only a grimace stares back at the archetype that is gradually trying to create an image of itself.

Rudolf Steiner’s (1861-1925) anthroposophy sees Ahriman as the driving force that attempts to (mis-) lead people to a purely material existence – without any reference to the spirit – by technical means.

Failure and fulfilment on the path of humanity

This does not have to happen, not even on the path of transhumanism. Many smaller stages of failure precede the propagated “singularity”, which can only be realised in partial aspects. The vision of “singularity” as such, however, appears to be a counter-image to what the archetype intends.

The origin and we belong together; without the eternal within us, we are nothing. Today, we form a kind of darkened interface to the eternal and a wide-open interface to the world. Whereas we were once wide open to the divine-spiritual, today we are wide open to the world.

Engineering and technologies are inventions of the mind. They are often applications of great scientific findings and intuitions. Intuitions reach beyond us and often have to do with the primordial ground. Why should we not put the products of our intellect at our service? We could not exist without them. The mind belongs to us; only with its help can we cope with our existence. However, if we were only rational beings, we would be reduced to human beings, a kind of bloated brain. A few centuries ago, the mind freed itself from the power of religious authorities. In the meantime, however, its zeal has created a destructive imbalance in the organism as a whole. Among its offspring are the efforts to realise transhumanism.

The next evolutionary steps are about the whole, about the interaction of all aspects of the human being. This also includes deep inner feeling, sensing, experiencing the one life that moves in all beings. This includes opening up to the sustaining power that underlies all life. We have always known about love. It is reflected in our world in a thousand different ways. Divine love is the most important force, the sustaining force of the worlds, the sustaining force of our lives. To sacrifice itself, to “crucify” itself in the most diverse ways, is characteristic of it. It walks with us into the most distant outside, into the most extreme alienation, in order to hold together everything that arises for as long as possible.

The coronation of being human presupposes that we give the origin the opportunity to complete its reflection in us. This happens when an immortal structure can develop in the midst of our perishable body, an eternally living “body”, the “body” of the immortal aspect within us. It is the true image, created after long development and long maturation. This body is no longer subject to disintegration; it is of a subtle, energetic nature. And how is it formed? It happens through thinking, feeling, willing and acting that are directed towards the whole, that respond to the whole, to the impulses of the One, to the immanent unity of being human and of all life in nature. Again, thinking is important because it has a structuring power. If it allows itself to be guided by the source with the request “Thy will be done through me”, then the divine will works through man and with his help. It transforms him, and man transforms the world in which he lives. To be more precise, as soon as the immortal supporting structure is formed in man, he lives in two worlds. Image and archetype become a twofold unity. The image is a voluntary instrument and helper of the divine primordial ground.

The aspirations of transhumanism must be lived through. They contribute to the fullness of experience and the resulting maturation. There is much to indicate that, in addition to a number of helpful results, the coupling of man and machine results in an “abundance of failure and suffering “, an overcoming of man by the spirits he called.

The Bible speaks of a rebirth “out of water and of the Spirit” and thus refers to impulses from the divine-spiritual world. Transhumanism ultimately strives for rebirth “from technology”. To this end, it uses the idea, the ideal, the information from the divine-spiritual impulses, without knowing or wanting to acknowledge this origin.

Some say that we are at the midway point of evolution; others say that we have reached the stage of puberty in human development. The magnitude of the dangers we are creating for ourselves and the earth urges us to take the step into adulthood. It is the step into wholeness, combined with the surrender to the hardly ever imagined greatness of being human. It is the step into co-responsibility for the future path of creation and its transformation out of the spirit.

They demand an import tariff of 40%. It concerns ‘L’Oiseau d’or’, the golden bird, by the artist Constantin Brâncuși, internationally known as Brancusi.

L’Oiseau d’or Constantin Brâncuși Fair Use

It is 2026, a hundred years later. The exhibition ‘The Birth of Modern Sculpture’ is on view at the H’ART museum in Amsterdam. An exceptional collection of works by Brancusi has been assembled. I walk around and wonder what inspired this artist.

Brancusi is widely regarded as the father of modern sculpture. The conflict with the border authorities and the ensuing lawsuit marked a milestone in art history, a shift in the definition of art. From then on, the artist’s intention and aesthetic vision would carry just as much weight as a realistic representation. Constantin Brancusi was an inwardly driven man. At the age of eleven, he left his parental home and sought his way through life by wandering. At the age of 26, he created an unusual sculpture: a man whose skin had been removed and whose muscles meticulously exposed. It was his first attempt to grasp the ‘real’, the inner reality, beyond the exterior. With ‘The Flayed Man’, he won the prize offered by the School of Fine Arts in Bucharest. When he was 28, he saw no future for himself in Romania. He decided to go to Paris, the art center of Europe, on foot—he had no other means of travel. In Paris, he met the already famous sculptor Auguste Rodin. Rodin hired him as an assistant, but Brancusi soon left. His main reason was: ‘Nothing grows in the shadow of big trees.’

Brancusi sought innovation. He scribbled his simple definition of art on one of his notepads: ‘Creating things you do not yet know.’

He broke with the tradition of sculpting from a model, of layer upon layer, and developed into taille directe, the direct carving and cutting of materials—stone, plaster, and wood. In this direct method of working, Brancusi experienced ‘the value of the moment.’ For him, carving and cutting was a quest for archetypes, primordial forms, primordial ideas: for the essence of existence. Removing everything superfluous and redundant to find ‘authenticity,’ to find ‘truth,’ to expose an inviolable core. As Michelangelo also said: ‘I only need to free the angel from the stone.’ Brancusi says of his fish series:

‘You think of his speed, his floating, flashing body visible through the water… well, I have tried to express exactly that (…) I only want to capture the flash of his spirit.’

With his ‘flash’, Brancusi touches my soul. The far-reaching abstraction and movement in his images touch upon the origin of life.

La Prière Constantin Brâncuși Fair Use

In 1907 Brancusi created ‘La Prière’, the prayer (2), on commission. It shows a young woman kneeling on the ground with her head slightly bowed and her arms folded over her heart. Her posture makes it clear that she is in prayer.

Leda  Constantin Brâncuși Fair Use

In 1920 Brancusi sculpted ‘Leda’ in white marble and later in bronze. Leda, the beautiful but mortal queen, uniting with the immortal god Zeus in the form of a swan. Brancusi does something great here. His swan does not have a classical swan neck, but a tapering, triangular shape, in which I see the posture of a kneeling woman, comparable to ‘La Prière’. In this sculpture, Leda and Zeus have become completely one. His sculpture ‘Leda’ shows a glimpse of the truth, that mortality is inextricably linked to immortality. That the breath of eternity breathes within me, the flash of the immortal spirit dwells in all mortal beings.

Prometheus, from Greek mythology, stole the divine immortal fire from Mount Olympus to plant it in the hearts of men so that they too could dream, think and act in freedom, and even equal the immortal gods.

Prométhée Constantin Brâncuși Fair Use

Brancusi’s ‘Prométhée’ shows a slumbering, sleeping little boy. Just as in his sculpture ‘Leda’, Brancusi gives the ancient myth his own twist with ‘Prométhée’. As I take in the image, it is as if I hear Prometheus saying: the divine fire that I put into your heart, for which I suffered, still lies sleeping and fastened in your heart. Wake up. Liberate the divine fire bestowed upon you! Discover the immortal flash of the spirit within you. The sculpture ‘Prométhée’ points in an inimitable way to a new possibility of life that rests in all hearts. Brancusi gives the myth the necessary new meaning for our time.

A bird symbolizes freedom, the flight of the soul in longing for union with the spirit. Brancusi created no fewer than 27 bird sculptures in marble and bronze, and another thirteen in plaster. One of these was given a Romanian title: ‘Maiastra’. It depicts the magical bird from the fairy tales and legends of his native country.

‘The Maiastra bird symbolizes the flight that liberates man from the limitations of inanimate matter,’

says Brancusi. And further:

‘It is not birds that I sculpt, it is the act of flying. Throughout my life, I try to capture the essence of flight. Flight, what a joy!’

The slender beauty of ‘L’Oiseau d’or’, the sculpture that failed to clear customs in 1926, reflects the liberation of the inner fire. This soul-bird ascends; it breaks through the horizontal earthly laws of nature. It follows the straight line to what is above. Brancusi:

‘A good sculpture can heal.’

A good sculpture heals man and his soul into a harmonious whole with the spirit of unity, freedom, and love.

About the artist:

Constantin Brâncuși was born in 1876 in Hobita Gorj, near Targu Jiu in Romania. In 1894, he was able to start working for a barrel maker in Craiova. His talent and artistic qualities were noticed. Thanks to a scholarship, he was able to enrol in the School of Fine Arts in Bucharest. He obtained his diploma in sculpture in 1902, at the age of 26.

In Paris, he continued his studies at the École des Beaux Arts. In 1926, he achieved a breakthrough in the United States with his retrospective exhibition in New York. Brâncuși died in 1957 in his studio on Impasse Ronsin in Paris. He bequeathed his entire studio, along with all his artworks, to the French state.

Other works:

Tete d’enfant endormi (1906)

Mademoiselle Pogany (1913)

Princesse X (1915)

Une Muse (1917)

La Colonne sans fin ( 1918)

Work in three parts (1938): The Table of Silence – The Gate of the Kiss – The Endless Column: commemorative sculpture in honor of the Romanian soldiers of the First World War.

Remarks:

[1] The Pasarea Maiastra, The Master Bird, or The Wonderful Bird, is a central figure in Romanian legends, comparable to the firebird or Phoenix from mythology. The bird symbolises mastery of the art of flight, the flight to the absolute, and divine beauty. Petre Ispirescu (1830-1887) was a Romanian writer who collected, retranslated, and made accessible to his time Povesti Romanesti, Romanian fairy tales, including the Pasarea Maiastra.

[2] My homeland. My family. It is the turning earth – the wind, the passing clouds, the flowing water, the fire warming the green grass – dry grass – mud, snow. (Brancusi, studio note)

The Mystery of Seeing

The work of M. C. Escher continues to fascinate because it invites us to look, and then to look again. His images have precision, mystery, and an unsettling clarity. They seem to show a world that is perfectly ordered and yet somehow impossible. Everything appears carefully constructed, almost mathematical, but the more one looks, the less secure ordinary seeing becomes.

Perhaps that is why Escher’s art continues to fascinate. His images invite us to look, and then to look again. A staircase rises, but also descends. A building appears solid, yet cannot exist. Birds become fish, day becomes night, hands draw one another into being, and figures move through architectural spaces from which there seems to be no escape. At first, we may smile at the cleverness of the illusion. Then, if we remain with the image a little longer, another question begins to arise: is Escher only playing with the eye, or is he revealing something about the condition of human consciousness itself?

His genius lies partly in the fact that he makes visible, with extraordinary clarity, the structures of perception in which we often live without knowing it. His worlds are ordered, beautiful, exact, and fascinating; yet they are also enclosed. Movement takes place, but often without true release. Transformation occurs, but not always into freedom. The eye is delighted, but also quietly disturbed.

This makes Escher especially interesting for the seeker. His art does not begin with doctrine. It begins with seeing. A child can recognise that something strange is happening in the picture. An art student can admire the technical mastery. A mathematician can follow the precision of the structure. But a seeker may sense something more: a visual parable of the world in which human consciousness moves, repeats, changes, and longs for another possibility.

The Staircase and the Wheel

This is especially clear in the famous staircases. In works such as Ascending and Descending, figures move in steady procession. They climb and descend, apparently engaged in purposeful activity, yet the staircase returns them endlessly to the same point. The image is simple, but its meaning can open deeply.

Readers wishing to view Ascending and Descending can do so here:
Ascending and Descending by M.C. Escher

The staircase appears to promise ascent. Each step suggests progress. Yet the hidden law of the structure returns the walkers to where they began. They move, but they do not escape. They are active, but not free.

This may also be read as an image of ordinary human existence. We repeat certain patterns, individually and collectively. We are drawn again and again into the same reactions, desires, fears, ambitions, conflicts, and hopes. The outer circumstances may change, but the inner movement often remains the same.

In many spiritual traditions, this repeating movement is symbolised by the wheel: the cycle of birth and death, action and consequence, attachment and return. The word karma points to this hidden chain of cause and effect. It is not punishment, but law. What has not yet been understood, released, or transformed continues to bind us to the same field of experience.

Seen in this way, Escher’s staircase becomes a vivid image of life within the closed circuit of dialectical nature. It shows effort, movement, and apparent progress, yet also reveals the deeper repetition that holds humanity within the same order of existence.

The figures in the image continue their circular journey. They do not stop. They do not question the staircase. They do not turn inward. But the viewer stands in another position. We can see the pattern. We can recognise the enclosure. We can perceive that what appears to be ascent is not yet liberation.
Such recognition is already the beginning of another kind of seeing.

The Labyrinth of Appearances

The staircase is only one example. Again and again, Escher presents us with worlds that seem complete in themselves. They have their own logic, their own laws, their own beauty. Yet the longer we look, the more we realise that something is not quite right. The eye is invited into a structure that appears convincing. Still, the mind eventually discovers that it cannot be reconciled with ordinary reality.

This is part of Escher’s fascination. He does not show us chaos. He shows us order becoming a labyrinth. His images are precise, disciplined, and beautifully arranged, yet they often lead us into impossibility. The viewer enters a world that seems rational, only to discover that reason alone cannot resolve it.

Readers wishing to view Relativity can do so here:
Relativity by M.C. Escher

This has a quiet spiritual significance. The world in which we live is not without order. Nature is governed by rhythm, number, growth, decay, attraction, resistance, birth and death. Human life, too, has its patterns: family, work, longing, success, disappointment, memory, hope. Much of this can appear meaningful and even beautiful. Yet if the deeper question is not asked, the whole movement may remain enclosed within itself.

Escher helps us to see this without making the point heavy. His visual worlds are not crude prisons. They are elegant, intelligent, and compelling. That is precisely why they are so powerful. They remind us that the closed world does not always appear as darkness or disorder. It may appear as fascination, cleverness, beauty, ambition, and even apparent progress.

In this sense, the labyrinth is not only outside us. It is also within our way of seeing. We may be trapped not simply by circumstances, but by the assumptions through which we interpret them. We think we are moving freely, yet we may still be following the lines of an unseen pattern. We think we are choosing, yet our choices may arise from old fears, desires, attachments, and habits of consciousness.

This recognition can be uncomfortable, but it can also be merciful. For as long as the pattern remains invisible, we continue to walk within it. When it becomes visible, another possibility begins. We may not yet be free, but we have begun to see the structure of our unfreedom.

This is why Escher’s art can serve as a visual school of attention. It trains the eye to question the first appearance of things. It teaches us to pause before accepting what seems obvious. It invites us to look again, and in looking again, to discover that the world of appearances may be more complex, more unstable, and more enclosed than we first imagined.

These questions lead naturally to another of Escher’s great themes: Metamorphosis.

Metamorphosis and Transfiguration

If the staircase gives us an image of repetition, Escher’s Metamorphosis works offer a complementary image: transformation. Here, the eye is no longer held in a single impossible circuit. It is drawn across a sequence of gradual changes, where one form passes into another, and the world seems to unfold as a continuous process of becoming.

In Metamorphosis I, first printed in 1937, Escher begins with the coastal Italian town of Atrani. The architecture slowly loses its ordinary appearance and becomes a pattern of three-dimensional blocks. These blocks then alter again, becoming a tessellated pattern of human-like figures. The recognisable world has entered geometry; geometry has entered living form. One state gives way to another.

Readers wishing to view Metamorphosis I can do so here:
Metamorphosis I by M.C. Escher

At first sight, this seems very different from the staircase. The staircase repeats; Metamorphosis changes. The staircase returns; Metamorphosis unfolds. The staircase shows enclosure; Metamorphosis suggests movement from one condition into another.

Yet this raises an important spiritual question: is every change a true transformation?
In ordinary life, change is constant. Childhood becomes adulthood. One phase of life gives way to another. Beliefs alter, relationships shift, circumstances rise and fall. The body changes, society changes, and the world changes around us. Yet beneath these changes, the same deeper pattern may continue. A person may change outwardly and still remain bound inwardly to the same fears, desires, reactions, and attachments.

This is why the spiritual path speaks not only of change, or even of transformation, but of transfiguration. In the School, this deeper Metamorphosis is understood as the awakening into consciousness of the new soul state. It is not merely psychological improvement, a change of opinion, a refinement of the personality, or the adoption of a more spiritual language. It is the gradual emergence of another principle of life within the human being.

The butterfly is often used as a symbol of this mystery. The caterpillar does not merely improve itself. It does not become a more successful caterpillar or a more refined version of what it already was. It passes through a complete transformation and emerges with another form, another movement, another relation to the world.

In this sense, transfiguration is not an escape from life, but the fulfilment of a hidden possibility. Something awakens that does not belong to the old circular movement. A new soul-consciousness begins to unfold, and with it a different orientation toward the world, toward others, and toward the divine source of life.

Seen in this light, Escher’s Metamorphosis becomes more than an exercise in visual invention. It asks us to consider the difference between outer change and inner renewal. Does one form become another within the same field? Or can there be a transformation that opens toward another order altogether?

The answer is not given directly by the image. Escher remains an artist of visual paradox, not a preacher of doctrine. But his work places the question before us with unusual clarity. It shows us the beauty and inevitability of change, while also inviting us to ask whether change alone is enough.

The staircase tells us that movement is not yet liberation. Metamorphosis tells us that the change of form is not yet transfiguration. Between these two insights, the seeker begins to understand something essential: the way beyond repetition cannot be found by merely continuing the same movement, nor by exchanging one outer form of life for another. It requires the awakening of a new soul state within.

This is where the image of the butterfly becomes so helpful. It does not deny the caterpillar; it reveals a possibility hidden within it. It does not escape by force; it undergoes a process. It does not decorate the old life; it enters a new one.

In the same way, the human being who begins to awaken does not simply reject the world, nor merely rearrange the outer circumstances of life. A deeper process begins: a loosening from old patterns, a surrender of what binds, and a new orientation toward the light. What was once experienced only as repetition may then become preparation. What was once a closed circuit may become the place where longing for liberation is born.

Geometry, Infinity, and the Open World

Escher’s art not only shows repetition and transformation. It also reveals a profound fascination with order. His images are built from symmetry, reflection, rotation, interlocking forms, and patterns that seem capable of continuing without end. Even when the image is impossible, its construction is exact.

His encounter with Moorish design at the Alhambra was especially important. The abstract patterns, geometric repetitions, and interlocking forms he saw there helped deepen his interest in tessellation and the division of the plane. These designs do not imitate nature in the ordinary sense. They reveal another kind of nature: the hidden order of proportion, rhythm, and recurrence.

Readers wishing to view Circle Limit III can do so here:
Circle Limit III by M.C. Escher

For the spiritual seeker, such order can be deeply suggestive. Geometry has long been associated with the attempt to glimpse a higher harmony behind visible appearances. The point, the circle, the triangle, the square, the star, the spiral, and the repeated pattern can all become signs of orientation. They remind us that the visible world is not merely a collection of disconnected things. There is a relation. There is a measure. There is a law.

Yet Escher also keeps us alert. Order by itself is not liberation. A pattern may be beautiful and still be closed. A system may be perfect and still imprisoning. The repeating tessellation may extend endlessly, yet it remains within its own plane. Infinity, in this sense, may be wondrous, but it may also suggest endless continuation without release.

This distinction is important. The eternal is not simply the endless. It is not the continuation of the same movement forever, but the presence of another order altogether. Escher’s images help us feel the difference. They bring us to the edge of the endless and invite us to ask whether there is something beyond it.

This is where his art can become a threshold. It does not tell us what to believe. It does not give us doctrine. It asks us to look again. The staircase, the labyrinth, the Metamorphosis, the tessellation, the impossible building — each becomes a question placed before consciousness.

What kind of world are we moving through? Are we truly seeing, or only following the lines of an inherited pattern? Are we moving toward freedom, or walking once more around the same hidden wheel? Are we changing outwardly, or is something new beginning to awaken within?

Escher does not answer these questions for us. He leaves us before the image, looking again. And perhaps that is enough. For when the eye begins to see the pattern, the heart may begin to seek the way beyond it. The staircase is still there, the labyrinth still turns, the forms still change — but somewhere within the seeker another possibility begins to stir.

Not another step on the same staircase, but the first intuition of a different path.

Viewing the Artworks

Readers wishing to view the works discussed in this article may find them at the following link from the National Gallery of Art:
Ascending and Descending (1960)
Relativity (1953)

Metamorphosis I“ (1937)

Circle Limit III“ (1959)


I do not wish to speak of nature:

it speaks for itself.

I seek the memory of what has been forgotten:

to lend my ears to the inaudible

and bow before silence.

— To reach the frontier that leads beyond the impassable!

Perhaps it is not a mere desire.

Nor is it a matter of intoxication.

It is the soul’s thirst,

which nature cannot quench.

— It is to seek the meaning of emptiness

in order to fill the emptiness of meaning!

Let the world make its plea:

it may be sensible,

insistent or moving.

Yet there is no appeal in the world

that could make me trade

the lucidity of awakening

for the sleep of illusion.

Are you aware of the fact, that an infinitesimal deviation in the orbital path of a planet in our solar system would sow chaos, one consequence of which would be the disappearance of all traces of life on Earth?

Certain enlightened thinkers have held that the true human being – that is, not merely a biological organism but one animated by a soul and a spiritual life – is structured in the image of the universe, calling it a ‘microcosmos’ or microcosm. Regarding this small universe or microcosm, Empedocles – a philosopher of the fourth century BC. tells us:

“Equal to itself everywhere, boundless, ‘Sphairos’ (that is, the radiant sun) exists – perfectly round, joyful, and motionless.” 1

Today, we perceive only a limited fragment of ‘Sphairos’ – our body – animated by a consciousness that is equally limited, being essentially determined by our sensory activity. Yet, despite this obvious limitation of our physical, emotional, and cognitive capacities, we remain driven by the desire to transcend these limitations. But what is the origin of this desire that compels humanity to constantly seek new horizons – horizons whose limits will sooner or later be discovered, only to prompt a renewed attempt to transcend them?

This impulse springs from a secret sanctuary – a realm of the absolute – situated in the deepest recesses of our soul. Various spiritual schools have referred to it as the “Spark of Light,” the “Mustard Seed,” the “Rose of the Heart,” the “Grail,” or, in the Middle East, the “Sacred Deposit.” Yet our consciousness perceives nothing of this silent presence, save perhaps fleetingly as a faint nostalgia that sweeps through one’s being, casting it into a state of unease that nothing – and no one – can erase. Often, our consciousness interprets this inner impulse as a chaotic search outside our own microcosm, leading us down endlessly winding paths – like a colossal maze from which escape is utterly impossible.

This quest for the absolute also lies at the heart of much theological discourse. Traditional religious teachings have offered humanity an explanation framing man’s place in the universe as the product of divine will; the entire religious edifice positioning itself as an intermediary between humanity and God. Over the centuries, however, this belief has fractured – slowly but inexorably – partly due to the work of certain individuals regarding the laws governing the universe, thereby relegating the foundational dogmas of major religions to the realm of the irrational. Notable figures between the 15th and 18th centuries such as Copernicus, Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and also Newton who helped lay the groundwork for the experimental method, that is, devising and conducting experiments and models to replicate observed phenomena, and using these models to trace back to the primal principle, to the creative idea itself. Discovering these laws of cosmic organisation marked the first step toward understanding the mystery of life.

In its early stages, however, the scientific approach was deeply imbued with metaphysics – or rather, rational mysticism. We have recently discovered, for instance, that Newton – the father of Newtonian physics that underpins our modern worldview – was, before becoming a scientist, a committed alchemist who drew upon Hermetic traditions. In reality, Newton viewed the universe as a cryptogram composed by the Almighty, as a riddle whose meaning was meant to be deciphered. Until the advent of modern science, Nature was perceived as a living reality, animated by its own Soul. However, the mechanistic philosophy that emerged in the 17th century gradually imposed the idea that everything should be conceived on the model of a machine and that the Soul should be replaced by the concept of force – with the heavens, planets, plants, animals, and even human beings themselves all obeying these forces.

The hypothesis that God is a fundamental element in the organisation of the universe became superfluous; the wisdom of those who strove to develop a vision of the world, of humanity, and of life – particularly the early Rosicrucian, uniting reason and faith in harmony – gradually gave way to an exclusively rational approach, the very approach the greater part of humanity follows today. The culmination of this process was undoubtedly the exclusion of the subject – and so of their consciousness or soul – from the process of knowing the object. The consequences of this separation are incalculable…

The psychoanalyst Jung wrote:

“Science in its entirety is, however, dependent on the soul in which all knowledge is rooted… It is extremely surprising that the Western world seems to fail to appreciate this situation.” 2

By losing the soul as an organ of knowledge, science has precluded itself from answering the question of meaning – a point Plato emphatically highlights in The Republic, Book VII:

“Now, our reasoning […] demonstrates that this faculty of knowledge is present – along with the most appropriate organ – in everyone’s soul; and that, just as an eye could only turn from darkness to light by rotating the entire body, so equally must the whole soul – along with the organ of knowledge – be turned away from passing things, until it becomes capable of enduring the contemplation of Being in its most luminous aspect: namely, what we call the Good.” 3

Through this exclusion of the soul, science has defined its own sphere and methodology. It has gradually imposed its vision of the world and of life, and it is this vision that forms the current foundation of our materialistic culture.

But let us not be mistaken. We wish to acknowledge the remarkable consequences of scientific research in the technologies that shape our daily environment: information technology, energy, new materials, genetic engineering and so forth. Yet, do these technologies enable us to answer the fundamental question: what is the meaning of life?

Certainly not! And yet, is this question not fundamental? Why, then, such ignorance? Why such a drift – where the fundamental questions of existence are not only excluded but even deemed unwelcome in our society today?

The root of this drift lies in the rift between inner – or sacred – science and materialist science. For today, there exists an inner science known to a limited few seekers whose hearts are filled with a yearning to understand and realise the meaning of life. Their primary task is to discover the plan that imprints its pattern upon the workings and organisation of the universe. This discovery is made possible by the awakening of a genuine higher intuition – a mode of operation for the imagination in which it draws sustenance from the living springs of the Universal Spirit.

Unlike the scientific approach, which seeks to isolate the individual parts of a system in order to study them – thereby attempting to reconstruct the whole and deduce its organisational laws – Sacred Science is founded upon a holistic vision of humanity, life and the universe. It begins with humanity, for the human being is both the agent and the subject of this knowledge. Sacred Science posits that the human being is far more than a complex arrangement of atoms animated by biological life and governed by energetic processes that are more or less understood. The human being is also an element or organ of a true living Body (the ‘microcosm’ or ‘Sphairos’) – whose constituent elements cannot be grasped or studied using current scientific instruments and theories. A master of Sacred Science, Jan van Rijckenborgh – one of the founders of the International School of the Golden Rosycross – has vividly described this living body, this microcosm. Here arises the mystery of life as an element within a cosmic-scale plan; its ultimate purpose – conveyed through countless myths and legends – is the awakening and liberation of the Being of Light that lies dormant within each of us. It is Life itself that lies at the heart of this science – not biological life, even though that plays a decisive role, but the Life whose origin lies in another Reality, a field of perfect Life and Light. Finally, this vision extends to the universe, which is organised in the image of the microcosm, thereby aligning with the ancient Hermetic insight:

“As above, so below.” 4

Clearly, the aim of this Sacred Science is not to increase humanity’s material comfort. Nor does it seek to provide an extra measure of moral or spiritual comfort, even though such things may result from its practice. Its sole objective is to restore within the individual the latent faculty of perfect knowledge – that is, an inner understanding of life, being and the world, free from any belief systems or external conditioning. The key that unlocks this perfect knowledge lies in consciousness – the very consciousness that enables us to question the meaning of life and refuses to accept that life is merely a biological accident in the unfathomable history of the universe. It is from the deepest recesses of our consciousness that there arises a sensitivity towards goodness, towards noble sentiments, and also towards that fleeting nostalgia which sometimes grips us so deeply that, when it fades, it leaves behind a trace of “unease” – something that neither time nor anyone can erase.

We see the emergence – at a time determined solely by our own inner journey – of a new vision of the world and of life. The signs of this are already appearing through certain discoveries in quantum physics, which hint that a reality unknown and imperceptible to us is taking shape within the surrounding universe. The only way to perceive this reality lies in a shift of consciousness – a shift that itself must originate from that very reality.

This brings us to the threshold of the sacred – to the gateway of Sacred Science whose keys (those mysterious “mystic keys” to which Newton referred) lie hidden within us, in the very place where we never think to look.

It is toward this inner science that the science of nature can – and should – lead us. The true function of natural science, with its extraordinary capacity to investigate both the infinitely small and the infinitely vast, is to preserve our capacity to wonder at the marvels of the universe and of life, thereby prompting the human soul to ponder the mystery of existence. This questioning can go deeper, eventually impelling the individual to seek a reality that transcends the limitations of their consciousness and their myriad beliefs. In doing so, secular science will have guided the individual to the threshold of Sacred Science – one that connects them to the perfection of a timeless, infinite reality.

References

¹ Empedocles, 490-435 BC. Fragments

² Erwin Schrödinger,’Spirit and Matter’ 1958

³ Plato, The Republic, Book VII

⁴ Hermes Trismegistos, Tabula Smaragdina

We humans tell each other stories, and in them we often talk about things that are difficult to express directly—because it would be too complicated, and because we lack the words. Sometimes, among the many stories, plots, narratives, novels, and reports, we find something that touches us in a unique way. We feel that a truth is being expressed, one that concerns us. Even if the events are far removed from our own lives, the metaphor strikes a chord, and we are moved.

“Io non ho paura” is the title of a book by Niccolò Ammaniti and of the film based on it by Gabriele Salvatores:” I’m Not Scared”.

The story takes place in the 1970s, in one of the poorest regions of Italy. There is nothing but endless hills covered in wheat, dotted here and there with a few houses, some of which didn’t even have electricity in those days. The summer sun burns mercilessly from a bright blue sky, numbing everything. No sensible adult leaves the house before six in the evening. Only a group of children are out and about among the fields. We can imagine being one of these children, a boy of about 10 years old.

It’s very hot, there’s nothing to do, and you have three months of summer vacation (that’s how it is in Italy). You have a little sister who is incredibly smart, but unfortunately also incredibly nearsighted, so you have to keep an eye on her all day long.

From time to time, you and your friends spend the long, dry days in an empty house that must once have been much more magnificent than your parents’ homes. Now it stands empty and dilapidated, and you climb up to the attic, hide in the chambers, and explore the rooms.

On the day this story begins, you accomplish a double feat.

First, you saved a chubby, awkward girl who had joined your group from having to take part in a test of courage by volunteering to do it yourself. And second, you balanced your way across the large roof beam blindfolded. If you had fallen, you would have broken every bone in your body.

The third feat of courage you demand of yourself occurs in the evening. Your little sister has lost her glasses somewhere, and you go back to the empty house—alone—to look for them. It takes a lot of courage to overcome your fear. Because it’s one thing to balance on a beam when your friends are there, but it’s quite another to go to the old house all by yourself at dusk, with all its noises and smells, its stairs and doors, and the rusty barbed wire around it. But you’re responsible for your sister, so you do it. The glasses are soon found.

But then something else is found. You discover something much more disturbing than you could ever have imagined. The glasses are lying on a corrugated iron sheet, which is covering a ground hole, a kind of underground cave. You see this when you lift the sheet, fearful but also curious. Down there, in the dim light, you see earth, a puddle of water, a few old tin cans, dirty, holey blankets and—a white, rather small leg sticking out of one of the blankets.

You drop the metal sheet, and it bangs down on the opening. There’s something lying there. There’s somebody lying there. You want to run away, but then you try to be brave, like you showed the others, and slowly lift the cover again, as if it were very heavy. And your heart starts beating like crazy. Because you know for sure that you just saw that leg. And now it’s gone. That’s enough. You grab the glasses, jump up, and run away as fast as your feet will carry you. Something is wrong down there, and you don’t want anything to do with it.

When you get home in the evening, another surprise is waiting for you. Your father, who has been away on “business” for weeks, as he says, has come home. He has brought with him an unpleasant gentleman from the north who claims to be his friend, but you can’t be fooled. This gentleman must somehow be your father’s boss. But what kind of business is it? Your father seems in a great mood. He arm wrestles with you, defends you when it comes to why your sister’s glasses are broken, and eventually, he even wants to sing with you!

You sleep badly that night, not only because you’ve been kicked out of your tiny chamber to make room for the supposed acquaintance, but also because you keep dreaming about that hole, that hole in the ground where something lies, dead or alive, but definitely human-like.

This brings us to your fourth heroic deed (there are more to come). The next day, you find yourself back at the beautiful, lonely, eerie house, alone and without telling anyone else. You kneel down, take a deep breath, and lift the metal lid covering the mysterious hole. There is nothing to see except the wet floor, the old blankets, and the rusty cans.

Where do you find the courage to kneel alone in front of the unknown and call out to it? “Hello!” you shout into the hole in the ground. And then you listen, so as not to miss the slightest sound, not even the faintest hint of a response, you are all ears – and right in front of you, without a sound, a face appears, the likes of which you have never seen before.

It is white, as if it has never seen the sun, surrounded by a tangle of golden spines that, after much, much washing, might have once been blonde hair.  The creature in front of you has closed, sticky eyes, as if it has been weeping for years. In sheer terror, you drop the metal sheet, jump up from your crouching position and run backwards, away from the house, out of its spell, across the fields under the scorching sun, over hill and dale, and arrive home! But even there you find no peace. The stranger, your father, your mother, they are all sitting in the kitchen in a weird mood and dismiss you, brusquely. And through the half-open door you hear the news talking about a kidnapped child, a special child, a child of rich parents who begs the kidnappers not to hurt him and to let him go. And suddenly you understand what you saw, and it hits you like a blow.

There are images, symbols, and references that are so old that everyone can understand them. When we think of the captive child of noble birth, we may think of the seed of the new, original human being that lies dormant in our hearts. And, assuming this is true, we find in this story a reflection of the path of heroism that every human being can follow. In the beautiful but dilapidated house, we rediscover the place of the heart, the place where feelings reign. This is where courage and fear are at home, where friendship and the feeling of freedom are found. In the course of the story, we also encounter love and discover that it can be a force that overcomes everything else. The parents, in this story, are the embodiment of the past. In them—that is, in the atoms, cells, and organs of our bodies—human history lives on, with all the tricks and strategies that humans have devised in their struggle for existence. We have inherited them, they are part of us, and they continue to grow, develop, and solidify within us—until one day the “hero” appears.

Let’s put ourselves back in the shoes of the hero of our simple story.

You have realized that the creature in the pit is not scary or threatening, even though it seemed very strange to you at first. You understand that it is trapped. You start to wonder whether it has anything to eat or drink, and whether it will die if you don’t help it. And it’s natural for you to visit the pantry the next day—secretly, because your family is poor and can’t really spare anything—you take something out of the pantry and go to the dungeon in the old house. But now that you want to do something for the trapped child, you realize that it won’t let you help it. It withdraws, hides under the blankets, doesn’t answer. (You lower your food package on a rope, fill an old tin with water in the house and lower it down too. You have no choice but to trust that your help is right and will be accepted.

What follows now we will describe only briefly, leaving the rest to your imagination.

Because from now on, of course, you come every day. You bring food and find a way to talk with the prisoner. You are caught looting the pantry and decide to sacrifice your meager savings to buy bread and chocolate. The child is convinced that it is dead and thinks you are an angel. But it begins to trust you. You realize that you are the same age.

And, without being aware of it, you have dedicated your entire life to helping it.

You climb down into the hole with a rope and take care of the prisoner. And when you climb back out in the evening and go home to what is surely a better dinner and a softer bed, it almost breaks your heart to leave the bright creature behind in the dark hole.

You’ve thought about freeing it, of course,but that’s not possible

Because your father’s supposed friend is … the child’s kidnapper. And your own father has the task of keeping it captive and providing it with just enough care. You heard this when you eavesdropped on a conversation between the adults. And now you’re really scared.

Still, the next day you find yourself back in the hole. The child has learned to look at the sun again, has accepted that he is not dead, and no longer thinks you are a good spirit, but a boy his own age—which, of course, you are.

You want to give him a day of freedom, at least that much. You take the child on your back, because it can’t walk well after spending so long crouching in the pit. And you carry this strange, close, mysterious being through the fields, over the hills, and you laugh together and rejoice in the light of the sun, which usually seemed so hostile to you.

And you forget everything, who you are, what happened to you, what will happen next. And only at the end, when the question arises aboutwhat we should do now do you realize that each of you must return to your place—the strange child to his prison and you back to your parents, who are helping to keep him captive. And there is nothing you can do about it.

Soon something terrible is added to this.The adults have noticed that their prisoner has been visited. They have taken him somewhere else. You hate that place. It’s a small farm with huge, squealing pigs and a fierce black dog that barks as soon as you come near. But at the same time, you learn that the situation is becoming increasingly dangerous. The adults are actually planning to “get rid of” their hostage, as they put it! Apparently, the police are on the kidnapper’s trail. And that breaks you out of your desperate inaction.

You have to free the prisoner before they do anything to him. You have to overcome all your comforts, all your fears, and all your reservations and do the only thing necessary.

So there comes a night when you set off. There is a nervous atmosphere in the house.

That’s why you can slip away unnoticed and, leaving all your fear behind you, sneak through the darkness to the small farmyard. You dare to approach the dog and discover that although it is fierce, it is also rather stupid. The pigs that were so loud during the day don’t care about you because they are asleep. And so, before the adults reach the prison of the unknown child, you stand in front of a thoroughly barricaded gate and call out in a hushed voice. Even when there is no answer, you don’t have a moment’s doubt.

You climb over the gate, with nothing else in your mind but helping the prisoner. You find the child in the shack, weak, silent, and without hope. You talk to him, persuade him to trust his legs and take a few steps. And then you stand inside at the high gate, and there is no other way to free the child from this prison other than to lift him up, half carrying him, half supporting him, and with your encouragement, he finally climbs over the gate, lets himself down on the other side, and is free!

You’ve done it!

It only takes a moment for you to realize that now you are trapped. You cannot climb over this gate without help. Your fate is sealed. The adults will come to “dispose” of the child they find. Imagine that! Your own father!

This story will turn out well. For us, it ends here. The essentials have been said. Against the forces of his own origins, against old fears, and against all odds, this captive, weakened, and very special child has been freed. This was achieved because the hero no longer thought of himself in any way. Love and the realization that no one else could help were stronger than everything else. They were so strong that the courage emerged from them to venture into the second place of the dark inner world, a place that was even more frightening than the first.

This will also be our heroic journey. We venture into unknown spaces of our long-neglected heart. We discover that it holds the most precious gift that we possess. And that it is guarded by forces that terrify us. These forces have determined our identity. We recognize what is suffering. We do what must be done.

And so, in the end, the child, we, the new human being, stands before his jailer, the face of his earthly reality. In the light and strength of courage, he has overcome himself. And he can say:

I’m not scared. (I’m sacred.)

How does it feel?
To be on your own, with no direction home,
A complete unknown, like a rolling stone.
Bob Dylan

There are paths that lead deeper than thought,
paths that give no answers – and yet change everything –
paths to the source, the beginning, to Mothers.

To walk them, one needs courage;
the courage to lose what once seemed safe,
the courage to love what is dark,
the courage to become what was never dared.

These paths wind through birth and parting,
through doubt, death, and light,
to the place where drama ends,
and true life begins.

Eve – Mother of the Living

Eve^[1] crossed a boundary —
boldly, perhaps overconfidently.
She wanted more: to know, to live, to awaken.

Like a child stepping into a vast unknown,
she sometimes went too far,
and yet she dared –
and bore the consequences.

Eve, has countless children.
They, too, cross boundaries;
out of longing, out of defiance, out of unknowing.
They destroy, they fight, they forget.
And they, too, bear the consequences.

Yet Eve suffers with all her children.
She is the one who gives birth,
the one who aches with their every wound,
the one who holds them still –
not to possess,
but to let life flow freely through her,
giving without end.

Faust

Faust^[2], hungry for all the world’s knowledge,
stands at the threshold from which there is no return –
the same threshold every seeker of truth will face one day.

He descends,
not into spaces, not into times,
but beyond: to the Mothers.

There is no ground there, no shape, no foothold,
only origin.
Not form, but possibility.
Not light, but darkness that cradles all.
Not truth, but the womb from which truth is born.

He descends;
knowing he could lose everything.

To walk upright here takes courage:
the courage to loosen the grip of ego, of mastery, of fear.

For there are the Mothers —
the silent trinity,
who do not rule, do not judge, do not speak —
but hold.
Carry.
Give birth.

Faust strides through a nothingness
greater than all he has ever imagined —
and he finds no answer,
but a key:
the key to the deep heart of life and of himself.

Inanna — The Loving One

Inanna^[3], Queen of Heaven,
drapes herself in power, in splendour, in song.
She wears the crown, the ring, the robe,
the mirror of beauty, the dignity of life.

And she descends,
not out of defiance, not out of pride,
but out of love.
Downward – to her sister,
to the earth,
to death.

Seven gates she passes, and at each she surrenders:
crown, ring, robe,
self-image, control, speech, breath –
until she stands naked before death.
Dead is she for three days.
And the world holds its breath.

But love, real love, follows her.
And she rises:
wounded, changed, knowing:
no longer a moon, but a star;
no longer reigning, but blessing;
no longer apart, but one
with all that is.

Hannah^[4]  – In Luck

Hannah has served, worked and learned
for seven years and gold is her reward.
Now she journeys home.

On the way, she trades what she carries:
The Gold for a car, to move with the times;
the car for a garden, to nourish her children
the garden for a library, so they might find true inspiration;
the library for a laptop, to give voice to the message of her heart;
the laptop for a cell phone,
because that’s what people do nowadays.
Then she sets the phone on a stone
beside the fountain of infinity
and watches as it glides and disappears.

Her steps grow light.
Her heart unburdened,
free from drama,
free from the endless chase of wanting and becoming.

She walks home,
back into the womb of life,
to her mother,
back to herself.

And she laughs.
For nothing is missing.
Everything is already there.

^[1] Genesis 3,20: Adam named his wife Eve, because she would become the mother of all the living.

^[2] Cf. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust II, Act 1. Faust’s walk to the “Mothers” is one of the most mysterious scenes in world literature. It is a symbol of spiritual transformation in the womb of the world, in the mythical uterus of being, in which forms not yet manifested rest. Whoever goes to the Mothers enters the plane of pure possibility – a place of emptiness, of depth, of the not-yet. Goethe’s “Mothers” are a poetic vision of the primordial space of all being:

philosophically: a kind of Platonic primordial plane where ideas exist “before” the world,

psychologically: an image for the collective unconscious (C. G. Jung saw here an archetypal reference to the Great Mother, the Anima, the source of the soul) and mystically seen: a kind of inner abyss in which all outer form disappears – so that new life can emerge.

^[3] Mesopotamian myth. The Sumerian goddess Inanna, goddess of love, fertility and war, descends into the underworld to her sister Ereshkigal. At each of the seven gates, she takes off a piece of her clothing – then she is naked, unconscious, dead. But in the end, Inanna survives and is transformed. Through death and sacrifice, an eternal cycle begins. Every end is a beginning – in the cosmic balance of life and death.

^[4] Freely adapted from the fairy tale Hans in Luck by the Brothers Grimm

KB: Joerg, how did you get into motorcycling?

JS: My passion for mopeds began in childhood. When I was twelve, my father brought me an old NSU Quickly from the scrap yard. I restored it with my child-like skills and great joy and got it ready to ride, then rode it around the block in the evenings. That wasn’t allowed for a twelve-year-old, but in Gelsenkirchen, in the Ruhr district, it was possible. Then, I rode several mopeds and motorcycles, and when I was twenty, I bought the Kawa[1].

KB: And that’s when the accident happened?

JS: We played pool at the Freeway Rider’s clubhouse and set off for home with a group of seven or eight friends at around 10 p.m. We drove through built-up areas at about 100 km/h on narrow roads, over cobblestones and railway tracks. We kept riding very close to each other, changing positions and engaging in friendly, light-hearted battles. Then I – probably trying to avoid someone, as I was told afterwards, I have no memory of it – crashed into a parked car.

KB: And at the hospital, the doctors put you in a coma for three weeks.

JS: There are some memories from that time. I’m lying in intensive care, in a coma that was to last almost three weeks. I remember: There is no light, no tunnel from which warmth and love could flow towards me. Inside me, it is dark and cold; it is raining, and I am terrified of dying. I feel and know I am in great danger, and shapes appear again and again, chasing me. They use every means possible to ensure that I would never leave this place. Among others, there are supposed ‘doctors’ and ‘therapists’ who talk to me kindly but whose transparent intention is to keep me in this place permanently with drugs and other means. And there are old friends from the biker club who now see me as a traitor and shoot at me. The key moment of this coma period occurred in a forest: I am sitting in a construction trailer in a clearing looking through the window at a rising slope with trees, behind each of which hides a dark figure. Some figures howl like wolves and shoot pistols into the air and at the construction trailer, while others just stare in my direction with cold expressions. Overall, they are very aggressive but also arrogant and self-assured. Looking around in the trailer, I see a shelf behind me with modern automatic rifles. Fully aware that I could shoot any figures with these weapons, I looked up the slope and considered my options clearly and calmly. At that moment, the construction trailer door opens, and a voice that touches me deeply says, ‘Joerg, you can just get out of this situation!’ I followed the voice, and as I walked through the trailer door, I woke up from my coma.

KB: In a biker magazine article about you (as one of the very few one-armed motorcyclists), it says that you had bought the fastest motorcycle at the time and had to borrow money from your grandmother. What was it like to ride this ‘hot iron’?

JS: That was back in 1984. It had the Kawasaki, giving me a feeling of freedom, strength, power – and, perhaps paradoxically, a strong sense of control. I rode that motorcycle for two years. Then came the accident. And a very tough year followed. My old life was completely shattered; there was no going back, and building a new life from the remaining fragments was impossible. However, an essential prerequisite for my later new start was also formed during this time. My head and my thinking were completely disorganised. In everyday normal life, almost all actions are mostly unconsciously guided by two-armed movement patterns. I kept coming up against a wall and had to perceive and consider the current situation before every action and then carry out what needed to be done in a new way. This meant I was constantly focused on the present, on the present moment. At the same time, I withdrew more and more from social life and broke off all old contacts, initially even with my parents. My friends, old acquaintances, even my parents and my girlfriend, everybody wanted me to return to the way I was before. They wanted their former normal situation and security back, and it seemed that I was the only one who knew this was no longer possible. At that time, I didn’t have the courage to start something completely new, nor was I physically capable of doing so. I just knew I had to get away. At first, I went to another city to ‘practice’ in a new environment, doing daily shopping, buying toothpaste, shaving stuff and so on … I just wanted to start a new life.

At the end of that year, I was completely down and so lonely that it hurt physically. During this time, I began to read the Bible, from which I absorbed the stories of Nebuchadnezzar’s madness, the Revelation of John, the letters of Paul and the Gospel of John like a sponge. I also read Goethe’s Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre, which was a key novel for me. Figuratively and physically, I became one with the story’s protagonists as I had never experienced before or since. This showed me the many sides of a person, and that I don’t have to hinder myself due to my handicap. Physically, I might be “half the man I used to be”, but I realized that there is so much potential for a different, new life. The stories in the Bible raised me to a steadily growing joy and an almost unbearable longing.

This unprecedented longing created pure openness, and it also meant that I absolutely did not want to and could not believe that the events described in the writings were supposed to have happened at some point and then never again … And the burning question arose within me: ‘Where are such people today?’ A short time later, I stood in front of the door of a Rosicrucian centre in Essen. It was the day a new introductory course began – and a completely new life for me. That was around 1988/89, already two years after the accident. In Essen, the Rosicrucian centre had become too small, and the group had found new premises of an area of 700 square metres. But the place needed to be completely renovated. I was there for at least two and a half years, almost daily from morning to evening, and could work without any stress or pressure. I could really try things out with one arm; they let me weld, lay tiles, build walls, drill; no one said, do it faster or do it differently, or that’s wrong.

That’s when I gained confidence in myself, and accepted my situation. The site managers and an old architect who built the podium and did a lot of bricklaying said, ‘Joerg, you still have something to do, you still have something to learn.’ They brought me books on mechanical engineering, mathematics and so on – and that’s when I started learning. I didn’t have a secondary school leaving certificate at the time. Eventually, I was able to study mechanical engineering and to graduate. I read all the Rosicrucian literature and also that of Jiddu Krishnamurti, Rudolf Steiner and other authors who strived for spiritual enlightenment.

I understood that my experiences during the coma resembled Rudolf Steiner’s descriptions of the Kamaloka [1] and those in the Bible about purgatory. I realised that it was essentially my own inner world that had confronted me from outside while I was in the coma.

The painful journey to zero point now made sense; it was like a catharsis. All that what happened melted into meaning and became the basis for a new life, my new life. And I realised something fascinatingly new for me: nature wants to balance everything. If something fails, something else forms so that everything can develop as well as possible.

KB: At the beginning, we talked about excessive confidence …

JS: As a child, but especially during puberty, there was something inside me that always wanted to go beyond the boundaries set by my environment; higher, ever higher, ever greater, something was pushing me. Of course, I couldn’t say what it was at the time. I just always wanted to become better and better. This urge, that I could achieve more, constantly drove me; somehow it lived inside me because I had no confidence in myself at the time, and I couldn’t see any tangible goal within myself that I could develop.

KB: And did you find real courage?

JS: Yes, that courage came after I had reached my zero point. But it was no longer directed outwards, no longer towards building something externally or anything like that, but it turned inwards. Comparing myself to others and having to prove myself to others was no longer necessary. And that’s when a much deeper respect for people awakened. Perhaps you could call it humility – in this there is also a kind of courage.

KB: So, you could say that everything was new because of the accident, that the time after the accident was actually like being born again?

JS: Looking back, it seems to me as if I was lying under a heavy cloud before the accident. Through this event and in the years that followed, this cloud gradually faded as if moving further and further away. Of course, I eventually got back in touch with my parents, who were filled with love and responsibility for me. I also tried to re-establish contacts with one or two of my former friends, but they didn’t understand what I was doing now, what interested me, what the new aspects of my life actually were.

KB: What was or is now your basic attitude of life? Do you have a message for the readers of LOGON?

JS: Approach life with a clear YES to all things; follow what urges you in your heart, even accept the darker side of things, nothing but a YES; perhaps that also has something to do with courage: trying to understand events, both internal and external, as much as possible, and then moving forward step by step – on your path, on the path of your potential. And by the way, I am riding a converted Triumph Bonneville 900 for the last eight years. No quibbling, no ifs or buts.

[1] Kamaloka (Sanskrit) literally: place of desire) is referred to in Christian terminology as purgatory (Latin: purgatorium) and is closely associated with the particular judgment, to which humans are subjected immediately after death.

[1]    Kawa: short form for the motocysle brand Kawasaki

That is why we can only be courageous – in the original sense of the word – if we see ourselves as part of a larger whole, as part of a communal cause that is greater than oneself.

About the founders of the Golden Rosycross

It is not very difficult to attribute courage to the founders of the Spiritual School of the Golden Rosycross when one knows what the word courage means in its original sense. It comes from modaz, which, three thousand years ago in our region meant something like spirit, thought or the inner state. Modaz, courage, is a movement of the soul, an action of the heart.

The true heart does not exclude, it embraces. That is why we can only be courageous – in the original sense of the word – if we see ourselves as part of a larger whole, as part of a communal cause that is greater than oneself.

Z.W. (Wim) Leene, Jan van Rijckenborgh, Catharose de Petri and their friend and comrade-in-arms from the very beginning, Cor Damme, have proven more than clearly that they were aware of the larger connections. Already in their youth, they discovered that they were part of a spiritual field, part of an invisible brotherhood and sisterhood rooted in thinking, in a pure, living reason and in the universal spiritual sphere of Christ. One spirit, one sphere, one field that presupposes unity, that has always remained one in spirit through all times and circumstances, that has always remained one and will remain so, because it transcends the temporal.

The goal of the founders of the modern Rosicrucian movement was, as Z.W. Leene put it, to give Christianity the place it deserves in the world of real life and philosophical thought. After the death of Z.W. Leene in 1938, his brother Jan – later Jan van Rijckenborgh – took over the leadership of the young Rozenkruizer Genootschap (Rosicrucian Society) and gave it a powerful impetus. In 1945, he became chairman of a board of four members. Together they continued to work purposefully and fearlessly. For that is the spirit that is needed to carry out the liberating work of the Light, the attitude of mind that has always been important in all ages: to summon up the courage to work effectively without a break. Decisive is neither the rapid progress of the work, nor the eventual success of the few striving persons, but the work itself, the sowing of selfless thoughts, the awakening of the memory of the field of life in searching souls, an atmosphere that extends beyond the earthly realm, the atmosphere which the souls once knew. It is an activity that comes from an inner necessity, not triggered or imposed from outside.

It takes a certain mindset to be able to say as a nineteen-year-old:

From my early youth, I have sought the Lord and served Him in a constant struggle for life. In 1915, I made a vow before my inner tribunal to devote my life to the service of the Lord and, if I should be granted the privilege, to give this to the world:

1.  new Christian philosophy that would be based on the hidden things,
2.  free school to impart this philosophy to those who are suited to it,
3. the foundation of a brotherhood that would sweep away the boundaries between material bondage and freedom of spirit through knowledge and lifestyle.

I was told that I would eventually reach my goal through a series of storms, as long as I remained true to my ideals and led a pure life in spite of all difficulties.’

Anyone reading this may shrug their shoulders and dismiss it as youthful exuberance. How often does something we set out to do in our younger years actually come to fruition? But here is the courage, the state of mind that expresses itself in a different way than one would expect. This courage is the signature of all those working and ploughing courageously in the fields of Light.

How great was the merit of Madame Blavatsky’, Max Heindel writes, ’with her fantastic moral courage to confront the materialism of her time with the spiritual values of a completely different, inner science!

And Eduard Schuré was writing to Rudolf Steiner:

If you want to fight the enemy, start by understanding him. You can only defeat the dragon by crawling into its skin. You have to grab the bull by the horns. It is precisely so that in the highest distress you will be able to find your weapons and your comrades-in-arms. I have shown you who you are, now go – and remain yourself!’

As for the young Jan Leene, by the time of his death in 1968, he had brought seven international conference centres into being, written forty profound books, edited more than ten journals, authored hundreds of articles and given countless lectures. An unbiased observer can draw no other conclusion than that his project (formulated in his youth) was impressively successful.

This is based on a mindset expressed in a different way than one would expect. It is a courage that comes from the heart, a mindset that is based on the words of the Bible: ‘

Judge not.’[ii]

Those who judge no longer perceive things openly and objectively; they have made up their minds and their understanding is no longer open to the Great Breath that speaks to the heart in a subtle way and keeps everything in motion and in flow. Such people are rarely able to see beyond the surface of things. Jan Leene said:

For the people of the spirit, this nature-order is a mystification. There is a hierarchy of human beings – and human beings are bound by blood, all of them are part of one humanity. There is only one way, one method – and I speak only to those who are ennobled to approach the words of Christ spoken on the Holy Mountain: ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.’

The founders of the Golden Rosycross could not escape the grey and oppressive reality of human existence. In the life of Jan Leene, it happened in February 1941 that he was picked up by the dreaded Gestapo. His friend and fellow fighter for the Light, Cor Damme, immediately travelled from The Hague to Euterpestraat in Amsterdam, where Jan was being held. A former school served as an interrogation and torture centre for the Gestapo and the security service. (It was bombed by the British in 1944.) The street bears the beautiful name of the Greek muse of poetry, playing flute – a cynical and bitter contrast to reality. During the occupation, the black monster, the Nazi secret service, was based there; Jewish people were brought there and the resistance fighters were detained and tortured there.

(After the war, the street name continued to have negative connotations for the people of Amsterdam, so the city council decided to rename the street after the resistance hero Gerrit van der Veen.) Damme was not allowed to go in to see his friend, but waited for his brother at a distance. Meanwhile, a friend and fellow member of the Rozekruizers Genootschap, E. Roland-Retera, used her contacts to Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart to get Jan Leene free again.

Later, J. van Rijckenborgh recounted his experiences as follows:

I sat in front of one of the top leaders of the Gestapo. So, I was under arrest! The man had a handsome face and light blue eyes. In front of him on the desk were pictures of his wife and children. He was a completely normal person. There was certainly nothing bad or beastly about him. He looked at me – and I looked at him. We smiled at each other. We recognised the tragicomic nature of the situation … And then, suddenly, it happened. His eyes became fixed, his pupils dilated. He was overshadowed, his larynx was controlled. This can always be recognised by the unmotivated rising and falling of the voice and its total change in tone. His head was bent back slightly, as if he were being grabbed by the neck. I realized immediately that the man was possessed. His own self had been suppressed and the spirit from the background, the lurking black beast, was the one who was speaking to me. I forgot my resistance, the reason of my arrest. I was filled with deep compassion for this being, and while a flood of insults poured over me, I prayed for this strange enemy and enveloped him in the light of the Rosicrucians. And behold, the possession receded. The man shook himself like a wet poodle, my strange enemy became normal again, he became himself again. I had seen and heard who my real enemy was, I had resisted and defeated him, I had chased him away. For, my enemy was not this senior officer, it was someone else.

Finally, Jan Leene was allowed to go home on condition that he refrained from any further activities for esoteric Christianity. That same evening, he and Cor Damme held a course in The Hague. [iii]

A similar incident that occurred just less than two years later is worth mentioning as well. This time it was not Jan Leene who was affected, but Cor Damme. In 1943, he was summoned by the SS in Amsterdam and he had to report to SS headquarters, which was also in Euterpestraat. When Jan Leene was picked up and taken there in February 1942, he, Cor, stood at the corner of the street and waited. Now Jan went with him and waited at the same street corner. Cor said to him, ‘If I’m not back in a few hours, you must go home and tell Jos’[iv].

Inside the office were piles of confiscated works of art. And now everything is turning out quite differently than the friends had feared. The colonel who had ordered him to come seems to have been unexpectedly called back to Berlin. The deputy commander bosses him: ‘Mr. Damme, do you know why Colonel Ruempke ordered you here?’

Cor thinks quickly. It doesn’t seem to be about hiding Jews, as he had feared, or about the secret resistance that he is supplying with food in The Hague. But all this art he sees there! Now, being the owner of the Kunstsaal Damme, which specializes in Eastern art and Persian carpets, something occurs to him. It would be worth a try … He points to the pictures on the wall and the objects on the desk.

‘But it’s obvious! Because of the art here, of course.’ ‘Why is that?’ Cor thinks and sighs as if slightly annoyed and takes out his business card. ’Look, I’m a recognized art dealer and antiquarian. The colonel knows that and he wanted me to provide an official appraisal of all these items. I would like to get started!’ And indeed, he produces a detailed analysis of the art objects stolen by the crew. He draws up a list and gives an estimate of the value of each picture, painting and vase, assessing most of the items according to their art-historical value. In The Hague, too, he was asked to do the same from time to time. Most of the time, he gave the lowest possible values so that as little as possible would be confiscated. His actions were therefore called ‘The Rescue Brigade’. However, he is more cautious now – these works have already been claimed. When his work is finished, the deputy colonel seems to be satisfied. The expert opinions are good and the prices are pleasing. The colonel thanks him, shakes his hand and Cor Damme quickly makes his way out. Jan is standing outside waiting for him.

Two episodes in an already very eventful life. A truly open heart and an alert mind prove to be key factors in protecting against further misfortune. Both friends remember the words of their brother in spirit, Wim Leene:

That is why we are pioneers and why we must draw clear guidelines, because the world has been deceived for a long time. In spiritual matters, one either is made to look hopelessly ridiculous and, as it were, a spiritual evildoer, or one acts redemptively through reason and insight. The transcendent God is the Creator, the immanent God is man. It is like this: we cannot find the transcendent God within nature, but we can find him in man, because God is Spirit, just as man is Spirit. God is therefore not in nature, for nature is only the basis on which everything unfolds.

Teach us to control fear through the joy of knowledge!

We are spiritual beings, eternal, immortal spiritual beings, called to be completely spiritual in the Spiritual Order.

Thereby we do not forget that we are material human beings as well, mortal and undoubtedly called to leave the material world behind, not just for the time between one of our material existences and a new incarnation, but to leave it forever.’ [v]

The joy of knowledge, of being part of a sphere, a field, a Spirit that presupposes unity, in the service to Christ – that is the Rosicrucianism of the heart. It is white through its purity, red through its love for humanity, and golden in its radiant, comprehensive thinking.

[i] Called by the World Heart, Haarlem 2010, p. 158,

[ii] Matthew 7: 1

[iii] Called by the World Heart, p. 184

[iv] His wife

[v] Called by the World Heart, p. 158

 

 

‘There is a crack in everything, that`s how the light get`s in.’
Leonard Cohen.

Anyone researching the topic of ‘courage’ may come across the American psychologist and author Dr David R. Hawkins. In 1995, he published the concept of a scale of consciousness that assigns different states of consciousness and emotions to a sequence of levels from 0 to 1000. He gives ‚courage’ a very special status: that of the turning point in the development of consciousness. Hawkins considers this ‘calibration’ to be universally valid. As Hawkins explains, these gradations have been confirmed in countless kinesiological muscle tests and can be verified at any time. One can speak of mental vibration states that can be read on the scale of human behaviour and states.

The following observations are initially based on Hawkins’ view. 0 represents death, and 1000 represents the highest level, enlightenment. For him, the lowest emotion is shame/self-rejection (20), followed by guilt (30), apathy/hopelessness (50), sadness (75), fear (100), desire/greed (125), anger (150) and pride (175). According to Hawkins, all states below the value of 200 are energy-sapping, restrictive and unhealthy. They weigh us down like sandbags on a hot-air balloon. People with these emotions are in a deficient state and may tend to draw energy from others.

Only at a value of 200 does the deficiency cease and the person enter a positive energy balance. This is the value of courage. For Hawkins, it is the turning point, the point at which the ‘balloon’ begins to rise. From this point on, emotional reactions are increasingly reduced. This is followed on the scale by neutrality (250), willingness (310), acceptance (350), reason (400), love (500), unconditional love/joy of existence (540), peace/inner silence (600) and enlightenment/divine consciousness (700-1000). It can be said that, from a certain level of consciousness onwards, the spiritual state of vibration can only be explained by a higher energy field, by participating in a ‘world of unconditional love and peace’.

It is also interesting that, according to Hawkins, each level of consciousness reflexively brings with it a certain self-image and image of God or a divine idea.

Courage (200) = I can rise above myself = God is behind me.

Pride (175) = I am better than others = I don’t need God.

Anger (150) = I have to fight against something or someone = God is unfair.

Desire (125) = I don’t have enough = God is withholding good from me, doesn’t want me to have it.

Fear (100) = I am in danger = God is punishing me.

Sadness (75) = I am losing something important to me = God is abandoning me.

Apathy (50) = There is no way out for me. It is hopeless = God condemns me.

Guilt (30) = I deserve punishment = God is unforgiving.

Shame (20) = I am not worthy of love = God despises me.

So much for the concept of consciousness developed by Dr Hawkins.

What can this mean for a person who is searching for inner fulfilment, for profound transformation?

The driving force, the linchpin of inner development, is courage. Courage is not an emotion in the true sense of the word. It is rather a quality related to the classical Greek concept of virtue: bravery.

If we take a closer look at courage, we can see that it is often not there when it is needed most. That is why the apocryphal Gospel of Mary says: ‘Take courage! And if you are now discouraged, take courage nonetheless!’

Courage is something that is often latent and can be consciously “revived”. Yes, it always involves overcoming something that we shy away from with a large part of our being.

But what are we retreating from, and where do we want to go? Why have courage?

If we think big at this point and disregard our everyday struggles, which of course also have their appropriate significance – what is it that we fear most and what requires the utmost courage?

The greatest fear we have (even if we are rarely aware of it) is probably the fear of death. It accompanies us for most of our lives. Are we afraid of not being, of no longer existing? Or, if we assume a transformation, are we afraid of what awaits us?

The greatest and deepest longing that lives within us (even if it usually remains unconscious) is the longing to reconnect with the divine, with divine unity. But, like death, we cannot comprehend what will really happen when this longing is fulfilled. Would it also be a state of no longer being? Or does a far-reaching transformation await us, in which our previous existence dissolves? The divine cannot be known. We cannot integrate it into our old system of perception and processing, just as a river cannot contain the sea.

It can only be the other way around: our ego consciousness must be integrated, must be known and processed by the divine spirit. The sea can easily absorb the river.

Krishnamurti said: ‘You are never afraid of the unknown; you are afraid of the end of the known.’

So deep down, we also feel a fear of what we long for as fulfilment. Will ‘we’ still exist then?

Only courage can carry us forward.

The courage to let go of the familiar, to let the unknown into our lives. We must let go of ourselves to enable a new stage of becoming.

Jesus said: ‘For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it’ (Matthew 16:25).

How much of our lifetime are we preoccupied with emotions that limit and depress us? And the corresponding thought patterns, physical sensations and the accompanying, mostly unconscious negative self-images and images of God.

At the same time, there is always the possibility to give ourselves an inner push, to turn away from the closed world in which we are stuck and to face the open world, the ‘whole’ that means freedom and transformation. We therefore have a choice between two completely different states of heart.

As a rule, we live in a closed space of perception – a closed system that confirms itself. Our beliefs, experiences and thoughts circle in familiar patterns, reinforcing each other and creating an apparent certainty: this is how the world is. This is who I am.

Hawkins’ energy-sapping, enslaving levels of consciousness can be seen as smaller units, as interchangeable perception compartments within a perception space, each with its own plausible narrative. But precisely because of their painful and limiting nature, they can also be helpful. They can stimulate the longing for openness, so that we seek a way out – not just from a negative state of mind, but from our fundamental existential dilemma.

All these spaces are like a prison for our souls. They largely filter out the new, the foreign, the unknown. They protect, but they also constrain and hold us back. Closure preserves stability, but it prevents change.

This contrasts with the open – the risk of breaking away from habits, allowing new perspectives, enduring uncertainty, perceiving attachments as shackles. It is the step into the unknown that penetrates the old walls and opens up to the unlimited, whole life, to eternity.

Leonard Cohen expressed a profound truth about human existence in his hymn Anthem:

‘There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.’

Sooner or later, every person feels this crack within themselves – a fragility that is unsettling. It can be a loss, an inner turmoil, the sudden feeling that the life you are used to no longer holds you up.

The crack tears open uncertainties and shatters the plausibility of the closed system.

But Cohen shows that this is precisely where opportunity lies. Only when the old breaks down can something new shine through. The crack is not the end – it can be the beginning of a great development. Towards what we long for in the depths of our hearts. Towards what promises us real fulfilment, peace and vitality.

However, many of our efforts, both individual and collective, are aimed at using every trick and sophistication to patch up the cracks that appear, to make them invisible or to cover them up. Constant busyness, media distractions, addictions of all kinds, medication, belief in salvation from outside through technological progress, politicians or great heroes on the world stage, and perhaps even some therapies or esoteric practices fulfil this purpose more or less unconsciously. From a global perspective, the increase in control and surveillance plays a significant role here.

Especially in view of current world events, it is astonishing how large such cracks can become without the collective consciousness of humanity developing deeper insights and questioning the narratives and worldviews that have been handed down to us.

And now the question again: Why is courage needed in this context?

Surely, first and foremost, an awakened, yearning heart must have developed within the individual. And then a crack in one’s own familiar world has become visible, and it is impossible to ignore. Now an insight can develop that not just a small change or adjustment in one’s behaviour is necessary, but a profound reversal of one’s life. What has been is viewed in a completely new light and fundamentally questioned. The old concept of life no longer holds. The realisation arises that a new power must come into effect, one that goes beyond our own abilities and exceeds our possibilities. This requires the courage to admit our own structural inability and to develop the willingness to turn to a higher power. Ultimately, it is also a matter of being fundamentally prepared to submit to a higher order of being and to take our place in it.

It is humility.

It is the insight: ‘Without me you can do nothing’ (John 15:5).

This insight opens us up to faith. Faith here has nothing to do with believing in dogmas. Faith is the ability of human beings to connect with higher realms of development that they cannot grasp or comprehend by aligning their hearts. It requires an act of faith, the assumption of SOMETHING beyond our conscious mind, which is much more than we could ever be with our old nature. SOMETHING that receives and accepts us at any time, however and wherever we are. SOMETHING from which help and guidance emanate. This SOMETHING is NOTHING to us. And it takes courage to entrust ourselves completely to this NOTHING and let go of what we possess. Faith ignites the potential of God within us. Otherwise, there is nothing else to which we can turn our hearts. We begin to sense, and increasingly know with certainty, that the crack in our own world is a path to freedom, that behind it lies ‘true life’ and our ‘real self.’ The connection with the open space gives us new strength and new courage to take the next step. An ever-stronger longing arises for what wants to emerge from behind the crack.

It is the courage to believe.

The promise resounds: ‘Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you’ (Matthew 7:7).

Insight and faith are followed by action. Action is NOT following old ego strategies and patterns. It is a surrender of ego-consciousness to the broken reality as it is right now and a surrender to the flow of life, giving oneself away to the numinous, to the nameless unknown.

It is the radical acceptance of what is happening at this very moment. It is at the same time a trust and the concrete experience that this NOTHING is sustainable, that it gives us an unshakeable foothold. According to the world, this is not a noteworthy deed. In a spiritual sense, it is the greatest thing a human being can do. It is a complete and conscious acceptance of the rift in life. And much more: it becomes a connection, a becoming one with it – and with the light that shines through it. The rift can then change us profoundly and structurally. Through it, an effectiveness is set in motion that gradually reconnects us with our divine origin, with our spiritual and emotional home. The crack is now allowed to expand as part of a process and bring new light into the old world. Like John of Patmos, we see a new heaven and a new earth opening up. In the process, we become different. Yes, we become the person who is laid out in the depths of our hearts and who we were meant to be from the beginning.

It is the courage to act.

It is self-surrender: ‘He must increase, but I must decrease’ (John 3:30).

This process ultimately leads to the request rising from the heart:

‘Thy will be done!’

Courage is the turning point of our consciousness. We have not linked this reflection to the goal of climbing a series of points on the consciousness scale. We have opened up a broader panorama. This is about the turning point from a horizontal to a vertical orientation, from the closed to the open. It is about a profound rebellion against life, which we can carry out again and again at any moment, wherever we happen to be in terms of consciousness.

Of course, this shift from the closed to the open also affects our state of mind. Through the secure footing we are increasingly experiencing in the new reality of life, which is ‘not of this world,’ we can also surrender internally to emotions such as guilt, grief, fear and anger. We no longer resist them. Unconscious shadow aspects can thus reveal themselves and, with the help of the new forces of light, be integrated into our consciousness. In this way, they can lose their terror and gradually ‘swing out’. C.G. Jung’s concept of the individuation of the human being can thus find its spiritual realisation within us.

Every crack that becomes visible in our reality is a call from our complete true individuality to us. Like a bird that, when it is ready, breaks out of its protective shell by pecking it from the inside, every human being will, in time, develop the courage to follow their true destiny.