The more I think about it the more I realise that if the phenomenal self is anchored at all it is anchored in the body. There are many selves, all relative. There is a whole succession of Walter Mitty-like fantasy selves who surface to fill the empty moments in the mind. There is also a series of relational selves that are constantly appearing, changing, developing and disappearing. I-the-son no longer exists except in memory. I-the-father has changed considerably over the years as the children have grown, become independent and left home. Not even the I-the-inhabitant-of-this-body is fixed. Although there appears to be a continuity of memories from early childhood, this self has changed many times and is changing still. But in the silence and solitude of meditation, in this now, when all the other selves have dropped away this inhabitant is all that remains.
When the eyes are open this self is substantial, expanding to relate to the trees, the fields, clouds and sky. When the eyes are closed and the attention has habituated to sounds and physical sensations there remains only awareness of breathing. Sometimes, when the will is strong, energy is concentrated on the mantra as though to pierce this solitary darkness and transcend the limitations of the body. At other times when there is no will and the stream of fantasies and inner dialogues has dried up, there remains only breathing. Then the thought surfaces, ‘Is this it? Is this all there is? The vast expanses of the star-filled sky, the wide horizon on a summer’s day, the fields, the mountains, the crowds of people, friends and family, all no longer exist in this dark now. Only breathing in and breathing out and this thought.’ It is then that I feel that I have reached the very limit of human existence. If the breathing were to stop the thought would stop and there would be nothing.
I can understand Descartes. Because there is this thought, however fragile and tentative it may be, there is something. And because this something is not self-sufficient, because it did not invent itself, there must be an Other on whom it depends. I am not aware of this Other. All the others that I do know and the world that I live in are as relative and as unself-sufficient as I am so they cannot be the cause of this something. So the Other, who or whatever it is, must transcend our existence. This is not brilliant logic and this sort of rational analysis in no way satisfies, nor does it compensate for the existential angst.
Nevertheless, the fact that I am probing the limits of my existence, in effect existence itself, the fact that I am aware of these limits as limits, means that I am aware – however obscurely – of a beyond this existence. In some small way I have already transcended this existence. I am not arguing philosophically now, relying on Karl Jaspers’ concept of ‘limit situations’. I am arguing from experience, although it is good to be able to support subjective testimony by rational analysis. The urge to transcend this existence is deep and persistent. It is supported by memories of times when the darkness became translucent and there were glimpses – sometimes of an all enveloping nothingness (if that makes any sense), sometimes of a Presence.