The Paradox of Transcendence

The physical world we live in is thick, heavy and dense. We’re weighed down by bodies that are weighed down by gravity, and surrounded by physical objects.

The density and weight of the three-dimensional world we live in is a blessing and a curse. A whole spectrum of experience exists that allows us to engage our senses and partake of sensations that range from great pleasure to severe pain. When the pain outweighs the pleasure, as it is does far more often than we’d like, the overwhelming urge is to escape. This leads us to take any measure we can to change the way we feel: drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, television, spending money—ANYTHING that alters our mood and allows us to transcend, or more likely, escape the moment or situation we’re in.

We all long for transcendence, though some of us more than others.

We want a break from the density of this world.

We want to feel light and free and at peace.

In fact, many of us seek this out to the exclusion of all else, as if we’re looking for the exit or the escape hatch, so convinced we are that we are trapped and there is someplace better.

The problem is that we are spinning our wheels. This plane of existence doesn’t appear to be designed for extended vacations. If it were, then all those hardy attempts at long-term escape wouldn’t have such an exorbitant price tag and always end up backfiring.

After three decades of studying this topic relentlessly, my best guess is that the whole point of being here at all is about experience and growth, with some of the best ingredients for human evolution being struggle and pain. If everything was easy and all the edges were smooth, soft and pain-free, we wouldn’t learn very much. Instead, we would atrophy into soft blobs of clay, malleable but not of much use for anything.

Still people want out or at least want relief from the struggle. They treat life like an evening at the movies. They invest the time to select a movie, get themselves to the theater, stand in line, pay for the tickets, buy their snacks, find their seats and watch the previews. Then, after watching the movie for a while, decide they don’t like it and get up and leave the theater.

Oh, if it was only that easy.

Life is designed with such a heavy coating of amnesia so that we don’t even remember agreeing to any of this in the first place. It is as if we were born in the theater itself and want to find out what lay outside its dim lighting and soundproof rooms. We’ve suspended our disbelief to such an extent, at times, we are so immersed in the idea that life begins and ends inside that movie theater, that escape seems the only viable solution to what seems such a small and limited existence.

Perhaps, though, none of this would even be possible unless we forgot most of what we know about life prior to and beyond this one.

Perhaps that’s the whole point: forgetting so that we can engage fully in this mysterious mirage we call life. Regardless, the joke is on us if we spend the entire time we’re here trying to escape or transcend it. Again, using the movie theater metaphor, if we spend the entire time looking for the exit, we’ll miss the movie.

The desire to transcend is a paradox.

It is also ironic.

The paradox is that two things are true at the same time: We want to be here, and we don’t. It is this tension that can make us feel crazy.

The irony is that attempting to transcend the density of the 3-D may defeat the whole purpose of being here. This is especially true if we chose to be here in the first place, but somehow forgot about it. In that case, who could blame us for being curious, or even furious, that we don’t know what’s going on or what we’re doing here.

Knock someone out and drop them off at a location where they’ve never been with no instructions or map, and chances are they’re going to be a little upset.

I have loads of compassion for those who want out of this place, especially now in 2020. I’ve felt that way down to my core so many times, I’ve lost count. However, over time I’ve learned that instead of focusing on escape, it much more satisfying to focus on my quest to figure things out—penetrating the layers deeply enough that I often stumble upon something that hints at some answers. The irony in that is that the layers of illusion probably never end, but only shift to accommodate the search.

In the meantime, little by little, I’m learning to view the experience as a show, recognizing that not knowing is what keeps things interesting.

That may be my favorite paradox of all.