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Some time in the year I turned 31, I had a very clear vision of a flame inside me that was beginning to flicker out. I can't now remember what was happening at that moment that made such a vision occur to me, but it did; and I knew intuitively that if I were to let the flame go out, I would be lost. That something would be irretrievable. I began to look for some sort of spiritual practice.
The first thing I was drawn to was the I Ching. The Chinese Book of Changes. I first read about it in a Philip K. Dick novel, The Man in the High Castle, in which several of the characters practiced the I Ching, and which, it was rumored, had been structured and written by Mr. Dick via his own practice of doing a reading to determine what would happen at the beginning of each chapter.
I had attempted it on my own, finding mostly confusion, but I continued to be drawn to it, to the Taoist idea of a natural balance and flow in the universe and to the idea that one might be able to take a snapshot of one's experience in a moment and find an indication of the forces operating on that moment, thereby rendering some indication as to the direction one might be headed. Also, I had been in therapy and was drawn by the fact that Carl Jung had written the foreword to the first Western translation of the book, believing it an important first bridge, spiritually, between East and West.
I sought out a teacher, asking everyone I met and everyone I knew, and within a short time was introduced to a Filipina tantrika who had spent 10 years in the jungles above Manila with her teacher and her partner, studying the esoteric sciences of meditation, yoga, Tantric practices and who had spent much time herself with the I Ching. From her I learned many things. I was initiated into a practice of meditation with some monks she knew. I learned yoga. Pranayama breathing. I learned the proper way to question the Book of Changes and how to throw the yarrow stalks to build the hexagrams that answer the question. It was a beginning.
These studies led to this and to that, to many things. Through much of the next several years, along with whatever else I was studying and practicing, I also used the I Ching. It became a trusted friend. It really did seem to tell me what I needed to hear when I asked from a place of truth within. Instead of throwing the yarrow stalks, though, which takes about half an hour, I learned the alternative technique that involves throwing three coins three times to arrive at the hexagrams.
(I have since come to recognize that perhaps the most important part of the whole process was the proper formation of the question; that when the question is properly posed, the answer is almost already there in one's consciousness.)
At a dinner one evening many years after this, I was seated with a couple of people, and together we were discussing the I Ching. One of them, the man, was interested in learning to use it. The woman was someone who had been using it, off and on, for years. I thought I knew so much more about it than she did. I probably said so, in my sometimes arrogant way. She probably believed me, for a least a moment. I know the man did. Then I spoke about the way one throws the coins to arrive at the hexagrams. The woman contradicted me. I argued. She argued back. Spiritual argument. Somehow I knew she was right. Of course, I didn't admit that to her. That night, I went home and looked it up. She was right.
I'd been reading the coins backwards. Where there should have been a broken line,
---- ----,
I'd been putting a solid line,
---------,
and vice versa. Who knows how many choices I'd made by thinking I was following the nudge of the universe, when in fact I was moving opposite or counter to or, at best, tangential to what someone else would have read from the book.
The point? I survived. The flickering light never went out; in fact, it became the beacon that has drawn me through all the years since then in the direction of the things that really matter to me. I still have a warm spot in my heart for the I Ching, and I know that there were times when it spoke to me as if it were wise and alive and as if it knew me intimately; whether that was via the proper technique or not on my part, I couldn't say.
We look within, we look without. We find a place of brightness, however small, however faint. We move in that direction. What we find is whatever we find. This may change with our consciousness, with our level of understanding, sometimes with the seasons or the people with whom we are in contact. What matters is the movement. That we keep moving. That we keep expanding. It's an infinite universe. The answers that I have at any given moment, by definition, are only a small part of what is available to me.
I am reminded of a Sufi story about a poet who was discovered sleeping with his feet facing Mecca. When he was taken to task for this apparent sacrilege, he asked his accuser, 'please show me the direction where God is not.'
Today I will seek the light within, and I will insist on seeing something of it without.
 Flowers and Jesus, Montrose, CA & Studio City, CA
All material copyright Jeff Kober
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