The Seven Valleys was written by Bahá’u'lláh near the 1860s. In it He responds to questions from a certain Shaykh Muhyi’d-Din, who at one point was a judge in the town of Khániqih. This Shaykh was a member of the Qadiri order of Sufis, who follow the mystical teachings of Shaykh Abdu’l-Qadir Jilani and his spiritual descendants. We know only that he asked Bahá’u'lláh about the meaning of certain mystical poems, to which the Seven Valleys was Bahá’u'lláh’s response. The actual questions he asked are not known.

This text is a mystical composition of the highest order. Singled out by Shoghi Effendi, Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, as Bahá’u'lláh’s “greatest mystical composition”[^1], it provides a commentary on an earlier work of Sufi poetry, The Conference of the Birds, by Farídu’d-Dín `Attár.

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The soul’s origin

At the moment the soul was created, it knew of its Creator. Some Muslims refer to this pre-existent relationship with God as “rúz-i-alast”, or the day when God asked us, “Am I not your Lord?” The Bahá’í Writings likewise mention an earlier time when we knew of God:

O My Friends! Have ye forgotten that true and radiant morn, when in those hallowed and blessed surroundings ye were all gathered in My presence beneath the shade of the tree of life, which is planted in the all-glorious paradise?¹

Our soul is said to be “the first among all created things to declare the excellence of its Creator, the first to recognize His glory, to cleave to His truth, and to bow down in adoration before Him.”² In essence, the soul of man is a lover, created in a state of primal adoration. We became thus because the Loved One deserves a lover. There is an Islamic tradition that says, “I was a Hidden Treasure. I wished to be made known, and thus I called creation into being in order that I might be known.” In this sense, we are part of a divine cycle of going and returning, in which the Beloved casts out His lovers, and then summons them to return according to their own desire. This “expulsion from paradise”, from our original state, is so that each lover may demonstrate himself by proving his devotion through trial and long-suffering.

His purpose, however, is to enable the pure in spirit and the detached in heart to ascend, by virtue of their own innate powers, unto the shores of the Most Great Ocean, that thereby they who seek the Beauty of the All-Glorious may be distinguished and separated from the wayward and perverse.³

That we began in the divine world, and subsequently “fell” into a condition of material existence — with all its potential for distraction and error — is not only referenced many times in Scripture, but also by some philosophies. Plato describes our original state in quite poetic terms:

… Beauty it was ours to see in all its brightness in those days when, amidst that happy company, we beheld with our eyes that blessed vision, ourselves in the train of Zeus, others following some other god; then were we all initiated into that mystery which is rightly accounted blessed beyond all others; whole and unblemished were we that did celebrate it, untouched by the evils that awaited us in days to come; whole and unblemished likewise, free from all alloy, steadfast and blissful were the spectacles on which we gazed in the moment of final revelation; pure was the light that shone around us, and pure were we, without taint of that prison house which now we are encompassed withal, and call a body, fast bound therein as an oyster in its shell. (Plato)

Since our parentage is divine, being that we were “created in His image”, we long for the divine; since we are lovers, we pine for reunion with our long-lost Love. This is our constant state of being, and all our fundamental motivations stem from it. What differs between individuals is the understanding of how to find what we seek, and whether our vision is clear enough when we do come across it.

The medium of the world

From my own meditations, the soul would seem to be a creature of pure awareness, not having a separate reality to call its own and focus its attention upon. It is aware only of what is real, and this determines the measure of its experience. That is, if our attention is directed toward things that are vain and imaginary, the soul will starve; whereas whenever it comes into contact with reality, it breathes deeply. What it breathes in is brought to it through the medium of perceived existence, just as the sun’s light is brought to the eye reflected from physical objects. The Source is too bright to be seen — beholding it would blind the soul, figuratively speaking — but it remains possible to perceive it in the form of its many reflections, or manifestations.

Each created thing alters the character of those manifestations according to its own quality, just as a red flower makes the light appear red, or a yellow flower, yellow. What both reveal to the soul, however, are differing attributes of a single Light, one Reality. This reality is the soul’s Beloved, and as such causes us joy whenever we see it.

Now the reason wherefore the souls are fain and eager to behold the plain of Truth, and discover it, lies herein — to wit, that the pasturage that is proper to their noblest part comes from that meadow, and the plumage by which they are borne aloft is nourished thereby. (Plato)

If our eyes are closed or confused, even the clearest manifestations of the divine cannot reach the soul. In that state it reaches spiritual death, because it receives no nourishment; for if the soul is to flourish, it must derive sustenance from its Creator. To do this means learning how to commune with the Divine through the medium of life’s experience.

Take beauty, for example. Beauty is an attribute of the One we love, and for this reason beauty seizes us, causes us to pause and wonder. This is a sign that the soul is recognizing its Love, and longing for reunion.

Now, it is quite possible not to see “through” this experience: to think that an object is beautiful by its own power and not because it reflects from another Source. In this case, the individual will attempt to satisfy his desire from the object alone, and will find it worthless and empty. Bahá’u'lláh expresses this phenomenon in these terms:

Break not the bond that uniteth you with your Creator, and be not of those that have erred and strayed from His ways. Verily I say, the world is like the vapor in a desert, which the thirsty dreameth to be water and striveth after it with all his might, until when he cometh unto it, he findeth it to be mere illusion. It may, moreover, be likened unto the lifeless image of the beloved whom the lover hath sought and found, in the end, after long search and to his utmost regret, to be such as cannot “fatten nor appease his hunger.”⁴

The world itself, then, is not the Beloved — but the image of the Beloved is seen in it, as if reflected from a mirror: “The whole universe reflecteth His glory, while He is Himself independent of, and transcendeth His creatures.” This image allows us to connect, as if sunlight reflected from a mirror were to nourish plants sitting in an otherwise dark room.

The bond of communion

This light that reaches us — the living quality beauty has when we experience it — establishes a link between the lover and his Love, a form of communion. Plato describes this dynamic using the metaphor of growing wings when he talks about how we experience beauty. Note his description of our “vision of the mystery”, which for him relates to the time of our pre-creation, when there was no impediment between ourselves and God:

Now he whose vision of the mystery is long past, or whose purity has been sullied, cannot pass swiftly hence to see beauty’s self yonder, when he beholds that which is called beautiful here; wherefore he looks upon it with no reverence, and surrendering to pleasure he essays to go after the fashion of a four-footed beast, and to beget offspring of the flesh, or consorting with wantonness he has no fear nor shame in running after unnatural pleasure. But when one who is fresh from the mystery, and saw much of the vision, beholds a godlike face or bodily form that truly expresses beauty, first there comes upon him a shuddering and a measure of that awe which the vision inspired, and then reverence as at the sight of a god, and but for fear of being deemed a very madman he would offer sacrifice to his beloved, as to a holy image of deity. Next, with the passing of the sudder, a strange sweating and fever seizes him. For by reason of the stream of beauty entering in through his eyes there comes a warth, whereby the soul’s plumage is fostered, and with that warmth the roots of the wings are melted, which for long had been so hardened and closed up that nothing could grow; then as the nourishment is poured in the stump of the wing swells and hastens to grow from the root over the whole substance of the soul, for aforetime the whole soul was furnished with wings. (Plato)

Bahá’u'lláh also uses a bird metaphor to describe our earliest condition, and how our capacity to fly requires purity in order to recall that proper state:

Ye are even as the bird which soareth, with the full force of its mighty wings and with complete and joyous confidence, through the immensity of the heavens, until, impelled to satisfy its hunger, it turneth longingly to the water and clay of the earth below it, and, having been entrapped in the mesh of its desire, findeth itself impotent to resume its flight to the realms whence it came. Powerless to shake off the burden weighing on its sullied wings, that bird, hitherto an inmate of the heavens, is now forced to seek a dwelling-place upon the dust.⁵

The fatal error occurs because the mind mistakes symbol for reality, thinking that raw gold, for example, holds the true meaning of value. From this ignorance it will pile up great stores of wealth, never realizes that it cultivates a long and vitiating poverty.

If the individual recognizes, however, that the signs and tokens of earthly life are like the lines of a love-letter waiting to be read, it completely changes the character of living. If we “read from the attributes the riddle of the Essence”⁶, as if a communication received by a lover, then there can be an experience of connection. It does not matter, for example, that the sun can never descend to Earth — or it would consume it — the medium of its rays still allows for plants to be nourished by its light. And even if these rays must reflect from various objects to reach the inhabitants of a dark cave, it would still be light and still be nourishing.

What lies beyond

I think this initial life is a place of confinement, like a cave; not because we are not meant for greater places, but because our souls are so tender that a direct revelation would blind them. This blinding would occur because we would have no option but to love Him, to be awed by His glory, and we would never have the chance to prove our devotion by overcoming great doubt in the course of our search.

… were the glory of this station to be revealed unto men to an extent smaller than a needle’s eye, thou wouldst witness them gathering before the threshold of divine mercy and hastening from all sides to the court of nearness in the realms of divine glory. We have concealed it, however, as mentioned before, that those who believe may be distinguished from them that deny, and that those who turn unto God may be discerned from them that turn aside.⁷

So we start out in this darker place, slowly becoming accustomed to the light, before we step out. We can only have a self during this initial stage of the journey, and so it is only here that we have the chance to sacrifice it for His sake. Once the Beloved becomes clear to our consciousness, there will be no consciousness of anything but:

How can a true lover continue to exist when once the effulgent glories of the Beloved are revealed? How can the shadow endure when once the sun hath shone forth? How can a devoted heart have any being before the existence of the Object of its devotion? Nay, by the One in Whose hand is my soul! In this station, the seeker’s complete surrender and utter effacement before his Creator will be such that, were he to search the East and the West, and traverse land, sea, mountain and plain, he would find no trace of his own self or of any other soul.⁸

I am not even sure if by “this initial life” I mean our physical life, or the life of unbelief which precedes faith. We might pass through several lives similar to this one before being ready to enter into the full sunlight. But when we do reach that place, the whole scheme will become clear, and the purpose for God’s concealment will be revealed:

And when the sanctified souls rend asunder the veils of all earthly attachments and worldly conditions, and hasten to the stage of gazing on the beauty of the Divine Presence and are honoured by recognizing the Manifestation and are able to witness the splendour of God’s Most Great Sign in their hearts, then will the purpose of creation, which is the knowledge of Him Who is the Eternal Truth, become manifest.⁹

This is an opinion of mine which is perhaps not shared by many, but comes from my own view of what philosophy means, and why it’s important.

A system of thought which seeks to propound a set view of things is not “philosophy” (the inspecific noun). It is a product of philosophy, or “a philosophy” (the specific, yet indefinite noun). Since these two uses of the word sound very close, there is often confusion.

Philosophy is that love of wisdom which propels one to escape ignorance in pursuit of the Truth. It also includes the means by which we verify the products of that search. That is, are we headed down a blind alley? There are certain tools to help answer such questions, but they are not useful if enmired in ambition and emotion. It is an exceedingly difficult path to tread.

The fruits of philosophy are related to it in the same way a building is related to architecture. The individual architect is always striving for a perfect design, and each building he creates is a step along that path. But if he wraps himself up in the building itself, and declares to everyone that, “This is the ultimate goal of architecture”, we rightly should look at him with eyes askance, to hide our embarrassment.

Truth is inclusive enough that we cannot properly discuss it. This lesson came from Plato. So we examine our experiences, and question the validity of what we currently know, and how long we should employ it before moving on. There is always movement toward the more perfect, the more encompassing. To one extent, this unifies with the quest of the mystics, who seek absorption in the absolute. They say that our most divine attainment initially is a perfect understanding of our own ignorance. Once that is achieved, we become the perfect student, while the world around us is a perfect teacher, because in its reality, it truly “is”. Plato called this, “learning to see things-as-they-are.”

But how does one become a student, so as to learn from experience? Does this transformation occur randomly, with no prior consideration? Surely if truth were so commonplace as to contain us all, at every moment, no one would seek any answer to these questions.

It then stands to reason that our ignorance is deep enough that we are ignorant even of this fact. Hence philosophy, for it is a discipline that invites only those whose love of wisdom exceeds their love of self. In fact, it implies a devastating abandonment of that cursed companion, and an entry into regions both frightening and utterly unpredictable. It is our love that conquers our fear, and emboldens us to charge headlong onto the spear of that most implacable enemy: our illusion that we already possess the Truth.

Anyone who stops along the way, to turn around and descant upon the “realities” of things, does so, I believe, for one of two reasons: Either they are impatient of the goal and want it now; or else, during the course of their search, they witness the extreme travail of their fellow man, and seek to offer some tidbit of what they’ve found.

Unfortunately, these ideas are always only half-formed (compared with the Ultimate we desire). Maybe the author even conveys this, or seeks to temper the zealousness of his compatriots. But humanity at large desperately and impatiently desires this goal, consciously or not, and will grasp hold of its traces with severe determinacy, intent on calling it master. Yet these errors should not be confused with the begetter of such a tragedy.

The human spirit/soul/mind/being (whatever) is capable of perceiving realities not evident. This is true even on a basic level, for look at how many people concern themselves over greenish paper with printed numerals! We exist in a world of symbols and portent. This is a decidedly human trait. It also reflects our potential to go further and deeper into this well of experience, therewith to broaden our definition of what “true” means.

I would say in this context that any “philosophy” is utterly rubbish in the absolute sense. I assume even the author of such a thing would agree, given ten more years to pursue their art (that is, if their intentions toward Sophia be pure). Otherwise, it’s just snake oil, a false panacea, with which they strive to convince others of their self-superiority. I judge harshly, because what fools we are to consider that the end is found! and the territory finally mapped! There are only six thousand years to our collective, conscious history, and we would plant our stake on the plane of the absolute?

Philosophy is, in a sense, “the self-effacing discipline”, in that every discovery made should immediately be followed by a keen lookout for what comes next. Plato termed the philosopher as “one who already has one foot in the grave”, since he contemplates the mysteries of the soul (that part of us related to Truth) while yet possessing a body.

It is true that philosophy also includes techniques of discernment, and methods of analysis, which are quite rigorous and exact. They demand self-criticism, and a constant review of motive and method. But alas the method, being something easily graspable, is often mistaken for the whole. There can be no spoken philosophy, just as a love of anything is jejune, if that beloved be not present.

Ultimately, we each discover Sophia/Good/God/Truth on our own – definitely guided by the thoughts of others, certainly aided by discussion and debate — but unless one feels that reality touching upon his most inward essence, all that he has gained is a craftily worded hope.

The many and the one

Alan Watts, in his book The Wisdom of Insecurity, wrote:

The sense of unity with the “All” is not… a nebulous state of mind, a sort of trance, in which all form and distinction is abolished, as if man and the universe merged into a luminous mist of pale mauve. Just as process and form, energy and matter, myself and experience, are names for, and ways of looking at, the same thing — so one and many, unity and multiplicity, identity and difference, are not mutually exclusive opposites: they are each other, much as the body is its various organs. To discover that the many are the one, and that the one is the many, is to realize that both are words and noises representing what is at once obvious to sense and feeling, and an enigma to logic and description.

Previous to reading this, I had been looking for an experience of reality underlying all my perceptions of it. Now, I wonder if my perceptions are that reality — if not in essence, then in being.

For example, my heart is me, in the sense that if I lost my heart, I would perish. My life and my heart are synonymous. But my heart is not what you read in these sentences. The personality you read is a reality more uniquely me than any physical part. This intangible me, in one sense, is distinct from the physical; this can lead me to see the two soul as utterly different, sometimes at odds with each other. Yet, I have never had an experience of life other than a bodily one, which means that my body is as much me as my soul — at this point in my experience of life. The two depend on each other. This creates a unity from the two, which is what people think of as “John”. Since no one can see my soul, that is not “John”; and if my body were laid under the ground, that also would not be me. My reality is neither one, but the unity of the whole. The many are the one.

It might be said that what is most real is what can endure death. In the scheme of my separate parts, this is certainly true. But the part of me that does survive cannot become what it will without the part it leaves behind. Without this mortal, physical life, my soul would be a very different soul. Thus, in the scheme of my being, there is no part more real than another. To call the physical experience unreal would imply that what my soul has learned here is unreal; yet if I suddenly undid the whole experience, the being that I am — who has learned all these things — would also vanish.

The ultimate reality, then, of which all my perceptions are but shades of glimpses, is also what I perceive of it. Because without those perceptions, there would be no “thing perceived”. “It” might still continue, but it would no longer be an “it”, any more than a thing unexperienced can ever be real to anyone but itself. In the scheme of the many, what is truly real may forever outreach me; but in terms of our unity, how I perceive it is very much a part of what it is.

For example: everyone reads a poem differently. There is the author’s intent, which no one can truly understand but him; and there are all the opinions people have of that poem. It could be said the author’s intent is more real, because his intention is what created the poem. Without him, there would be nothing to read. Other people’s views did not bring the poem into being. But are they less real? In the sense of unity, those opinions are also the reality of the poem. It is both what the author intended, and what other people read into it. If they never read it, it would not be a poem. It would rather be a nameless experience shared between the author and himself. To call it a “poem” would mean no more than calling it by any other name. It becomes a “poem” only when there is an audience to hear it. It’s reality, then, is both in itself — separate from the reader and nameless — and in the reader, in the form of a synergistic whole we call “a poem”.

All of this, of course, relates to our connection with the One Who created us. In the sense of being separate, I could no more say, “I am God”, than a cell of my body could claim to bear my identity. But in the sense of the-whole-in-the-parts, we are very much “God”, for without a creation He would not be a Creator. His essence would still endure, but He would no longer be “He” without us. “His name, the Creator, presupposeth a creation, even as His title, the Lord of Men, must involve the existence of a servant.”

To use another example: Every father was also a son. As a man, the father is separate from the son, but as a father, he is linked. Without the son, he would not be a father; without the father, there would be no son. Father and son are thus two sides of a single being: a greater unity made up of the two. Take either away, and both disappear. They are each other. Separate in one sense, but of one being (“fatherhood”) in another.

So when I look up at the sun or the clouds, I am more than the eyes that see them, or my sight of them. I am something which includes me as the seer, and the sky as the seen. We cannot be separated without destroying the two — nor can we be merged. We must be distinct even as we must be one, just as the moments of my life make up the unity of who I am, without any moment ever being the duplicate of another. Even unity and distinction are parts of a whole, for if there were no distinction, there would be no unity.

All of this completely changes my view of what is “real”. There is no underneath, anymore. There might still be, in the existential sense, but not in the experiential sense; because although I can never know the essence of reality — how to see without perception? — I am always part of it by my role in the greater unity. I am what I seek, as the son is the reality of the father. It is not the world which makes me feel apart, but my seeking to be united with it! It is a goal which, because it’s already met, cannot be satisfied if one doesn’t believe it. It would be like seeing a person who should be happy, but isn’t. What can you do? It’s not the circumstances that need changing, but their basic relationship to life. How that happens, I think, is the next step along this path…

Meditate on what the poet hath written: “Wonder not, if my Best-Beloved be closer to me than mine own self; wonder at this, that I, despite such nearness, should still be so far from Him.”…

Two sides of a coin

If I seek pleasure, and reject pain, I lose what both are a part of: my depth of feeling. But to an artist, depth of feeling is all. If pain and pleasure both contribute to it, how can either be shunned? It depends on what one seeks: feelings of pleasure — which must diminish in the absence of contrast — or a greater depth of feeling itself.

The interplay of opposites hones awareness. Nothing makes a meal taste better than hunger. Anyone who has fasted knows the sublime taste of water at the end of the day. What could compare to it? But it needs a day of toil to reach that moment of perfection; a day of loss to feel the beauty of the gain.

Always moving from opposite to opposite, what is the point? Perhaps it is the unity these two are a part of: consciousness. Repetition of one state leads to familiarity, which breeds forgetfulness. They say, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Our fondness for life would diminish without its trials, just as our amazement at the sunrise would lessen without the endless monotony of physical existence. Between extremes we are shaped, formed, and bred to a higher state of being: an awareness of the reality pointed to by those extremes. That is, not just a keener sense of pain, or of pleasure, but “the marrow of life”: the depths we reach by the interplay of the two.

In the book Zen and the Art of Archery, Eugen Herrigel talks about his experience learning archery from a Zen teacher. At one point, the teacher talked about how the archer and the target are two parts of one thing. In one sense, the archer shoots an arrow at the target; in the other, the target draws the arrow from the archer. They are not contending opposites, but two parts of a single thing: Archery. When the archer acts as if he were apart from it, he is not able to manifest “Archery” by his actions. He can only do it if he gives himself up to what he wishes to be a part of. At that moment, Archery comes into being. It cannot be said where it begins or where it ends. It is the man, the bow, the arrow, the target, all of it. To say it begins at the bow, and ends at the target, only divides it again. As Archery, it is one, indivisible; as separate parts, they each have their role.

Sometimes, when Eugen would allow Archery to appear by his actions, the teacher would stop and bow, saying “It” had shot. If Eugen thought he had done it — as if the man alone were Archery — the teacher would tell him all their practice was for nothing. He was not learning to shoot a bow, but to become a part of Archery, until there could be no distinction between himself and the target, or any other part. There is only Archery, if the archer allows himself to participate, and to share that reality with all the other parts.

This is my understanding of what the book was saying; I’m paraphrasing because the book is in storage, but it seemed also to be saying: the many and the one are the same; we only go wrong is by disbelieving this.

I am going to put these thoughts to the test by seeing if I can participate in the systems of life. I’m accustomed to thinking that I’m essentially separate from them, which means I do not easily accept my role. What would happen if my foot rejected playing its part in the operation of my body? But I do something similar when I separate myself from the unities I am a part of. Let’s see what happens if I yield, and stop trying so hard to establish “myself” as apart…

The movement of being

Both pleasure and pain are equal parts of a unity which might be called “the being of feeling”. This being includes pain, pleasure, the feeler, the object producing the feeling, and the setting in which it occurs. It is all of these things.

But this only pictures that unity within a single moment of time. The being of feeling also includes the movement of feeling, which is the avoidance of pain and the pursuit of pleasure. All that “pain” means is, “a feeling we seek to avoid.” It is “pain” because of our aversion, and “pleasure” because of our attraction.

So to avoid pain is also the being of feeling; it is part of the drama that makes up feeling. The attractive nature of pleasure would not be as sweet if there were not other feelings to repel us just as strongly. Pulled between like and dislike, these opposites become part of another being, perhaps “the being of desire”. Without attraction and repulsion, the being of feeling would be disconnected from the being of desire.

The critical difference lies in whether we love the being of feeling as a unity, or only some of its parts. Take for example the contrast between good and evil: A being arises which is both good and evil, as well as the movement of championing good and battling against evil. However, without evil — though we seek to defeat it — the greater unity of which they’re a part would not be (in the sense of becoming a being of consciousness). The champion of good, whose true love is this greater being, will honor evil even as he defeats it for the role it plays toward that being.

Another example: Illness and health are, together, the being of life, which is a constant movement from birth to decay. A doctor who serves the being of life, plays his role by championing health and fighting disease. However, it is critical to the being of life that he not succeed completely. If a doctor were able to eliminate all illness from birth, he would leave the patient incapable of facing other, unknown illnesses that also exist in the world. By granting perfect health, the patient would cease to be robust, and thus real health a would be impossible.

For a genuinely healthy person must face illness. It is never desirable to seek to become ill — part of the movement of the being of life is that we encourage health and promote illness — but without facing illness, a person could not be hardy. A doctor who strives for the being of life will champion health, but also honor illness for the role it plays in that being. It is because we fall ill at times, that we are healthy the rest of the time. In this way, as a unity, the being of life is able to be.

The same with pleasure and pain. If we desire to feel deeply, we musta seek out pleasure and avoid pain, but also honor pain when it comes, because it must come if we are to really feel. If we grow too comfortable with pleasure, to the point of feeling nothing at all, we (or God) must push us from our confinement to seek other pleasures, an activity which carries the risk of encountering other pains. To be truly alive — a lover of life — we must embrace all the parts of experience, honoring them for their role, even if the function of those roles seems contradictory.

I am not saying pain and pleasure are equal, or to be regarded equally. Such an identity would end the very being I refer to! The idea is that all parts — even those whose roles are diametrically opposed — are together that being. The movement of being means relating both to the parts (avoiding pain and preferring pleasure) and the whole (appreciating that both pain and pleasure are the life of feeling). In this way we honor injustice even as we strive to defeat it; we honor illness even as we develop medicines to counter it; we honor pain even as we take steps to avoid it. In fact, if we did not seek to avoid pain, we would be denying its role in the fuller aspect of its being! If everything were pleasant, feeling would start to diminish. So the love of being is a love of all its parts, even if some of the roles of those parts demand that we fight against them.

(On a mystical level, I believe one can develop a deeper appreciation of pain and pleasure so that, despite avoidance and attraction, we bear a deep appreciation for both. When pain must come, we cherish it even as we avoid it; and when pleasure comes, we cherish it similarly even as we revel in it. This is when the soul relates directly to the being of the two, while the body relates to one or the other part).

Since some of the parts of unity require the behavior of opposition, we see how necessary it is to being that we fail at times. Without imperfection, there could not be a consciousness of the higher being of which imperfection and perfection are both a part. That is, it may be the role of imperfection that I constantly seek to improve it, but it is also necessary to that greater being that sometimes I fail at this task. If ever I were to perfect my elimination of imperfection, I would also eliminate the unity I seek, since it is by imperfection that its being becomes known to me.

This does not mean that I will not continue, for the rest of my life, to seek perfection. The movement of the greater being of perfection and imperfection is that I struggle from one to the other. But it does mean that I will honor imperfection, even love it for the role it plays in making me conscious of my goal — even if that love is expressed by my seeking to undo imperfection; for by seeking to undo imperfection, I play my role in the movement of being.

This is fundamentally a philosophy of love, where even hate is loved because both hate and love together — and the lover, the beloved, and all the other parts — make up the greater unity to which this philosophy addresses itself. The being of true love could not be known without hateful things to test it (see “The steed of pain”, below). Thus, what is hateful is also loved, because its role in the being of love is that love will seek to overcome hatred with itself.

This is a world-view in which destruction and upbuilding are both one being. It does not matter that building destroys destruction, or that destruction lays the foundation for building. The two principles are, in their separateness, opposed; but as parts of a higher unity, they are interdependent. The two are intimately bound; just as with the Yin-Yang, they are two, but two aspects of one symbol, two sides of a single coin. They depend on each other, even though that dependence requires the giving way of each to the rise of the other.

As separate parts this could never make sense. The parts describe a universe fundamentally at odds with itself, an unresolvable paradox. But as members of a common unity, the parts are shown to serve the being of something more than themselves — which is also themselves. Through their opposition, the many in fact fulfill the being of the One.

It requires such a higher unity to resolve these warring parts, or else the paradox would never end. If creation and destruction are always at odds, as they must be, how can there ever be harmony? It is in the higher unity — the being of which these two are a part, and which they express by their conflict — that resolution is found. If that be the case, it argues for a resolution of all the manyness and inexplicability of life in a greater unity encompassing them all: a unity that includes temporality, limitation and finitude, as well as eternity, boundlessness and the infinite. Whatever that being is, it is what all this chaos and paradox refers to, in which they must all find their fulfillment.

Quantum mechanics indicates that for all physical events on the subatomic level there exist multiple probable outcomes, and that each of these outcomes exists simultaneously until interference with an outside observer causes one of those possibilities to become the outcome observed. We are always aware of only a single outcome; but since other outcomes were also probable, what caused the choice of one over the other?

Classical physics offered a deterministic model in which all effects follow from the previous state according to physical laws: that the reason for every effect is explained by its cause. The nature of subatomic particles, however, is that multiple probable effects can occur from a single cause. The fact that only one is observed implies some sort of selection.

How does this selection occur? Probability indicates a purely random basis for selection, in which it is as equally likely for one outcome to occur as another. This precludes both determinism and free will: the former because we can no longer determine what the observed outcome will be, and the latter because we cannot choose the outcome selected. We are like a boat caught in a stream that leads us whichever way the waters go; and while we can steer the boat in the general direction of the flow, we cannot go wherever we wish.

If the process of selection among quantum states is random, then we live in a random universe governed by laws that constrain the randomness enough that large-scale concepts of continuity are possible. Although the motion of an electron follows no predictable path, yet the laws of electromagnetic attraction keep it bound within the atom’s structure. The randomness of its movement does not prevent the atom from interact consistently with other atoms to create the impression of a solid object. The selection of one state over another happens at fine enough a level that we fail to perceive our universe as being built upon a framework of chance. It seems to be chance happening within a scheme of laws that make one outcome as likely to produce a viable world as another. The world we see, then, is a consequence of untold happy accidents; neither determined by an initial set of events, nor governed by any intention it follow a specific path. Even if the probability of any event could be influenced by external interference, the final choice is still random, and might be the same as if there had been no interference at all. Our universe was simply likely to occur, and because we now see it, is proof that it did occur.

Considered as a physical system, the underlying randomness of events has selected a universe in which beings exist who strive against randomness. Random selection implies an even distribution of probabilities, so that even if occasional interference alters specific probabilities, the overall, net effect is still random. It favors an entropy in which rare outcomes remain rare and are never more likely to be selected than what is less rare. Life, however, consistently makes choices that follow a specific plan, and thus counteract the random nature of the universe that spawned it. We fight against entropy by creating order, even though we say that entropy led to our creation. If life creates order, and randomness creates entropy, then how did the universe select life? Although a random system is bound to make a rare choice, how it choose something which begins to make its own choices in a fashion directly opposed to its parent? How did randomness come to offer the gift of intention?

It is obvious that our current universe was possible. Whether it was improbable or not depends on whether selection actually chooses one state among others, or if all possible states occur in separate universes, each one imagining its own outcome as the one chosen. If this is the case, and we are equally conscious in all possible worlds, probability has no meaning. Even though one outcome be extremely remote, still it will occur, and the inhabitants of that universe will be as conscious of their result, as we of ours. Probability could not mean that we rarely see any one outcome, as we would see all possible outcomes, always. It only means that the history of any universe – revealed by its probability patterns — indicates how often it chose among certain possibilities.

An example of such revelatory patterns is the stock broker’s con: A group of thirty-two people are picked, with sixteen told that certain stock will rise, and the other sixteen that it will fall. After the stock moves, the sixteen who were rightly informed are again divided, with eight told it will rise, and eight that it will fall. This is continued until one is person is left who perceives the broker as having a flawless understanding of the market.

If each person in this example is a universe, consider how he sees the broker: to the first sixteen people who were given bad information, the broker appears no worse off than anyone else: a fifty-fifty chance of giving the right advice. But as the broker chooses among the group of people, others begin to alter their perception of him. Each time the broker chooses the odds remain the same, but the history of his choices seem to weight the probability that his next choice will also be good. What’s more, in setting up the con this way, it is always guaranteed that at least one person will experience the broker as always having made the correct decision. He is likely then to conceive a higher probability of continued success.

If we too are also following multiple worldlines at every turn, we should be experiencing a similar thing with regard to physical laws. Consider a quantum event with a low probability, such as proton decay. In one worldline the proton did decay, and in that worldline another followed in which another decayed, etc. Since it is always possible for a proton to decay, there is always a worldline in which it did decay – no matter how many times previously it had already been seen to decay. In such a worldline, proton decay is not improbable at all, but common; in fact, in at least one worldline, proton decay must always occur, since this exists as a possibility. There proton decay is not only likely, but a constant phenomenon; while here it is so improbable as to remain undetected. Though improbable is the wrong word to describe this: The perception of probability is the quantum history for each particular universe.

This applies to physical laws, where certain possibilities are given a probability of zero: Here, those possibilities never occurred, giving rise to a law explaining their absence; but if probability has no meaning, then other universes exist which violate that law, where the law does not exist and is replaced by an expression of probability, the way we describe other events in terms of probabilities. There cannot be absolute physical laws if there are multiple worldlines: only descriptive histories that reflect, in the form of physical law, the continued non-occurrence of certain possibilities.

Even if consciousness does not carry into multiple worldlines, and some process of selection, random or otherwise, constantly chooses one reality over another, the implication still holds: It is the function of that choice creating the history of our universe from which we derive the concepts of stability and law ascribed to physical phenomena. Whatever we term as law or constant is but a description of what was chosen before us.

The improbability of certain outcomes gives rise to question now of why they are improbable, since quantum mechanics computes their probability by using physical laws. It is only a problem in the single worldline model, where randomness is randomly choosing between alternatives whose distribution is not random at all. Physical law seems to fix the probability of specific occurrences, allowing the choice to be random but claiming that the context of choice is not. However, if physical law is an outcome of the selections experienced by our universe, it cannot be used to describe the nature of the selection process itself. This leaves a selection process that appears random in its choices, while being non-random in the distribution of those choices. Physical law describes these preferences in terms of probabilities, but other than accept them as universal constants, it does not explain why a random process should be constrained in a non-random way. If the multiple worldlines view holds, the reason is purely historical; but if one worldline is being selected, it would seem that the physical laws have been chosen by whatever process now chooses randomly under their aegis.

This discrepancy of behavior in the case of a single worldline is enough to suggest the possibility of an intention to create the universe now experienced — framed in what we call physical laws, and constantly directed by the aggregate choices made at the subatomic level. And if there is intention behind these choices, it implies a conscious framework directing them for whom one outcome is better than another for reasons entirely specific to that consciousness. What we know as the universe was created, and has been constantly maintained and directed, to the end of yielding a place where independent wills have the capacity to add their own intention to the mix.

The idea that our present universe was created by an active will making choices at the quantum level would give such an agency absolute freedom to act without respect to what we know as laws. Further, if the appearance of life in our universe was a gift of this agency – imparting the intention to counteract entropy in a system that by-and-large operates by expressing itself through probabilities — and if perfect awareness exists on the part of that agency, which is indicated by its ability to effect universal scale results by operations in the smallest domain, then perhaps our intentions are read by this agency and effected by means of cooperative changes on its behalf. For example, if one intends to raise his arm in the air, it raises; but while the process of raising can be explained by medicine, the relationship of pure thought to the physical events necessary to move an arm cannot be. But if intention is heard by the same agency that selects the worldline we experience, the motion of one’s arm is explained as a chain of possible events beginning with some quantum-scale choice that would not have been made had one not expressed the intention.

This relationship between our contingent will, and an absolute Will Who governs the course of the universe, would explain the mechanism of prayer: By expressing our intention, we call upon the willingness of that Agency to select a worldline in which our prayer is answered. From this point forward I will simply call that agency God. For whatever reason, God has willed a universe in which the physical laws seem to hold, though this does not mean that any such laws exist in any other form than a consistency of choosing on His part. This explains miracles, since although God seems to prefer consistency in the matter of physical laws — a plain induction — it seems the intentions of saints are cherished even more. Religious scripture indicates that the greater one’s faith, the more one attracts unworldly powers to himself. If these powers are a willingness on the part of God to select improbable outcomes within our worldline, then faith can be viewed as the fulfillment of intention, which functions on the basic level to move the limbs of our body, and on the highest to cause the selection of improbable quantum states, such as Christ’s promise of the ability to move mountains.

Further, there is no difference other than choice, and acceptance of the choice by God, between the changes that move mountains, and those that move an arm. Because we tend to think of physical law as inviolate, and physical mobility as resulting from our own, private volition, we find it difficult to imagine events arising without reasonable causes. Quantum mechanics allows for such possibilities however, even within our scheme of physical law, such that acts of faith are more improbable than they are impossible. And if something is merely improbable, then it falls upon the process of selection to choose whether we experience in our worldline. If God wills it, we shall; and so it becomes as likely than an individual of faith will influence that selection, as for it never to occur if no one asks. The key element is that the world we experience is brought into being, moment to moment, by the intention of a Will Who hears our thoughts. The faith dynamic is that our thoughts and prayers can influence the same decision making process by which this creation was brought into being. It does not run counter to physical law, but appeals to the common parent of law and miracle both.

An individual of pure intention, then, with complete faith in God’s ability to effect whatever outcome He desires, and fulfilling whatever criteria God considers when granting a prayer, has the conditional ability to shape our worldline. This ability is the utmost, consummate power, since it draws upon the same agency Who created the universe. The power of faith is limited only by God’s willingness to heed its call; and since His power is not in any way limited, there is no reason to put a limit on faith. Insofar as a thing is possible, whether or not it is probable, it may be granted, since there is no law God must adhere to in considering its fulfillment.

If God stands behind the chain of events, with our universe the direct expression of His will in the modality of physical creation, then the faith dynamic add another element to human consciousness in this creation: To affect the shaping of the worldline through acts of will, the degree of effect being proportional to one’s faith. The more one has faith — which includes trusting God, and keeping faith in the covenant by which God may trust him — the more one’s contingent powers will be, and the more fully they will exist as a being of spirit, than merely the physical carriage of that spirit. “O My Servant! Obey Me and I shall make thee like unto Myself. I say Be,' and it is, and thou shalt sayBe,’ and it shall be.”¹