The Theory of Concentration - Annie Besant
Thought Power: Its Control and Culture, Chapter VII, "Concentration"
Few things more tax the powers of the student who is beginning to train his mind than does concentration. In the early stages of the activity of the mind, progress depends on its swift movements, on its alertness, on its readiness to receive impacts from sensation after sensation, turning its attention quickly from one to another. Versatility is, at that stage, a most valuable quality, and the constant turning outwards of the attention is essential to progress. While the mind is collecting materials for thought, extreme mobility is an advantage, and for many, many lives the mind grows through this mobility, and increases it by exercise. The stoppage of this habit of running outwards in every direction, the imposition of fixed attention on a single point'— this change naturally comes with a jar and a shock, and the mind plunges wildly, like an unbroken horse when it first feels the bit.
We have seen that the mental body is shaped into images of the objects towards which attention is directed. Patanjali speaks of stopping the modifications of the thinking principle, i.e., of stopping these ever-changing reproductions of the outer world. To stop the ever-changing modifications of the mental body, and to keep it shaped to one steady image, is concentration so far as the form is concerned; to direct the attention steadily to this form so as to reproduce it perfectly within itself is concentration so far as the Knower is concerned.
In concentration, the consciousness is held to a single image; the whole attention of the Knower is fixed on a single point, without wavering or swerving. The mind—which runs continually from one thing to another, attracted by external objects and shaping itself to each in swift succession—is checked, held in, and forced by the will to remain in one form, shaped to one image, disregarding all the impressions thrown upon it.
Now, when the mind is thus kept shaped to one image, and the Knower steadily contemplates it, he obtains a far fuller knowledge of the object than he could obtain by means of any verbal description of it. Our idea of a picture, of a landscape, is far more complete when we have seen it, than when we have only read of it, or heard it described. And if we concentrate on such a description the picture is shaped in the mental body, and we gain a fuller knowledge of it than is gained by mere reading of the words. Words are symbols of things, and concentration on the rough outline of a thing produced by a word descriptive of it fills in more and more detail, as the consciousness comes more closely into touch with the thing described.
It must be remembered that concentration is not a state of passivity, but, on the contrary, one of intense and regulated activity. It resembles, in the mental world, the gathering up of the muscles for a spring in the physical world, or their stiffening to meet a prolonged strain. In fact, this tension always shows itself in a corresponding physical tension with beginners, and physical fatigue follows the exercise of concentration—fatigue of the muscles, not only of nervous system. As fixing the eye steadily on an object enables us to observe its details, unnoticed in a hasty glance, so does concentration enable us to observe the details of an idea. And as we increase the intensity of the concentration, we take in more in the time, as a runner passes more objects-in a minute than does a walker. The walker will expend exactly the same amount of muscular energy in passing twenty objects as will the runner, but the swifter pouring out of energy corresponds to the shorter time of passage.
At the beginning two difficulties have to be overcome. First, the Knower must disregard the impressions continually being thrown on the mind. The mental body must be prevented from answering these contacts, and the tendency to respond to these outside impressions must be resisted; but this necessitates the partial direction of the attention to the resistance itself, and when the tendency to respond has been overcome the resistance itself must pass; perfect balance is needed, neither resistance nor non-resistance, but a steady quietude so strong ihat waves from outside will not produce any result, not even the secondary result of the consciousness of something to be resisted.
Secondly, the mind itself must hold as sole image, for the time, the object of concentration; it must not only refuse to modify itself in response to impacts from without, but must also cease its own inner activity, wherewith it is constantly re-arranging its contents, thinking over them, establishing new relations, discovering hidden likenesses and unlikenesses. It has now to confine its attention to a single object, to fix itself on that. It does not, of course, cease its activity, but sends it all along a single channel. Water flowing over a surface wide in comparison with the amount of water will have little motor power. The same water sent along a narrow channel, with the same initial impulse, will carry away an obstacle. Hence the value of the "one-pointedness" so continually insisted on by the teachers of meditation. Without adding to the strength of the mind, the effective strength of it is immensely increased. Steam allowed to expand in the free air does not move a midge out of its path; but along a pipe, the same steam would drive a piston. This imposition of inner stillness is even more difficult than the ignoring of outside impacts, being concerned with its own deeper and fuller life. To turn the back on the outside world is more easy than to quiet the inner, for this inner world is more identified with the Self, and, in fact, to most people at the present stage of evolution, represents the "I". The very attempt, however, thus to still the mind soon brings about a step forward in the evolution of consciousness, for we quickly feel that the Ruler and the ruled cannot be one, and instinctively identify ourselves with the Ruler. "Quiet my mind", is the expression of the consciousness, and the mind is felt as belonging to, as a possession of, the "I".
This distinction grows up unconsciously, and the student finds himself becoming conscious of a duality, of something which is controlling, and something which is controlled. The lower concrete mind is separated off, and the "I" is felt as of greater power, clearer vision, and there is evolved a feeling that this "I" is not dependent on either body or mind. This is the first realisation, i.e., feeling, in consciousness of the true immortal nature, already intellectually seen as existing, such vision having, in fact, prompted the very concentration which is thus rewarded. As the practice goes on, the horizon widens out, but as though inwards, not outwards, inwards and inwards continually, inimitably. There unfolds a power of knowing Truth at sight, which only shows itself when the mind, with its slow processes of reasoning, is transcended. [The reader must never forget that "the mind" is used throughout as meaning "the lower mind", the mental body, plus manas.] For the "I" is the expression of the Self whose nature is knowledge, and whenever he comes into contact with a truth, he finds its vibrations regular, and therefore capable of producing a coherent image in himself, whereas the false causes a distorted image, out of proportion, by its very reflection announcing its nature. As the mind assumes a more and more subordinate position, these powers of the Ego assert their own predominance, and intuition—analogous to the direct vision of the physical plane—takes the place of reasoning, which may perhaps be compared to the physical plane sense of touch. In fact, the analogy is closer than at the first glance may appear. For intuition develops out of reasoning in the same unbroken manner, and without change of essential nature, as the eye develops out of touch. There is certainly a great change of "manner", but this should not blind us to the orderly and sequential evolution. The intuition of the unintelligent is impulse, born of desire, and is lower, not higher, than reasoning.
When the mind is well trained in concentrating on an object, and can maintain its one-pointedness—as this state is called—for some little time, the next stage is to drop the object, and to maintain the mind in this attitude of fixed attention without the attention being directed to anything. In this state the mental body shows no image; its own material is there, held steady and firm, receiving no impressions, in a condition of perfect calm, like a waveless lake. This is not a state which can last for more than a very brief period, like the "critical state" of the chemist, the point of contact between two recognised and defined sub-states of matter. Otherwise put, the consciousness, as the mental body is stilled, escapes from it, and passes into and out of the "laya centre", the neutral points of contact between the mental body and the causal body; the passage is accompanied by a momentary swoon, or loss of consciousness'—the inevitable result of the disappearance of objects of consciousness—followed by consciousness in the higher. The dropping out of objects of consciousness belonging to the lower worlds is thus followed by the appearance of objects of consciousness in the higher. Then can the Ego shape that mental body according to his own lofty thoughts and permeate it with his own vibrations. He can mould it after the high visions of the planes beyond his own, that he has caught a glimpse of in his own highest moments, and can thus convey downwards and outwards ideas to which the mental body would otherwise be unable to respond. These are the inspirations of genius, that flash down into the mind with dazzling light, and illuminate a world. The very man who gives them to the world can scarce tell in his ordinary mental state how they have reached him; only he knows that in some strange way ". . . the power within me pealing lives on my lip and beckons with my hand."
Few things more tax the powers of the student who is beginning to train his mind than does concentration. In the early stages of the activity of the mind, progress depends on its swift movements, on its alertness, on its readiness to receive impacts from sensation after sensation, turning its attention quickly from one to another. Versatility is, at that stage, a most valuable quality, and the constant turning outwards of the attention is essential to progress. While the mind is collecting materials for thought, extreme mobility is an advantage, and for many, many lives the mind grows through this mobility, and increases it by exercise. The stoppage of this habit of running outwards in every direction, the imposition of fixed attention on a single point'— this change naturally comes with a jar and a shock, and the mind plunges wildly, like an unbroken horse when it first feels the bit.
We have seen that the mental body is shaped into images of the objects towards which attention is directed. Patanjali speaks of stopping the modifications of the thinking principle, i.e., of stopping these ever-changing reproductions of the outer world. To stop the ever-changing modifications of the mental body, and to keep it shaped to one steady image, is concentration so far as the form is concerned; to direct the attention steadily to this form so as to reproduce it perfectly within itself is concentration so far as the Knower is concerned.
In concentration, the consciousness is held to a single image; the whole attention of the Knower is fixed on a single point, without wavering or swerving. The mind—which runs continually from one thing to another, attracted by external objects and shaping itself to each in swift succession—is checked, held in, and forced by the will to remain in one form, shaped to one image, disregarding all the impressions thrown upon it.
Now, when the mind is thus kept shaped to one image, and the Knower steadily contemplates it, he obtains a far fuller knowledge of the object than he could obtain by means of any verbal description of it. Our idea of a picture, of a landscape, is far more complete when we have seen it, than when we have only read of it, or heard it described. And if we concentrate on such a description the picture is shaped in the mental body, and we gain a fuller knowledge of it than is gained by mere reading of the words. Words are symbols of things, and concentration on the rough outline of a thing produced by a word descriptive of it fills in more and more detail, as the consciousness comes more closely into touch with the thing described.
It must be remembered that concentration is not a state of passivity, but, on the contrary, one of intense and regulated activity. It resembles, in the mental world, the gathering up of the muscles for a spring in the physical world, or their stiffening to meet a prolonged strain. In fact, this tension always shows itself in a corresponding physical tension with beginners, and physical fatigue follows the exercise of concentration—fatigue of the muscles, not only of nervous system. As fixing the eye steadily on an object enables us to observe its details, unnoticed in a hasty glance, so does concentration enable us to observe the details of an idea. And as we increase the intensity of the concentration, we take in more in the time, as a runner passes more objects-in a minute than does a walker. The walker will expend exactly the same amount of muscular energy in passing twenty objects as will the runner, but the swifter pouring out of energy corresponds to the shorter time of passage.
At the beginning two difficulties have to be overcome. First, the Knower must disregard the impressions continually being thrown on the mind. The mental body must be prevented from answering these contacts, and the tendency to respond to these outside impressions must be resisted; but this necessitates the partial direction of the attention to the resistance itself, and when the tendency to respond has been overcome the resistance itself must pass; perfect balance is needed, neither resistance nor non-resistance, but a steady quietude so strong ihat waves from outside will not produce any result, not even the secondary result of the consciousness of something to be resisted.
Secondly, the mind itself must hold as sole image, for the time, the object of concentration; it must not only refuse to modify itself in response to impacts from without, but must also cease its own inner activity, wherewith it is constantly re-arranging its contents, thinking over them, establishing new relations, discovering hidden likenesses and unlikenesses. It has now to confine its attention to a single object, to fix itself on that. It does not, of course, cease its activity, but sends it all along a single channel. Water flowing over a surface wide in comparison with the amount of water will have little motor power. The same water sent along a narrow channel, with the same initial impulse, will carry away an obstacle. Hence the value of the "one-pointedness" so continually insisted on by the teachers of meditation. Without adding to the strength of the mind, the effective strength of it is immensely increased. Steam allowed to expand in the free air does not move a midge out of its path; but along a pipe, the same steam would drive a piston. This imposition of inner stillness is even more difficult than the ignoring of outside impacts, being concerned with its own deeper and fuller life. To turn the back on the outside world is more easy than to quiet the inner, for this inner world is more identified with the Self, and, in fact, to most people at the present stage of evolution, represents the "I". The very attempt, however, thus to still the mind soon brings about a step forward in the evolution of consciousness, for we quickly feel that the Ruler and the ruled cannot be one, and instinctively identify ourselves with the Ruler. "Quiet my mind", is the expression of the consciousness, and the mind is felt as belonging to, as a possession of, the "I".
This distinction grows up unconsciously, and the student finds himself becoming conscious of a duality, of something which is controlling, and something which is controlled. The lower concrete mind is separated off, and the "I" is felt as of greater power, clearer vision, and there is evolved a feeling that this "I" is not dependent on either body or mind. This is the first realisation, i.e., feeling, in consciousness of the true immortal nature, already intellectually seen as existing, such vision having, in fact, prompted the very concentration which is thus rewarded. As the practice goes on, the horizon widens out, but as though inwards, not outwards, inwards and inwards continually, inimitably. There unfolds a power of knowing Truth at sight, which only shows itself when the mind, with its slow processes of reasoning, is transcended. [The reader must never forget that "the mind" is used throughout as meaning "the lower mind", the mental body, plus manas.] For the "I" is the expression of the Self whose nature is knowledge, and whenever he comes into contact with a truth, he finds its vibrations regular, and therefore capable of producing a coherent image in himself, whereas the false causes a distorted image, out of proportion, by its very reflection announcing its nature. As the mind assumes a more and more subordinate position, these powers of the Ego assert their own predominance, and intuition—analogous to the direct vision of the physical plane—takes the place of reasoning, which may perhaps be compared to the physical plane sense of touch. In fact, the analogy is closer than at the first glance may appear. For intuition develops out of reasoning in the same unbroken manner, and without change of essential nature, as the eye develops out of touch. There is certainly a great change of "manner", but this should not blind us to the orderly and sequential evolution. The intuition of the unintelligent is impulse, born of desire, and is lower, not higher, than reasoning.
When the mind is well trained in concentrating on an object, and can maintain its one-pointedness—as this state is called—for some little time, the next stage is to drop the object, and to maintain the mind in this attitude of fixed attention without the attention being directed to anything. In this state the mental body shows no image; its own material is there, held steady and firm, receiving no impressions, in a condition of perfect calm, like a waveless lake. This is not a state which can last for more than a very brief period, like the "critical state" of the chemist, the point of contact between two recognised and defined sub-states of matter. Otherwise put, the consciousness, as the mental body is stilled, escapes from it, and passes into and out of the "laya centre", the neutral points of contact between the mental body and the causal body; the passage is accompanied by a momentary swoon, or loss of consciousness'—the inevitable result of the disappearance of objects of consciousness—followed by consciousness in the higher. The dropping out of objects of consciousness belonging to the lower worlds is thus followed by the appearance of objects of consciousness in the higher. Then can the Ego shape that mental body according to his own lofty thoughts and permeate it with his own vibrations. He can mould it after the high visions of the planes beyond his own, that he has caught a glimpse of in his own highest moments, and can thus convey downwards and outwards ideas to which the mental body would otherwise be unable to respond. These are the inspirations of genius, that flash down into the mind with dazzling light, and illuminate a world. The very man who gives them to the world can scarce tell in his ordinary mental state how they have reached him; only he knows that in some strange way ". . . the power within me pealing lives on my lip and beckons with my hand."