Fringe-ology (27 page)

“I never saw this coming,” Waldman told me. “I thought I had things pretty well figured out. But my work with Andy has changed my life, and much for the better. Because of my meditative practice, I'm more patient and compassionate and enjoy my relationships and my work more. I enjoy the time I spend in these different places of worship immensely. And I plan on continuing this work and spreading the word.”

N
EWBERG HAD ONE LAST
trick up his sleeve—a lecture in which he promised his freshman class he would try to “tie all this material together.”

He had a lot of ground to cover.

In more than ten years as a neurotheologist, just what had he learned? And where had he taken his class?

Well, he said, we now know that all our experience takes place inside our heads, and so all experience is subjective. The power of science is that we can use it to corroborate subjective experience, to demonstrate the validity of our perceptions. But measuring instruments change, and science changes, and reality seems to shift with our ability to know it. The idea that microscopic creatures caused illness seemed absolute lunacy—until the microscope was invented. Post-Newton, it seemed we live in a universe that looked a lot like a billiard table, in which everything moved according to how it got smacked. Then technology improved to the point that we could perceive another system of operations beneath the Newtonian realm. This new world of physics was quantum mechanics, and we're still reflecting on what to make of that.

This doesn't mean we should believe any idea that comes along, Newberg said, or any idea we just happen to like. But it does mean we should live in the awareness that the ground may shift under our feet. And it does mean we should admit to the range of possibilities reality might hold. Both scientific and spiritual. It is just that, neurologically, we're not built to live with that kind of ambiguity. “The brain has a propensity,” said Newberg, “to dismiss ideas that conflict with the way we see the world. If someone disagrees with us, our brain starts sending anxiety messages. Because our brain wants to preserve this view of the world it's constructed, and in order to do that, the easiest thing to do is reject this person.”

So, what happens in a disagreement?

According to Newberg, we might explain our position rationally at first. But if our reasoned argument doesn't persuade our opponent, it isn't our instinct to say,
Well, they just have a different way of looking at the world.
“Our instinct,” says Newberg, “is to say, ‘This other person is irrational!' ”

Newberg laughed. So did the class.

“Right?” he said. “We've all been there. ‘You don't agree with me? You must be crazy!' ”

Neurologically speaking, the entire debate between the most extreme of believers and unbelievers boils down to this—both sides talking past the other. So what has Newberg learned of religion, of spirituality? He's learned that modern scientific instruments corroborate the experiential validity of some of the most outrageous perceptions man has ever claimed: the feeling of divine union, the sense of unity among all things. But are these subjective experiences pointing to some objective truth about reality?

Or, as Newberg put it, “Is it possible, that when we turn off certain parts of our brain, or pay less attention to them, we're better able to access the input we're receiving from other areas of the brain? And is that information
real
, or just the result of focusing our awareness?”

When you stop being concerned with yourself, with your hopes and fears and your iPod and the chair you're sitting on, does other, real input you're receiving and usually unaware of come to the fore?

Newberg is a scientist and is humble enough to admit he doesn't know the answer. And as he points out, from a definitive scientific or epistemological perspective, no one credibly can. “But as a scientist,” he said, “there is something really interesting to me about these mystical states. Because when you ask people about these spiritual experiences, they don't describe them in the same terms we describe dreams or hallucinations.”

In the case of figments of imagination, once people are back in everyday reality, they recognize the dream as having been less real than, for instance, the bed they sleep on. “But when someone has a mystical experience,” Newberg said, “they still look back at it and say it felt real. In fact, they claim the mystical reality felt
more
real than the one we're in right now. And all of it points back to this sense of unity—of the self dropping away, and of feeling connected to something infinitely larger.”

There is irony in this.

As Newberg told his class, science tells us something much the same: science tells us that everything arises from the same source; everything emerges from the same small spot of the Big Bang; everything is comprised of the same whirling particles; the same waves of energy; and at these fundamental realms of reality, there is this capacity for separate particles to be connected. “There is obviously more work to do,” said Newberg. “But isn't it funny? There is this long fight between science and spirituality. But if we really pay attention to science and to profound mystical experiences, they are both essentially telling us the same thing—that this profound connection exists, lying underneath it all.”

Newberg ran through all this in about an hour, hitting this last point just before he ran out of time.

There was a sudden silence then, as everyone realized this was the end.

His students, smiles beaming, broke into an enthusiastic round of applause.

Newberg, smiling sheepishly, bowed.

And that was it.

Class dismissed.

Sleep as an Untapped Resource for an Awakened Life

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.

—T. E. Lawrence

I
trudged up a steep set of steps, toward a large, open meeting space on the second floor of what was essentially a massive wooden hut. I was running late. And the buzz of conversation was already going on above me.

I was here, having just arrived in Hawaii, to explore the world of dreams, to attend a workshop about a very specific kind of dreaming. And the introductory session was about to start. As I hit the top stair, I saw this was going to be an informal gathering—a cross between an academic lecture series and a hippie commune. Metal folding chairs were arranged in a small semi-circle, and the walls featured big, screened windows, to permit the cool evening air inside. The interior ring featured a series of small mats for people who preferred to sit on the floor. And the director of the workshop, Stanford University sleep and dream researcher Dr. Stephen LaBerge, was already present, barefoot, and dressed in shorts and a floral print shirt.

LaBerge made his way around the room, shaking hands with all thirty-two attendees. He was slim, sported a stylish gray haircut, and introduced himself simply as “Stephen.”

After all these years, it was a pleasure to meet him up close. I had first run across his book,
Lucid Dreaming
, about sixteen years earlier, in college. And I still vividly remember dismissing it out of hand, after just a few dozen pages, because it seemed too good to be true.

Lucid dreaming is that cool. But what is lucid dreaming?

Well, the key difference between a typical dream and a lucid dream is simply one of awareness. An average dream occurs like a David Lynch movie, in evocative fragments. We experience the event, intimately, feeling terror, anxiety, or lust, whatever the dream provokes. But we remain locked in the idea that everything we see is externally real. We remain unable to consciously choose our actions with the knowledge that all this is . . .
but a dream.

The lucid dream stands this entire dynamic on its head. In a lucid dream, we gain awareness of our true state. And lucidity strikes like lightning, rendering everything in the dream—every wall, every person, every color, every speck of light—in detail that often transcends waking perception. But even more important, we are now truly
in
the movie—and we can choose our actions accordingly.

Want to fly?

Take off! Like Superman, or Neo. The laws of physics play no part here.
Want to have sex with that dream hottie?
Go for it. It's a dream. That's one fantasy figure who will most likely say yes.

A lot of popular media accounts focus on these sensational aspects of lucid dreaming. And here in the United States, lucid dreaming is best known from movies like
Inception
and
Vanilla Sky
, both of which take full advantage of the anything-goes atmosphere of the dream. But popular depictions usually miss the larger, more fundamental picture: lucid dreaming is intimately related to the practice of meditation; and for many practitioners, the two pursuits are really one. It is a phenomenon that most definitely exists, but because it has connections to religious practice, raises important questions about the murky workings of consciousness, and takes seriously the irrational world of dreaming, the lucid dream carries the whiff of hoo ha.

LaBerge addressed the first link, between meditation and lucid dreaming, in his opening talk. He took his seat at the front of the room and began arching his thick eyebrows in various configurations, like a Mad Hatter, until we all fell silent. Then he spoke: “Dreaming and waking,” he hollered, his face turned toward the ceiling. “Waking and dreaming . . .”

“We're awake right now,” he said, arching his eyebrows again. “Or, at least, it
seems
so, doesn't it?”

LaBerge let this observation hang in the air for a few seconds. “But something you should consider,” he said, “is that we so rarely question what state we're in.”

Over the course of the next week, LaBerge promised, he would teach us the differences and the similarities between waking and dreaming. He also advised us to look at the pursuit of lucid dreaming as a metaphor for our entire lives. “Consider,” he said, “how often are you aware of your surroundings,
really
aware? And how often are you merely
reacting
in the same automatic way as you do in dreams?”

Given this question, the connection between meditation and lucid dreaming appeared obvious to me. In fact, after conducting my research into Andrew Newberg, I had pursued a meditative practice of my own. I had also, in preparing for this trip, experienced a particularly dramatic lucid dream. My first. But I figured I got it: through each practice, the doer gains greater awareness and ability to choose
.
Who am I going to be right now? How would I like to respond?
Meditation can help us lead more fulfilling waking lives. Lucid dreaming can grant us awareness even in our sleep. But starting the next morning, I was about to learn how thin the line between waking and dreaming really is—and how easily I could improve my experience of life, just by more closely observing the world around me.

T
HE SUN HADN'T BEEN
up all that long by the time I strolled across the lawn, looking for coffee. The light was dim. The grass was still wet. And in the distance, I saw a blurry little shape scrambling around, flaunting the agility of a cat and a top-end speed I'd seen only in the mice shooting across the floor of my first Philadelphia apartment.

Because I had arrived at night, this was my first view of the Kalani Oceanside Resort in Hilo, on the big island of Hawaii. The word
resort
suggests—to me, anyway—sleek, corporate spaces and luxury. But Kalani is rustic, an aging compound of communal living spaces and hut-style accommodations for those more interested in privacy. There was a small general store and a tiny snack bar. A wooden deck maybe forty yards long comprised the common dining area, dominating the central space. There were some sections set aside for group yoga practices, and meditation. And that was pretty much it. The ocean sat across a narrow band of highway. All else, in the near distance, was jungle.

I bee-lined to the deck, saw the coffee pots, and felt a wave of relief before I even took my first sip. I was struggling with the time change. As I poured a cup, I spoke to a Kalani staff member who was setting up for breakfast. It was 6:30
AM
, Hawaii time. But the girl, ritually tattooed and dreadlocked, her face fresh-scrubbed and clean, looked like she had been awake for hours.

I described the small brown blur I'd seen across the lawn. “What was that?” I asked.

“A mongoose,” she said.

I paused a beat, remembering Rikki Tikki Tavi, the mongoose from
Jungle Book
.

“They're Hawaiian squirrels,” she explained. “They're everywhere. But they're shy. You see them around, but not for long, because they dart away.”

The metaphor, between elusive mongoose and ephemeral dream, was obvious. Though everyone dreams, many people claim not to remember their dreams at all. And how many times had I awakened, over the years, remembering a snatch of what I'd dreamt only to find that the harder I pursued it, the faster it seemed to vanish?

I sat down and stared out across the landscape through the still misty air. This trip to Hawaii marked the final step in a nearly two-year immersion in the paranormal. I had explored near-death experiences, telepathy, and UFOs, among other taboo topics. But my experience with Andrew Newberg and meditation had been the most inspiring. After that, I felt keen to follow the path into inner space. So keen, in fact, that I felt thwarted when a voice behind me interrupted my thoughts: “Are you Steve?” a man asked.

I turned to look over my shoulder, feeling grumpy. I was already going to sit in a meeting space, shoulder to shoulder with thirty-two strangers, for a few hours each morning and again each night. I was jetlagged, and I hoped that I might at least enjoy some alone time at 6:30
A.M
. “Yes,” I said, turning to look at the man behind me, my voice tight and clipped. “That's the name.”

“I'm Steve, too,” he said. “I saw your name badge at last night's session.”

This second Steve was gray-haired, balding, and wrapped in a colorful Tibetan robe. He wore sandals and smiled way too brightly and enthusiastically for the hour.
Oh no,
I thought.
Aging hippie
.

I asked him if he wanted to sit down, barely feigning politeness, my mouth curled into a sour smile. Steve sat down at the table next to mine and talked to me from several feet away.

In the next few minutes, I learned that he was from Texas. He had been a practicing Tibetan Buddhist for decades.

In the form of Buddhism he practices, in fact, lucid dreaming has long been pursued under the name “dream yoga.” The goal is to become fully aware in both waking life and dreaming life—aware, twenty-four hours a day.

Among some Buddhists, becoming aware during sleep is a way of rehearsing for the transition into death. “The idea,” Steve told me, “is that if you don't learn to become aware in your dreams, you won't become conscious in death.”

Heavy stuff, but still I felt put out, only half-listening. Then Steve switched gears abruptly.

“You been to the general store yet?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I got in late last night.”

“I am hoping I can get a knife,” he explained. “They took my knife from me yesterday at the airport, and I have to tell you: A Texan is naked without his knife.”

He shook his head, ruefully. “In a place like this . . . ?” he said, motioning around us, toward the wilds of the jungle.

I laughed. And remembered LaBerge's suggestion of the night before: because until this moment, I had just been
reacting
to Steve. I had taken one look at him—old, gray-haired, wide-eyed, sandaled, and be-robed in Eastern garb—and got immediate feedback from my brain, reflecting all of my own biases:
Flake
, I thought.
Hippie
.

It was several minutes after I reluctantly engaged with him, when he
surprised
me, that I became aware of him at all: this was a man invested in the teachings of the Far East but still mindful enough of what he learned in the great West—to
want a knife
—to believe there might be something around here, at a lucid dreaming workshop, that he'd need to stab.

I didn't understand this combination of seemingly incongruous personality traits—and that was the point. Steve had now emerged as a complicated, three-dimensional human being. The clichéd hippie was someone I had only imagined. I
liked
this second Steve and wondered what other surprises he might have in store. And I
got
LaBerge's previous talk now, in a very personal way: How many people, how many situations, pass us by, unexamined, in the course of our waking lifetimes? How much of our waking lives do we spend, essentially, asleep—thinking we know someone or something and
reacting
to that internal judgment, when we don't really know anything at all?

I had done the same thing, many years earlier, when I allowed stupid cynicism to keep me from reading LaBerge's work when I first encountered it. I only overcame my resistance to the concept of lucid dreaming later, when the movie
Vanilla Sky
was released, and the publicity surrounding it included some mentions that—hey, what do you know—this lucid dreaming stuff is real.

LaBerge understands this resistance, which shaped his life and career. But for him, lucid dreaming was always part of reality. Like many people, he had lucid dreams, spontaneously, as a child. In his, he was an underwater pirate, totally untroubled by the lack of oxygen.

He was surprised, years later, to find that mainstream scientists denied the existence of lucid dreaming entirely. Yet science was always his path.

He was raised Catholic. And in grade school, he asked a nun about the Catholic doctrine of Transubstantiation—the teaching that the wafers doled out during communion become the body and blood of Christ. “I was a rationalist,” he told us. “Even then. And so if the wafer had become different, it would have to become
literally
different. So I asked her, ‘
How could this be so
?' ”

The nun issued her automatic response. “That,” she replied, “is a holy mystery.”

To the young LaBerge, this was proof that religious people were just stupid. It was an opinion he didn't hold forever, but an opinion that nonetheless illuminated the road he would take into science.

LaBerge is in his sixties now; and as it happens, he grew into adulthood in
the
'60s. He wanted to examine consciousness scientifically. But back then, consciousness was a dirty word in academic hallways.

Because science can only weigh, measure, and objectively assess that which can be weighed, measured, and objectively assessed, the subjective inner states that make up our lives were, and sometimes still are, relegated to the margins. As a result, the field of psychology was still mostly dominated by behaviorism, a worldview in which inner states and thought processes didn't matter; only our actions, our behaviors, claimed real scientific importance.

Frustrated, LaBerge spent some time in the '60s counterculture, attempting to study consciousness through the use of various illicit substances. But like Catholicism, hallucinogens didn't take. “I quickly understood,” he said, “that there must be a better, safer way to go.”