The Eight-Phase Path: Cūḍālā's protocol
Read slowly, aloud, in your own voice, with a breath between lines; twenty-five to thirty minutes. In this practice you are the one who went to the forest, and the voice is the one who came to find you. Record it and play it back if you wish.
Before you begin. This is a self-hypnosis practice built on the eight phases of Cūḍālā's method, from the side of the one being helped. It is safe for most healthy adults. Do not practise it alone if you have, or have had, a psychotic illness, a dissociative disorder, uncontrolled epilepsy, or trauma that still produces flashbacks; practise it with a clinician who knows your history. This tale contains a man who, in the name of letting go, tried to throw himself from a cliff, and was stopped. If you have thoughts of ending your life, or of being rid of your body, do not use this practice; speak today to a clinician, a doctor or a crisis line. If fire has a painful meaning for you, let the fire in this practice be a river instead. Never practise while driving, operating anything, standing, or in or near water. Sit, do not lie down.
How to return at any moment. If anything becomes uncomfortable, hum one soft note, feel your feet on the floor, count up from one to five, and open your eyes on five. That is the whole of it. Nothing in the practice requires you to stay.
Sit down.
Let the seat hold you. Let the spine rise by itself. Let the hands rest.
Let the eyes close, or rest half-open on a point a little above the line of sight.
Breathe out.
Somewhere in you is someone who woke first. Not the one who worries or plans. A quieter one, who knew before you did, and does not need to argue. That one has waited.
Breathe out.
You have been in the forest a long time. Eighteen years, or one long afternoon. You came here to be free; you built a hut, made a staff and a bowl and a string of beads, and kept the hours. And still the sorrow came.
There is nothing to decide now. Nothing to fix. Only to notice that you are here.
Someone is coming through the trees.
Young, bright as gold in the morning, with a water-pot and a staff like yours. You do not know this visitor, and yet the face reminds you of someone you love.
Stand, if only in your mind. Offer your seat. Offer a handful of flowers.
And notice how the visitor honours you back. I have travelled far, the visitor says, and have never been received so kindly.
Sit together.
The visitor asks: Why did you come to the forest?
Answer in one sentence, silently. Whatever comes. There is no wrong answer.
Breathe out.
Now the visitor says: Hear my words as you hear music. Without asking their reason or their rhyme.
Let the words that follow pass through you like music. You need not agree or understand. Only listen.
There was once a man who searched for a gem. When at last he saw it lying before him, he could not believe it was meant for him. He doubted, and doubted, until it was gone. Then he picked up a piece of bright glass, gave away everything he had, and carried the glass into the wilderness.
There was once an elephant who broke his iron chain. He walked away free, and pleased with his freedom, and never looked where he was going, and one day he walked into a pit covered with leaves.
You do not need to know what these mean. If you want to know, ask. And listen for the answer, which is very short: The same one is you.
Breathe out.
Now a fire, small and steady, burning in front of the hut.
Think of one thing you carry for safety, or for holiness, or to prove that you are good. A rule. A routine. A role. Something that once helped you.
Hold it a moment. Thank it, as the king thanked his water-pot: You served me well. And if you are ready, lay it in the fire. If you are not ready, keep it. Both are allowed.
Watch the flame.
Now notice the body sitting by the fire.
Place a hand on your chest, or on your knee.
This body has done nothing wrong. It is innocent. It carries you, it breathes without being asked, it waits for you without complaint. Whatever you are letting go of, it is not this body. Let the hand rest there a moment and let the body hear that.
Breathe out.
Now the visitor gives you the fire that really burns. It is a question.
What am I that bear this form?
Ask it slowly.
Am I the hut? No.
Am I the beads, the staff, the bowl? No.
Am I the skin, where the air touches it? The breath, coming and going? The thoughts, rising like birds? Each one passes, and something notices it pass.
What am I?
Do not answer. Let the question rest in you like a coal.
Breathe out.
And now rest.
Like a lamp where no wind comes: the flame steady, upright, unflickering.
Not lost. Not far away. You can still hear this voice. You are deep enough to be still, and near enough to answer.
If you feel yourself going very far, let a voice call you back to the middle. Neither swallowed by the stillness, nor a stranger to it. The middle.
(Silence: two to four minutes.)
Now a sound, soft, like bees in the afternoon.
Hum one note, gently, on the out-breath. Mmmm.
Again. Mmmm.
Once more. Mmmm.
Let the sound wake the body from inside. Feel the chest where the sound lives. Feel the throat. Feel the face.
Let the eyelids grow lighter, like a lotus opening at dawn. They need not open yet.
Now look at the visitor again. The face is changing. It is a face you know. Whoever loves you most wisely, or that quiet one inside you who woke first. Let yourself recognise it.
And let the whole time in the forest pass in front of you in one moment. Not the details. Only the shape of it: you went, you searched, you were found. Let it be seen all at once, and let it be enough.
Bow, if you wish, to the one who came for you.
Now the sun is rising in the east. Water is poured. You are given back your life, your work, your people.
Leave off the quiet manner of the hermit, says the one who came for you. Take up your strength.
Name to yourself one duty you will take up today, with an even mind. One. Something ordinary.
Feel the feet on the floor. Press them down a little. Feel your weight on the seat. Move the fingers. Let the shoulders roll once.
I will count from one to five, and on five the eyes open, clear and rested.
One. The breath is ordinary and full.
Two. The hands and feet are warm and your own.
Three. The sounds of the room return.
Four. Take one deep breath in, and lift the head.
Five. Eyes open. Here. Now. Fully alert.
Sit a moment before you stand. Say your name aloud, and the day, and the place. Name three things you can see. If you feel at all slow, repeat the count from one to five, stand, walk a few steps, drink some water. Do not drive or operate anything for ten minutes.
Then go home, as he did, and point out to someone the places you passed on the way.