Living between worlds

Traveling to other dimensions via non-ordinary states of consciousness.

Photo by Alex Shuper at Unsplash

The exploration of consciousness has been a cornerstone of spiritual practices across the globe for millennia, as evidenced by Siberian shamanism and Australian Aboriginal dreamtime for example. By the 20th century, thinkers like William James, Carl Jung, Terence McKenna, Aldous Huxley, and Robert Monroe revived the Western world’s interest in consciousness exploration through their writings. Today, popular culture is embracing consciousness exploration once again thanks to the psychedelic renaissance. Through non-ordinary states of consciousness, mystics and psychonauts have learnt to journey between physical and non-physical dimensions, experiencing realities hidden from everyday perception.

Non-ordinary states of consciousness can bring us deep within ourselves, allowing us to review our lives or gain insights on issues that are troubling us. However, they can also be portals to profound transpersonal experiences where one gets the opportunity to peek through the veil to get a view of realms beyond one’s own life and circumstances.

I’ve only visited a few realms thus far, and I’m aware that there are so many more to discover. My travels have taken me to the realm of nature, of the elementals, the heavens, the saints and martyrs, departed souls, the ancestors and healers, the animals, the earth’s core, the realm of reincarnation, of hell, and of creation.

In the realm of nature, the trees talk. Everything is alive. Walking in the forest, I hear and feel the consciousness of the plants, rocks, of the wind and soil. The trees want to be witnessed, they appreciate being seen. I hear bells underneath the roots of trees, a stream beneath the earth. “Thank you for seeing us,” whispered the trees, their leaves rustling in the breeze. But some of the shrubs and rocks say “We don’t much like humans here. Your kind are big, loud, callous. We live with grace and your clomping rubber shoes annoy us.” I see yellow flowers and ask them, “What’s the difference between us?” The flowers say, “You wonder about death. We don’t.” I see through a single drop of water pummeling down a waterfall. That drop is alive. As overwatered soil, I struggle to breathe; my roots feel waterlogged and suffocated, like congested lungs. I am dust, but I feel the weight of purpose; even as dust, I am needed. I meet the wind that comes into my bedroom at night to watch me sleeping, to kiss me or wake me up. There was once where I even felt energetic emanations from a box of tissues (made of wood pulp) sitting on my bedsit table. I sense it’s consciousness. “Are you alive?” I ask. “You better believe it!” it replies.

Within the elemental realm, I sense the existence of what different cultures call archons, fae, nature spirits or genius loci. Although neither plant nor animal, they’re part of the natural world. Though some have semi-human forms, they seem alien. Some are wispy and wild, but some are gigantic. Some look like elfish-alien beings in hooded robes, some like orishas, some like half female, half dragon creatures. They are willful. They are curious. They are ferocious and cunning. Sometimes they are cold. They wonder about us humans, sometimes they envy us, sometimes they pity us, but they are not like us.

In the celestial realm, I remember what it’s like to be in harmony with my Creator. A sense of peace and of being home washes over me. I am angelic, my heart serene and unperturbed by worldly concerns. I was there at the beginning, and I feel intimacy with my maker.

In the realm of the saints and martyrs, I see them — crucified, flayed, roasted, their blood staining the earth, each agonizing death a testament to their suffering, sights that chill me to the bone. Why so much pain, such horror? Humans like cattle, like meat. Their flesh destroyed. Their faces, etched with pain, held a strange serenity as they expressed gratitude for their suffering, a secret understanding beyond my grasp.

The air hangs heavy and cold in the realm of departed souls. A lone soul is sometimes seen, but more often they arrive in a flock, moving as one like birds in flight. In their midst, an atmosphere of sorrow grips you; their silent pleas, heavy with despair, whisper of a lost hope, of the shock of having been ripped away from the world of the living. Certain souls, caught between realms, struggle to accept death and the loss of their bodies, and their stories. Their willfulness prevents them from transcending this world. They need to feel their own light to pass through the veil, and we must help them. Invite them to place their hand on their heart and remember every moment of love they’ve experienced. This is how they will find the light.

Following a Samhain huachuma ceremony, I experienced excruciating neck and knee pain, which kept me up all night. As I lay on the bed, the trickling water from the bathroom sounded like hushed whispers, a strange auditory illusion, but sitting up, it resolved into the familiar sound of running water. I had a vision of a crowd of ethnic Chinese Singaporeans (the country where I was born) during the Japanese occupation, kneeling with their heads bowed as soldiers beheaded them with swords. Then I saw my deceased grandfather who advised me to relinquish this vision. “This is not your story. Neither are the others. If you keep thinking of all the lives you could have lived, all the thoughts and dreams never caught, you’ll go crazy”, he said. My departed maternal grandfather said to me, like he did once in life, “You should write about me”. I told him, “I will, but not in the way you expect me to.” Both my grandfathers laughed. Without words, they told me, “We left because your desire to live was more precious than our continued presence in this world. We wanted to make space for you. That is how it goes.” And I realized this is how souls find their way to peace, by accepting the value of their life, their sufferings on earth, and the many purposes for their deaths. I saw my maternal aunt whose body was ravaged by cancer before she died. “Are you breathing?” I asked her. “Better than I ever have,” she said. “So ghosts breathe?” I asked my deceased relations. “Every time we’re remembered,” they say. I see all my dead family members in the kitchen, they are moving as if alive, their spectral forms a ghostly echo of family gatherings past; their familiar voices and laughter fill the air. “We’ve done it, crossed over. We’ve got you,” they say without words. On the opposite side of the kitchen wall, I see another vision, of my 89-year-old grandmother who is still alive in Singapore, and the ghost party say, again without words, “We’ve got her. Don’t worry.”

In a lucid dream, I once met a soul named Gregory who walked through walls. His passion was the esoteric; he’d read every grimoire and occult book in existence. Yet he was still looking for hidden knowledge, for magic. I told him, “You’re already dead. Shouldn’t that mean you have all the answers?” He doesn’t talk but he’s still searching for answers, he wants to understand the supernatural. I wonder if he realizes he’s already part of it. That we all are.

In the realm of the ancient ancestors and healers, the long-dead continue their work. They walk in the light, proudly remembering who they were. Because they aided so many during their lifetimes, they live on as guardians and guides, their voices whispering wisdom and their hands offering gentle support to those in need. They died with clear memory, fully conscious of who they were and the reason for them being on earth. They knew their lives had been worthwhile, Spirit-led. They took this awareness of their good works into the afterlife. Having seen beyond the veil while they were living, they were spared the confusion and sadness of the dead who do not yet understand, who cling to the material world. Some of these healers have eyes that are all white. Some ride on stallions with wind blowing in their hair. They dance, oh, they love dancing! With heads held high, they dance to ward off evil and disease. They have beautiful headdresses, and masks, and outfits. Contained within their ethereal bodies are the secrets of healing, of nature and the knowledge of all humankind. They have healed those who became my great grandparents, they have saved many lives in their time; they are saving my life, and they continue their work around us and within us, always healing and helping.

In the realm of the animals, I feel the grace of the eagle, the patience of the turtle, the restlessness of the wolf, the power of the tiger, the thirst of the horse, the excitement of a lemur, the frustration of the chimpanzee. I move like they do, my muscles contract, stretch and jerk in ways they never knew they could, my eyesight sharpens. I see, oh I see, in ways my human eyes could never see. I am a chimpanzee, I am squatting, digging at the ground with my fingers. I’m filled with powerful emotions and ideas I can’t articulate. I can only utter “Hooh, hooh, hooh,” though I’m brimming with wordless energy. I’m hesitant to stand up; I feel safer and more grounded squatting. Sometimes, in medicine ceremonies or while dancing, I become the animals and feel their divinity. Sometimes they come to me in dreams and look me in the eye. They give me messages which I understand only in hindsight. “Beware, there is trickery afoot. That one is not a friend,” says the fox at a time when I am considering a new business partnership. “You are ill,” says the viper, biting my calf. I wake up the next day testing positive for Covid.

Deep within the earth, creatures live among the roots of a massive, subterranean network in the damp, brown soil. I can’t see them clearly, but they are there, so many of them. They are small, mole-like. Each one is identical to the next, tiny eyes, noses, and mouths. I don’t know what to make of them. Are they safe?

In the realm of reincarnation, the idea that we return in diverse forms, inhabiting different vessels after death, makes sense. In a previous existence I’ve seen myself as: an old male shaman somewhere in Northern Asia, dancing around a fire and spitting into it, a revered outcast with no wife or children, living in an animal-skin tent on the outskirts of his village. A young pregnant woman in the Amazon rainforest, my husband bathing me one last time in the river before departing for war. A middle eastern man, dressed in a tunic and sandals, with a pointy chin and thick, black curly hair, washing his face in a river. I saw myself as an unkempt white woman, with dark, wild and matted hair covering her dirty face, frightened and angry, batting her arms in the air. I was locked in a room, one of two rooms in a threadbare house in the middle of the woods. A house far from people, with fiberboard walls and linoleum floors. There is sunlight outdoors, but I do not go out. I do not go anywhere. Dark shadows, demons, or troublesome spirits surround me, talking incessantly, preventing me from leaving my room. Their strength and numbers are overwhelming. I cannot speak, only moan. How long have I been in here, with the door locked? A child of simple mind, my daughter, is outside; friendless, toyless, and with little food. A sweet, beautiful child with no one else in the world but me. But I remain confined in this locked room, the door a constant, agonizing barrier between me and her. I saw myself as a young woman, barely twenty, in medieval Europe, accused of thievery and witchcraft, I was forced onto a stage in my tunic. Enraged men and women, faces contorted with fury, jumped up, tearing clumps of hair from my head and savagely biting chunks of flesh from my thigh.

Do we want another round? If we say yes, we won’t know what the next game will be until we’re in it. By then, it’s too late to say, “I want out”. While the option to not return exists, the fear of nothingness typically leads us to select rebirth, opting for a womb, for the familiar physical realm rather than the void, the unknown. This reincarnation business is like a dizzying game of musical chairs — in the next round, we might be a king or a gnat. But we’ll all be in a different seat, with a different view, never the same seat twice. Everything evens out in the end.

Hell is a realm dominated by a feeling of eternal confusion, fear, isolation, desolation, madness, and death. I feel trapped, hopeless, and terrified in this place. “Am I dead? Will I come back? I don’t like it here. Oh, shit, I’ve really done it this time. I’m so screwed. Where am I? There is no one here. Arghh……why? Help!!!!” This is what I think when I am in this realm. But still, I sense I might be able to escape, provided I understand what I must do.

In the realm of creation, the agony of loss is intertwined with the ecstasy of birth, a constant, poignant reminder of life’s cyclical dance between existence and oblivion. Hell makes sense, as does suffering. Hell exists to give birth to freedom and joy. Here, I see how all the realms fit together seamlessly, each one linked to the others. Things balance out here. In the realm of creation, we learn, again and again, that love is the very fabric of the universe, its every breath and beating heart. Why always the same lesson? Because we always forget.

Once we learn to traverse different planes of existence and attune our awareness to the vibrations of other dimensions, we can find peace and contentment here on terra firma, in our little universe of soil, water, oxygen, flesh, bone and blood. We become grateful for the rhythm of our exact earthly existence, the ups and downs, the tragedies and ecstasies. “This really is the best of all possible worlds — for now…” we realize. We are relieved to be an inhabitant of this blue planet. We cherish our physical existence and the simple joys of a warm shower and the smell and taste of an apple. In our present incarnation, we realize that this world, with its breathtaking landscapes and vibrant ecosystems, even with its conflicts and tears, is the most hospitable, and despite everything, it’s still miraculous in its ability to inspire awe.

I go to these places while journeying with plant medicines, in dreams, during breathwork, and sometimes while using the stationary bike or elliptical in the gym. I feel incredibly fortunate for the opportunity to explore these non-material realms.

Sometimes however, I doubt and chastise myself. “You’re so woo. None of this is real. It’s all just your overactive imagination and your desperate desire to see magic in life,” I’ll hear myself say. I may judge myself as naïve, provincial, unscientific, soft-in-the-head, or girlish for believing in things unseeable but seen. I imagine my more linear-thinking, pragmatic friends scoffing or rolling their eyes at me. But then I think, “Who really gives a ****?”

In his book “Entheogenic Liberation” Martin Ball, a former 5-MeO-DMT facilitator and entheogenic educator, talks about how all psychedelic visions are subjective projections, so attributing them to external entities is a fallacy. Ball’s theory — that supernatural phenomena are the ego’s elaborate storytelling, the mind conjuring apparitions — has its supporters. While I can see the value in this view, it doesn’t diminish the significance or impact of my own lived experiences. “What is seen is temporary but what is unseen is eternal” goes the biblical verse. I suppose it doesn’t matter if the places I’ve been to actually exist or not because upon visiting them, I always return feeling more grateful, open-hearted and with a newfound sense of childlike wonder. Since sneaking into these liminal spaces increases my daily capacity for living and my sense of purpose, why shouldn’t I do it regularly? This might be why changing one’s consciousness is a feature of every wisdom tradition.

There is however, the possibility that the non-physical dimensions I’ve seen are just a product of my robust imaginal life. At this point, I don’t really care either ways. I like seeing with my eyes closed and I think life would be rather dull if I weren’t able to do so.

In “Ordinary Mysticism”, author Mirabai Starr recounts an interview where Ram Dass spoke with a skeptical reporter. The reporter questioned Ram Dass about a comment he had made. “So you talk to your guru in your head?” asked the reporter. “Yes,” replied Ram Dass, his words few since suffering a hemorrhaging stroke. “And your dead guru talks back?” “Mmm…hm”, replied Ram Dass. “Isn’t that just…your imagination?” quizzed the reporter. “Yeah!” Ram Dass beamed in agreement. Starr points out that for Ram Dass “imagination was not fake, as opposed to empirical reality. Rather, imagination was a gift, one of many paths that can lead us from sorrow to joy. Hanging out with his guru in the field of his holy imagination made Ram Dass very, very happy.” Perhaps celebrating the sacred spaces of the imagination will benefit us all as it enables our mind to travel out of this world, and our hearts to perceive things invisible to the eyes. According to Sufi author Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, “The mystical path is a gradual process of preparation so that the wayfarer can become acclimatized to different levels of reality and still function in the everyday world…. We are opened to the beyond and yet able to remain here, with our feet on the ground in a world we know to be an illusion”.