II come by way of the roads of Western thought. Since the Romans, they have been well paved; they connect centers of power and established a logic of knowledge exchange all their own. They connect points. Their nodes are central, while the path itself is bothersome, laborious. On these roads, a culture of monuments developed; they led to accumulations of knowledge and power. Division of labor led to specialization and progress. A society emerges in which the individual is understood as a social being, whose social reality is determined by rules. And since the Renaissance, the human being has tried to understand itself by observing the outer world. We develop models of our humanity; we simulate ourselves in theories and analyses.
After more than two thousand years, this has shaped us. The social is religion, politics, psychology, social science. Being-with-one-another is functional. The Self, the soul as a starting point, is discredited and reduced to identity. How, then, are two people supposed to meet one another in love? By love, of course, I do not mean biochemical functions that serve the preservation of the species, stabilize social constructs, or feed wishful images that can be exploited by capitalism. By love, I mean the connection of an awakened soul that connects with its origin through the encounter with an Other. In this triangular structure lies a many-layered paradox. How can something singular connect with the totality through a third? How can I understand myself as part of the whole, in which there is an Other who is different from me?
Is the inner path toward the ground of consciousness possible through another person? Many spiritual paths are monastic; the Other is either merely part of the world and not truly thought as Other, or is idealized in the form of a figure — Christian nuns, for example, are married to Jesus; monks live in celibacy.
In Indian culture there is the tantric path. This is the most difficult, the most complex, because it excludes nothing. Everything that life, the world, experience have to offer is possible. But it requires deep reflection not to misunderstand this multiplicity as distraction, pastime, illusion, substitute, addiction, or self-display. Yantras, mantras, tantras serve to see all that exists in context, to perceive its inner essence and recognize it again within oneself, so that it may be activated or pacified.
Perhaps, however, this rocky path together with another person is precisely the one that leads to the peaks. Often it is probably injury that drives individuals up the mountain: because the Other was unreachable, withdrew, disappeared, or changed. To climb a summit in order to devote oneself there, in a cave, to the exploration of the soul is a turning away. But I find myself asking for an alternative to this turning away — or rather, for a shared turning inward. At the heart of Hinduism lies the union of Shiva and Shakti: cosmic principles of individuality and nature.
When one sets out on that inner path, it begins with a fascinating journey through the unknown, the blocked, the repressed, the sublime, the fearful, the shocking, the illuminating. I become conscious of my complexity and potentiality, and when I walk this path alone — ideally guided by a teacher — infinity and immortality stand ready.
But what happens when I walk the path with an Other? When I am confronted through the eyes of the Other? What happens when inner experience wants to be shared and is then mirrored differently in the Other, thereby calling my own experience into question? Are uncertainties not intensified in this way, the path clouded, the abysses deepened, the road made more stony? But are hidden territories not also illuminated in this way, experiences shared that can only open themselves together, energies exchanged that are released only in circulation through the Other? This shared path, which, when it breaks off, breaks hearts, is the most ambitious path. It contains existential struggles, shadow images, distortions, rage toward destruction, lies and self-deception, responsibility and failure.
However, there is this romantic notion of soulmates, a bond for eternity, perhaps even across multiple lives. In literature, there's the concept of connected souls who can find each other again in subsequent lives. Why not? If the idea is that we need multiple lives to recognize ourselves, why shouldn't that also apply to a bond? How do we recognize the soul we are connected to, and how do we recognize that we were mistaken? Most of us are familiar with the experience of failed relationships. We saw something, experienced something, loved someone, and then it turns out it doesn't work, that the conflicts are too great. Were we mistaken? Sometimes we make mistakes, which I don't want to discuss, that happens. But what if the love was real and sincere, the souls were connected, but the bond didn't last, the circumstances weren't favorable, the inner work wasn't done? Were we mistaken about the connection or about its dissolution? That is the central question of every separation.
I think we can look at this in different ways. We ask ourselves whether it works in everyday life, and then the question becomes whether we change everyday life or the partner. Not an easy question. We can try to change the Other, or ourselves. The thing with changing Others usually goes wrong. But how willing am I to change — not in order to please the Other, but in order to grow myself? And if both grow, do they grow in the same direction?
The people I loved all still have a place in my heart. That is complicated. For me, this is not about being unable to let go, but about a connection that is real, yet whose force has changed. Love can become friendship or memory; it can continue to live within oneself without referring back to the Other. Love transforms — sometimes even itself. It is not static; it is not a fixed state. Love heals, grows, intoxicates, and wounds. It encloses and sets itself apart. It dissolves the Self, brings the soul to the surface, challenges.
Is there an arriving in love?
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