Parallels of the ley/labyrinth dance may be found in the various spiritual and wisdom traditions. Here, the dance reveals itself in two ways: in terms of those to whom the traditions' teachings are directed, and in terms of the traditions' attitudes toward images of particulars.

We can distinguish two classes of traditions. There are what might be called universalist traditions. These include traditions such as Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and certain aspects of Buddhism and Hinduism. Their teachings, messages, and concerns are widespread–for humanity at large–and they tend to seek converts to their respective systems. These universalist traditions can be contrasted with more local traditions that include the primal–and usually oral–wisdom traditions of indigenous peoples (e.g., Native American, Australian, and African peoples) and the various shamanic systems. Together with these, we might also include forms of Goddess spirituality, Earth-based spirituality, and Celtic spirituality. These latter direct themselves more to local tribes or social groups than to the world at large, and they tend not to seek converts. Already, we see differential emphases upon the universal and the particular in terms of the memberships and applications of these traditions.

It is also possible to make distinctions, both across and within traditions, in terms of the value placed upon general versus particular forms of knowing, especially in the context of their mystical or ecstatic practices. Some of the traditions greatly value experiences with specific, detailed imagery content, and often these particulars are believed to convey specific forms of knowledge applicable to specific situations or life challenges. Other traditions play down particular imagery in favor of contentless experience. It can be argued that the oral, primal traditions tend to emphasize rich, detailed, particular imagery in their spiritual practices and rituals, as opposed to more general principles or imageless experiences.

The practices of the universalist traditions, however, are more variegated. Within each tradition, there is a subtradition of practices that involve particular images. Examples of these would include the specific visualizations of Tibetan Buddhism, the particular objects of absorption in Yogic practices of samyama, the visualizations of Hebrew letters and other specific images in Jewish kabbalistic mysticism, the use of icons in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, and the via positiva or cataphatic contemplative paths within Christian mysticism. Within each tradition, there also is a subtradition or a complementary set of spiritual practices that eschews specific positive imagery and other content in favor of experiences of emptiness, the Void, silence, or the unknowing of the via negativa or apophatic way.

In the spiritual realm, it appears that two modes of knowing–the particularistic and the universalist–are not sufficient. We must add to these a third mode that has to do with the unknowable and with unknowing.

The Personified and The Particular are arch-demons to advocates of a ley-like, nomothetic approach to knowing. Scientists teach their intellectual children at a early age to be wary of the wily Personification. Should Personification appear–in any of its several guises of animism, anthropomorphism, and projection–it should be treated as an evil, to be avoided or stamped out. The Particular is also not to be trusted. It can mislead. Those in the charge of nomothetic science quickly learn to banish The Particular by immediately labeling it, then ignoring it. These anathematizing labels include: merely anecdotal, a single case, an n of one, a single data point, an uncontrolled observation, a single instance, an exception, a suggestive indication, an interesting possibility to be followed up by more careful study.

An alternative view of the personified and the particular is found in the following excerpt from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's enchanting fable, The Little Prince:

Is there a form of understanding, of knowing that can occur only through familiar, intimate contact with the object of knowing–through a deep and sustained encounter with a particular? Unamuno thought so.

Love is a form of knowing, and we love persons, we love particulars. Others have expressed similar ideas:

Great psychologists have always personified their constructs–Freud, his structures of the personality; Jung, his archetypes; Blake, his Forms or Zoas. I include Blake among the great psychologists. Many of Blake's writings about the four Zoas anticipate Jung's later ideas of the four functions and of the archetypes. It has been suggested that "The whole of Freud's teachings may be found in [Blake's] The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" (W. H. Auden, quoted in Untermeyer, 1959, p. 295).

It is difficult to avoid personifying and anthropomorphizing. When the Pathfinder spacecraft landed on the planet Mars on Independence Day of 1997 and its six-wheeled robot rover directly went about performing its exploratory tasks, reporters, scientists, and the public at large immediately personified the small rover vehicle (calling her Sojourner), her actions (reporting how she warily descended her ramp then began sniffing the nearby rocks, occasionally communicated with her homebase lander, occasionally slept, nestled up to and tasted particular rocks; calling her charming and industrious), and even the rocks that she was investigating (calling them Barnacle Bill, Yogi Bear, and Casper Ghost).

Ironically, even the model of the universe dearest to those most opposed to anthropomorphism–the world as a gigantic clockwork mechanism or as any machine, for that matter–is itself an anthropomorphism, for clockworks and other machines do not develop spontaneously and through blind chance, but require humans for their design and construction. It is a further irony that the metaphore du jour for those who prefer to reduce the human brain and mind to a simple deterministic and mechanistic system–namely, the inanimate computer–itself requires a human computer-maker to make the analogy complete. Implicit personifying is at work even here.

And so we come to still another irony: The particular can serve as an opening, doorway, or pathway to the universal.

Here, in Neoplatonic language, is the suggestion that a universal form is somehow mysteriously implicit within the form of a particular, or that the latter may somehow reflect, attract, or capture particular aspects of the former. Similar notions were expressed by the Renaissance Neoplatonist Marsilio Ficino (1433-1499). Ficino held that "the soul, when stimulated by images of bodies, brings to light forms that are lurking in the recesses of the mind' (quoted in Moore, 1990, p. 54). Spiritual qualities either resided in material particulars or certain of the latter could serve as divine allurements or magic decoys for the former, with imagination serving as mediator. Deliberately surrounding oneself with particular objects could facilitate the cultivation in oneself of particular spiritual qualities. Specific material forms and features could provide access to, or entry ways to or for, spirit.

We are now, of course, in the realm of the symbolic, in which things point beyond themselves to something else, something other. Suspicions of subtle connections among things, especially among similars, formed the basis for magical beliefs–particularly those of sympathetic and contagious magic (see Frazer, 1951). Symbols and similarities were at the heart of the complex systems of correspondences elaborated by the Renaissance magicians and hermeticists (see Yates, 1969). Subtle webs of interconnection were believed to provide linkages not only among the things of this world, but with other worlds as well.

Not only things, but words and ideas, too, can point beyond themselves, can suggest something other. The German anthropologist Adolf Bastien (1868) distinguished Elementargedanken (elementary or primordial thoughts or ideas) from Volkgedanken (folk or ethnic thoughts or ideas). The elementary ideas are universal motifs or forms that are found across time frames and across cultures and do not change; these are very much like what Jung (1959a) later developed into his notion of the archetypes. The folk ideas are the local manifestations of the elementary ideas–they are clothed in the language and imagery of the times and places in which they are found; they may be considered particularized universals.

A possible example of this distinction is found in a well-known passage relating "the great vision" of Black Elk of the Oglala Lakota people. Black Elk relates how, in his vision, he was taken "to the high and lonely center of the earth" (Neihardt, 1961, p. 26). He "was standing on the highest mountain of them all" (p. 43), which he identified as Harney Peak in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Black Elk added, "But anywhere is the center of the world" (p. 43). Mythologist Joseph Campbell is fond of quoting this last sentence, feeling it indicates that Black Elk "knew the difference between the folk cultic symbol and the reference of the symbol" (Campbell, 1990b, p. 46).

Campbell describes a myth as "a metaphor transparent to transcendence," (Campbell, 1990a, p. 40). "Transparent to transcendence" is a phrase of German psychologist Karlfried Graf Dürckheim (see Goettmann, 1991). For Campbell,

Common to the shrines and statues of Plotinus, the images of bodies of Ficino, the mountain of Black Elk, and the myths of Campbell is the tendency to think of some thing or some thought as an opening to, indicator of, or manifestation of something else, something other than or in addition to what it is (or appears to be). It is as though there are multiple realms or worlds–this world and an otherworld–and that certain forms of the former are more or less opaque to, or more or less transparent to, the forms of the latter. The latter, itself, may be more or less transparent to still another realm of which we cannot speak

The terms particular and universal become relative and equivocal. Is there more than one form of particular and more than one form of universal?

As a counterpoint to what has gone before, Brenneman (1993) has introduced the notion of the loric to describe particulars that do not point beyond themselves. He describes the experience he and his wife had while working with the holy wells of Ireland.

Brenneman goes on to contrast the spirituality connected with the loric with the type of spirituality associated with the transcendent. In the latter, there is a tendency to view the otherworld as the overworld–as we see clearly in Plotinus and in other Neoplatonists, and as we find in the notion of the Oversoul found in Emerson and other Transcendentalists–and to associate it with the sky or the heavens. Often, the sky is associated with the masculine (as in the case of Ouranos, Father Heaven)–although there are notable inversions (for the Egyptians, the sky is the mother, Nut). In Celtic lore, the otherworld is the underworld and is associated with the chthonic, Mother Earth, and the feminine.

Even here, there is a subtle privileging of certain particulars over others–because they can provide access to the power of the otherworld. A particular is the only entrance to the otherworld, but there are many particulars. To paraphrase George Orwell, all particulars are equal, but some are more equal than others.

According to the received view, we know particulars and universals through the faculties of sensation and intellection (reason), respectively. Early philosophers, but especially the Scholastics, used metaphors of the eye of the flesh and eye of the mind to describe these two ways of knowing. Later, these two ways were emphasized by the empiricists and the rationalists. When we examine these forms of knowing carefully, we find that they are really quite mysterious and magical; we understand very little about them. Yet, they are well-recognized and accepted because they are so familiar and because the experiences, processes, and products associated with them are relatively easy to describe and to communicate to others.

However, there always has been an intimation of a third form of knowing, beyond sensing and thinking. Although, upon careful consideration, it is no less direct, and no more magical, than sensing or thinking, it seems less familiar, and it is much more difficult to put into words and talk about. It is, therefore, less well-known and less accepted–at least, by those who have limited experience of it. It is a way of entering into what is to be known and knowing its essence immediately, directly, and fully.

In describing his Great Vision, Black Elk related: "While I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner . . . (Neihardt, 1961, p. 43). Indeed, this is very much the same language used by Polanyi in describing what he called tacit knowing: "we can know more than we can tell" (Polanyi, 1967, p. 4). Polanyi uses the term indwelling to describe the process: "When we make a thing function as the proximal term of tacit knowing, we incorporate it in our body–or extend our body to include it–so that we come to dwell in it" (Polanyi, 1967, p. 16).

Spinoza (in the 17th century), called this form of knowing intuitive science, and, after him, Bergson, Husserl, and Jung knew it as, simply, intuition. Whereas Spinoza described intuition as "an adequate knowledge of the essence of things" (Spinoza, 1677/1952, p. 388) and Jung, in one place, defined it as the "perception of the possibilities inherent in a situation" (Jung, 1960, p. 141), it is Henri Bergson's thoughts about intuition that are of greatest value to us here. In intuiting, he writes, he is

He contrasts intuition with analysis:

It is of great interest that, although the knowledge obtained through indwelling or intuition is tacit–i.e., it cannot be spoken–it can nonetheless reveal its presence in other ways: through bodily changes, feelings, actions, or recognitions that we may exhibit upon being confronted with objects, situations, or other particulars. The knowledge is simply latent, not absent.

Some examples may be helpful. Although we cannot verbally describe a particular face, we can recognize its features, through the aid of a police artist or an IdentiKit, well enough to indicate that we, in fact, possess detailed knowledge of the face. Although a child cannot verbally describe the physics of trajectories, her skill in throwing and catching tossed balls with uncanny accuracy reveals that her body does, indeed, possess such a knowledge of trajectories. Persons with certain neurological conditions–agenesis of the corpus callosum or surgical severing of that large bundle of neural fibers that connect the right and left cerebral hemispheres–cannot verbally identify an object presented only to the right hemisphere, yet they can accurately point to the presented object with the left hand, when the object is presented along with other objects. These examples indicate that if the requisite vehicle of expression is supplied, the latent knowledge can readily be revealed.

Seeing or touching particular objects; experiencing particular musical selections or works of art; listening to specific narratives, stories, or poems; observing certain actions of others–perhaps all of these can be vehicles or occasions that help us recognize or remember "inexpressible" knowledge that we already possess–and which we previously acquired, tacitly, through intuition or indwelling–and allow us to reveal these latent knowings to ourselves and to others. These occasions can provide the raw materials–the clay–with which a knowing part of us may mold understandings for other parts that are not yet enlightened.

Deslauriers (1992) suggests that, in addition to the more commonly recognized knowing modes–paradigmatic (abstract, generalized) and narrative (contextual, particular)–ritual is itself a form of knowing. Perhaps, if ritual can indeed be "a deeply connected way of knowing that is often glimpsed only through deep engagement in ritual and ceremony" (Desauliers, 1992, p. 191) in which the knowing is grounded in action and is embodied and sensually experienced, then rituals might themselves serve as vehicles that allow tacit knowing to become explicit. This might be especially likely in a sensation-rich group setting in which multiple opportunities would be available and could synergistically reinforce one another.

In addition to rituals, bodily movements and various physiological activities and sensations might allow the explication of previously tacit knowing. Likewise, visitations of special sites or structures could provide opportunities for gaining a fuller awareness of one's own latent, implicit knowledge. One might speculate that the reading and writing of "fiction" could serve a similar purpose, as could entertaining and appreciating various images through imaginative play, reverie, dreaming, and various forms of creative expression. The process of free imaginative variations employed by Husserl and other phenomenologists may serve this very function of providing imaginal vehicles for the recognition and subsequent expression of formerly tacit knowing of the essential structures of what is being investigated. Perhaps creativity is simply a summary term for these and similar cases in which tacit knowing becomes explicit–species of forced or prompted rememberings (anamnesis).

A passage in Spinoza may provide a clue as to why certain forms of knowing become tacit in the first place, and remain so.

Consider a human face. Its features are numerous and complex. Although the face as a whole may be apprehended in a holistic, gestalt, "right-hemispheric" manner and may be recognized and distinguished from other, even very similar, faces, the informational content of the facial features may be too great for the more analytical, verbal, "left-hemispheric" function to handle. The latter blurs all of the features into a single attribute–Mary's face. Its specific features, being too numerous, have become ineffable–tacit. Letting the analytical, verbal, conscious psychological processes work with single features or a small number of features–as with the selections of eyes, noses, and mouths that sketch artists may provide–gives it materials within its handling capacity and the features–part by part–may now be articulated. An excessive number of features may be one cause of ineffability. Other causes, of course, have to do with the simple unavailability of appropriate or well-learned names for rare features or unusual experiences.

We find many descriptions of forms of direct, yet tacit, knowing. In the 12th and 13th centuries, the Scholastics–especially Hugh of St. Victor, Richard of St. Victor, and Bonaventure–used the metaphor of the eye of the spirit to describe this third form of knowing. Elsewhere, it is associated with the heart–as in Sufism's eye of the heart, vision of the heart, and knowledge of the heart or in esoteric Eastern Christianity's attention of the heart. We find it in Jacques Maritain's views on connaturality (see Arraj, 1988); in the mystics' claims of knowing through being, in which one merges with and becomes what is known; in the direct knowing promised–in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras–to those who dwell, through samyama, upon particular objects with an exquisite fullness of attention, and in the various transsensory forms of knowing studied in psychical research.

These words from a letter of Miura Baien (1723-1789) describe an attitude that may be conducive to direct knowing:

To put the matter quite bluntly, we have no idea how direct knowing occurs. After centuries of intellectual grappling with these issues, there remain large gaps in our understanding of how one can become accurately aware of what is apparently remote from the usual organs of knowing. The notion of influence at a distance has always been one that has met with unusually strong resistance among philosophers, scientists, and the general public alike. Nature abhors vacuums; the intellect does not tolerate gaps. Upon close examination, however, the apparent gap involved in intuition or direct knowing seems no larger than the gaps that are present in the more familiar and conventional psychological processes of sensation, perception, memory, reasoning, intending, and feeling. In conventional understandings of consciousness, there remains an unbridgeable gap between brain and mind, between neural processes and conscious percept, experience, or qualia–a gap that is just as large and problematical as that between an intuiting mind and a remote, intuited object. One's preferred placement of the gap, and comfort or tolerance for either, may depend upon historical, cultural, or temperamental factors–but a gap there is, and a gap there remains, in either case.

In attempts to fill this gap, numerous explanations of direct knowing have been proposed. Ultimately, these explanations or mechanisms are simply well-wrought analogies or metaphors–as are, perhaps, all scientific models or theories, however sophisticated they may appear, at first blush, to an outsider or how obviously precise and correct they may appear to an habituated insider.

Some of the explanations attempt to bridge the gap between the knower and the known through constructs of empathy or sympathetic understanding (Dilthey and many others), intellectual sympathy (Bergson), sympathetic vibration (Ficino), or sympathetic resonance (Anderson, 1998). Related to these are the various field explanations, including Sheldrake's morphogenetic field. Other explanations attempt to overcome the gap by positing that what appear to be disparate, isolated entities are really intimately interconnected parts of a greater whole. For example, Bergson used the image of "our large body" (Bergson, 1935, p. 246) that was co-extensive with our consciousness, comprising all we perceive, reaching to the stars. A similar concept is the "long body," familiar to many peoples. A specific instance of this is the orenda of the Iroquois–a fundamental life force or energy that is inherent in everything and also has aspects of a tribal power or group soul (see Highwater, 1981). Related to the large body constructs are the various hologram-like concepts of Bohm and others.

The most mundane explanation of certain types of direct knowing is that the known can serve as a specific yet rich unconditional or conditional stimulus that evokes a tacit complex of unconditional and conditional reactions in the knower–in the manner of well-known principles of classical and operant conditioning. The least mundane explanations of some forms of direct knowing can be based upon models and findings derived from meditative traditions (e.g., principles involving samyama in certain Yogic traditions) and from the principles operative in psychic functioning that have emerged in experimental parapsychological research.

Still another approach to bridging the gap is to attempt to eliminate it entirely by questioning and revising the assumptions or axioms upon which are constructed the mindset or worldview that leads to a problematic gap in the first place. This is the strategy of Harman and his colleagues who have been closely examining and suggesting revisions of the metaphysical foundations of modern science (see Harman, 1994). The gap problem arises if one posits separate, individual, isolated entities as givens–as the fundamental building blocks of the universe. If one turns this assumption on its head and posits, instead, that "the universe is basically a single whole within which every part is connected to every other part, [and that] this wholeness includes every aspect accessible to human awareness" (Harman, 1994, p. 393), then the gap problem disappears. It is immediately replaced, however, by a new set of problems that have to do with explaining real or apparent instances of separateness and limitations of knowledge and influence.

One of the most compelling statements of a worldview based on these inverted, holistic assumptions is provided by the 13th century mystic/poet Jelaluddin Rumi: "I've heard it said there's a window that opens / from one mind to another, / but if there's no wall, there's no need / for fitting the window, or the latch" (Rumi, 1984, p. 10).

Leibnitz argued that monads "have no windows" (Leibnitz, 1714/1960, p. 177). Rumi would contend that they don't need them, since they are all within the same room.

It appears that the particular is able to convey a richness and depth of knowing that the universal cannot readily provide. Part of this power of the particular may be attributed to the greater number of channels or modes of knowing that are made possible by particulars. Universals or generalities appeal to, and may even be restricted to, the thinking function, the intellect. Generality of knowledge may be accompanied by a diffusing or weakening of attention or concentration. Particulars, on the other hand, can involve a greater range of knowing modalities. Particular, concrete objects or specific accounts can activate multiple sensory channels and can evoke rich memories as well as emotional and bodily reactions. This may result in a greater density of concentration, registration, appreciation, and understanding than would be possible for the comparatively dilute set of primarily intellectual and verbal reactions evoked by generalities or universals. This greater range and breadth of reactions evoked by concrete particulars may account for some of the power of anecdotes, stories, novels, poetry, and art, as well as for the greater interest value of these latter forms of communication.

What I do is me: for that I came.

– Gerard Manley Hopkins

The universal and the particular require, and make no sense apart from, one another. They are the two sides of the coin of knowing, the coin of being. An alchemical dictum comes to mind: solve et coagula, dissolve and congeal. In the complete process of being and becoming, the particular dissolves into the universal, and the universal congeals or condenses into the particular. The universal and the particular are as breath and bone, cleaving to and from one another in their necessary and eternal dance.

A full account of what is to be known requires partaking of each of these complements. The universal supplies the central tendencies, themes, and commonalities; the particular supplies the variability, the variations, the differences. In taking in the largest picture, one moves from one to the other then back again, covering all of the possibilities.

The labyrinth metaphor was intended to suggest the manifold ways of knowing–a thick pie of particulars, rather than a thinner slice of commonalities or universals. The same metaphor also suggests the multiplicity of being–the vast possibilities of what may be realized in the forms of concrete particulars. The winding labyrinth path that touches and depends upon each and every point of its area may symbolize the infinite possibilities that may be realized–an infinite appreciation of a pluralistic universe.

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