In his noteworthy 2020 book, Transcend: The New Science of Self-Actualization, Scott Barry Kaufman builds upon the work of pioneering humanist Abraham Maslow (1908-1970) to offer a 21st-century definition of “transcendence,” together with a review of scientific techniques for healing, growth, and self-actualization.
In a previous article,[i] I offered a quantitative definition of transcendence, yet one that was inspired by the 19th-century American Transcendentalist tradition, whose most famous authors include Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau, John Burroughs, and John Muir. Staring with a metaphor for transcendence, I suggested the act of climbing a mountain, crossing a range, reaching the other side. Although to be clear, “transcendence” is not a place you reach. It is not a target end-state. Better to think of it as a vector, consisting of a direction (“up”) and a distance (how far you can climb), except we’re interested in maximizing happiness, rather than elevation. The best way to maximize happiness, according to the American Transcendentalists, is to spend time in nature. This is because the Transcendentalists saw exposure to “wild” environments as necessary for developing spiritual power. Bear in mind the Transcendentalists were writing during the mid- to late-19th century, when America was rapidly industrializing and urbanizing, and the frontier was already starting to close.
The Kaufman/Maslow Theory of Transcendence
Kaufman takes the idea of transcendence in a different direction. Building on Maslow’s work, he sees transcendence as a state of mind in which awareness is “expanded beyond the self.” This could mean overcoming the limitations of “self-consciousness and of selfishness.” Or overcoming the fear of death. In a 1962 essay, Maslow noted that “the greatest attainment of identity, autonomy, or selfhood is itself simultaneously a transcending of itself, a going beyond and above selfhood. The person can then become egoless.”
What does this mean? By way of example, Maslow asks us to consider concepts like beauty and justice. These are not issues “within my own skin.” People who are attuned to these values have “transcended the geographical limitations of the self,” which is the bridge to achieving “a sense of connectedness with the rest of humanity.”
Maslow links transcendence with spirituality. He points to the “the private, lonely, personal illumination, revelation or ecstasy of some acutely sensitive prophet or seer” as a form of “peak experience.” Kaufman draws on recent research to offer a modern-day definition of transcendence as “transient mental states marked by decreased self-salience and increased feelings of connectedness.” At its most extreme, he explains, transcendence is a feeling of complete unity with everything (referred to in the literature as “Absolute Unitary Being”), including other humans (the social environment), as well as all of existence, nature, and the cosmos (the spatial environment).
Transcendence is not a new topic. Kaufman quotes the 19th century philosopher William James, who described mystical experiences as a feeling of “being at home in the universe.” One finds similar themes in ancient Hindu texts such as the Bhagavad Gita, which is believed to have been written between the 5th and 3rd centuries BCE. In that text, Lord Krishna explains to the warrior Arjuna — “The ignorant work for their own profit. The wise work for the welfare of the world, without a thought for themselves.” Krishna emphasizes the same point Maslow would make centuries later — “They are forever free who renounce all selfish desires and break away from the ego-cage of ‘I,’ ‘me,’ ‘mine.’”
Transcendence as Dream-state
Maslow’s conception of transcendence would likely have resonated with the American Transcendentalist authors, even if they came at the topic from a different direction. One of the most famous examples of a transcendent experience occurs in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s 1836 essay, “Nature” —
Standing on the bare ground, — my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite spaces, — all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.
For Henry David Thoreau, peak experiences often partook of a dreamlike state. For example, paddling up the Concord River, he wrote he was “embarked on the placid current of our dreams, floating from past to future as silently as one awakes to fresh morning or evening thoughts.” Similarly, on the Merrimack River, “we dreamed at the oars.” Later, sitting on the bank, listening to the rippling, breaking waves, he found himself “absolved from all obligation to the past” – and years later he remembered that rippling water in his dreams.[i]
On an expedition through the mountains of Massachusetts, he saw all around and beneath him “an undulating country of clouds,” spread out for what seemed a hundred miles – a country such as “one might see in dreams.” Half-way up a cliff, he paused. Sat on a rock. Thought of “those summery hours when time is tinged with eternity.”
In other wilderness travels, he reported hearing the song of a “dreaming sparrow,” which broke the stillness of the night, and then there was a pause followed by “a deeper, more conscious silence.” He wrote of titmice lost in “downy dreams” – summer crickets dreaming at midnight – water-bugs dreaming in the currents’ depths. In his diary, he noted on multiple occasions the strange sound of “dreaming frogs,” only to discover, upon closer observation, that they were toads.
“The stars are God’s dreams,” he wrote, describing them as “thoughts remembered in the silence of His night.”
Thoreau’s dreams must have been remarkably vivid, for he felt they constituted “real experience.” In dreams, he experienced “infinite remoteness, as well as beauty and serenity,” which seemed to address depths within himself. Whereas he didn’t care much for the practical necessities of life – the immediate, trivial tasks that had to be done but which he was prepared to push aside for something as simple as the song of a locust. For “one true vision” he would have traded all his wealth.
“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake,” he wrote, explaining that in dreams we perceive our real character, as if we were naked, while in daydreams, “we are nearest to a supernatural awakening.” During the early morning hours, he observed a “gradual transition from dreams to waking thoughts, from illusions to actualities, as from darkness, or perchance moon and star light, to sunlight.” These early morning thoughts coalesced in his mind into “a sort of permanent dream.”
His journal contains a description of a mountain that lies in the eastern part of Concord, which he wrote he’d climbed at least twenty times. But in the next line, he admits there is no mountain in that area. Not even a hill.
In a letter to his mother, he confided, “this life we live is a strange dream.”
The Loss of Transcendence
In the modern world, the kind of calm, contemplative, dream-like state that Thoreau so valued seems difficult to achieve. Instead, we seem to live in “an age of irritation,” where “restlessness is concentrated in the soul,” to quote from E.M. Forester’s prophetic 1909 science-fiction story, “The Machine Stops.” He imagined a world where people no longer ventured outdoors or interacted face-to-face but lived in solitary rooms underground and communicated via screens.
Why do civilized people seem so unhappy? Sigmund Freud took direct aim at this question in his 1929 manuscript, Civilization and its Discontents. In the introduction, he remarked on the “religious feelings” which people claim to have, quoting from correspondence with a friend, who related a “peculiar feeling” which is with him constantly — “a sensation of eternity, a feeling as of something limitless, unbounded, something ‘oceanic.’”
Freud was puzzled by this revelation, admitting “I cannot discover this ‘oceanic’ feeling in myself.” He hypothesized that the mind contains a “shrunken vestige” of an “original ego-feeling” – in which the self embraces the universe and feels an inseparable connection with the external world – and which sharply contrasts with the “mature ego,” which “seems to keep itself clearly and sharply outlined and delimited.” Freud speculated that this feeling dates from the infant’s relationship with its mother, although he caveats that it’s hard to be scientific about feelings.
While the ‘oceanic’ feeling eluded him, Freud was clear on what he thought was the cause of modern discontent. He reminds his readers “that men are not gentle, friendly creatures wishing for love, who simply defend themselves if they are attacked, but that a powerful measure of desire for aggression has to be reckoned as part of their instinctual endowment.” Bear in mind he was writing in the aftermath of World War I.
Because of our inherent aggression, society deploys a host of mechanisms to restrain the individual, including obvious ones: laws and regulations, surveillance, police enforcement. And insidious methods, too. Freud coined the term super-ego to explain how individuals internalize society’s expectations. The super-ego is the guilty conscience, whose duty it is to “torment the sinful ego” —
[Human] aggressiveness is interjected, internalized; in fact, it is sent back where it came from, i.e., directed against the ego. It is there taken over by a part of the ego that distinguishes itself from the rest as a super-ego, and now, in the form of conscience, exercises the same propensity to harsh aggressiveness against the ego that the ego would have liked to enjoy against others. The tension between the strict super-ego and the subordinate ego we call the sense of guilt; it manifests itself as the need for punishment. Civilization, therefore, obtains the mastery over the dangerous love of aggression in individuals by enfeebling and disarming it and setting up an institution within their minds to keep watch over it, like a garrison in a conquered city.
Writing 90 years later, Kaufman makes precisely the same point —
So many of us grow up being constantly swayed by the opinions and thoughts of others, driven by our own insecurities and fears of facing our actual self, that we introject the beliefs, needs, and values of others into the essence of our being. Not only do we lose touch with our real felt needs, but we also alienate ourselves from our best selves.
Put simply, that feeling of calm and connection may disappear, when we feel overwhelmed by our peers.
The Rise of the Super-ego
The conflict between the individual and the collective is a part of the human condition, and no doubt dates to the dawn of humanity. This conflict may have intensified with the rise of civilization, because now people inhabit ever-larger communities governed by ever-more complex webs of rules, whereas in paleolithic times, people generally lived in small bands.
Hunter-gatherers were “fiercely egalitarian,” according to Christopher Ryan, author of Civilized to Death: The Price of Progress. Individual autonomy was non-negotiable. Tribal chiefs could argue, cajole, attempt to persuade, but did not have leverage to impose their wishes. Instead, leadership tended to be “informal and noncoercive,” growing out of respect and consensus.
Ryan thinks primitive people were happier. By way of example, he quotes from a letter Christopher Columbus wrote to the king and queen of Spain about the native people he encountered in the West Indies. “They are very simple and honest and exceedingly liberal with all they have, none of them refusing anything he may possess when he is asked for it. They exhibit great love toward all others in preference to themselves.” In his journal, Columbus was even more complimentary: “They are the best people in the world and above all the gentlest—without knowledge of what is evil—nor do they murder or steal… they love their neighbors as themselves and they have the sweetest talk in the world… always laughing.”
This state of affairs seems to have changed with the introduction of agriculture, which resulted in larger populations concentrating in towns and villages, the transition to specialized labor, and the emergence of elite classes, centralized authority, and organized religion. Ryan characterizes the shift from hunter-gathering to agriculture as “perhaps the most traumatic transition in the history of our species.” It was our “fall from grace.”
Agriculture was likely necessary, as hunters gradually depleted the herds of megafauna, and growing populations needed other sources of food. Regardless, larger populations require more rules. Ryan’s concept of a traumatic transition is evident in the Judeo-Christian tradition. For example, Exodus 18 in the book of Genesis includes a scene where Moses’ father-in-law offers counsel on how to manage the people: “thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk, and the work that they must do.” He recommends that Moses organize the people in groups of tens, fifties, hundreds, and thousands, and for each group he should appoint rulers.
God tells Moses, “ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests.” Indeed, the priestly class seems to have emerged as a complement to the brute force of soldiers. Yet when confronted with non-compliance, the rage of the priests was no less violent. For example, when Moses descends from the mount, he finds the people have disregarded his instructions — they are dancing naked around the statue of a golden calf. Moses is not happy about this. His “anger waxed hot.” He flings the tablets to the ground. Tosses the golden calf into the fire. Grinds the ashes into a powder which he mixes with water — forces the people to drink the resulting noxious solution. Then he gathers some of his closest followers, tells them to strap on their swords, and sends them out to slaughter brother, friend, and neighbor — “that day about 3,000 of the people died.” (Exodus 32).
The Bible is a text about command and control. This is clear from a simple word-count analysis. Words associated with authority, anger, and the threat of death vastly outweigh words associated with joy and freedom (Exhibit 1). In this regard, the bible suggests that organized religion is one of the leading root causes of Freud’s super-ego. The priestly class is a source of those voices telling us what we may and may not do. Those voices which create the tension between the aggressive super-ego and the defensive ego – and which destroy the original ego-feeling of selflessness and connection.
The Priestly Class of Today
In the modern developed world, organized religion has lost some of its sway. But nature abhors a vacuum. Writing in the 1950s, the French philosopher Jacques Ellul warned that the rise of technology would lead to increasingly totalitarian forms of government.[iii] Of special concern to him was the growing sophistication of political and governmental propaganda, the sinister effects of which he had witnessed in Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. Yet, he worried that propaganda was becoming insidious in democracies, too. He wrote about how those in power were exploiting hate, resentment, and self-justification, flinging around accusations, “faking the news,” transferring evil to an official enemy. He saw propaganda as creating a collective passion, suppressing the critical faculty of individuals – indeed, they become addicted to it, as to a drug. Reality is reconstructed in their minds. The individual lives in a “sham universe.” Reality disappears into a “world of hallucinations.”
And this was before social media, algorithms, big data, deep fakes, and AI.
What we are trying to transcend today is the cacophony in our heads. The thousands of shouting voices – whether government propaganda, corporate marketing, or family, friends, colleagues, and neighbors. The voices that would tell us who to be or not to be – and what we should do and must not. Even if we don’t believe them, we cannot ignore them – or we do so at great peril. We inhabit a complex environment. The cognitive load is enormous.
Even Thoreau struggled.
I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all my morning occupations and my obligations to society. But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head, and I am not where my body is, — I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?[iv]
Bear in mind, during the 1850s, Thoreau’s village (the town of Concord, Massachusetts) had a population of 2,250 people. This was already vastly larger than a typical paleolithic hunter-gathering band, which might have numbered 50 persons. Today, Concord is subsumed within the greater Boston area, with a population of nearly 700,000, and of course people in the Boston area are connected via the Internet with the rest of the world.
What Can We Do?
Our ancestors focused on the trails, vegetation, animals. The weather and the seasons. The lay of the land as seen from a vantage point high in the mountains. Whereas in the modern world, our scope of attention is much different. We no longer prowl barefoot through the forest. Instead, we navigate a jungle of laws and regulations, data and opinions. We shelter from the sound and fury of millions of arguing peers. We struggle under a constant state of information overload, which manifests itself as a cacophony of angry voices, whether you allocate them to ego or super-ego or other parts of the mind. As a result, modern people are irritated, defensive, anxious, depressed, and angry. Although, we enjoy some benefits — we are shielded from physical exertion, animals, insects, prickly plants, and extremes of temperature.
For Maslow and Kaufman, the word transcend signifies a recovery of “the original ego-feeling” – that ‘oceanic’ state of connectedness which Freud recognized in other people, even if he didn’t see it in himself. A recovery of that contemplative mind-state that Thoreau described as “dreaming,” and which he experienced during his daily walks in the woods, unless the business of the village distracted him. It may well be the case, as Christopher Ryan asserts, and as Christopher Columbus recounted, that people used to feel more at home in the universe, and kinder, gentler, and more generous as well.
In his book, Kaufman takes his readers through some of the strategies that modern psychology recommends for growth and actualization. As one example, he describes new technologies that might help people achieve transcendence, for example, virtual reality headsets, which can trigger feelings of awe. He also mentions the promising field of noninvasive brain stimulation, including Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) and Transcranial Direct Current Stimulation (tDCS). However, he acknowledges that technology may not be the answer. He quotes Maslow to the effect that peak experiences are more frequent among those “who have overcome adversity and who have been strengthened by it.” Indeed, Maslow thought that it was far better to work for your blessings than to buy them. He saw earned victories as “health-fostering,” whereas unearned victories are “sickness-fostering.” Indeed, an “unearned Paradise becomes worthless.”
Instead of technology, Kaufman highlights the character attributes of “stress tolerance” and “resilience.” He points out that researchers have measured a strong correlation between stress tolerance and happiness, satisfaction, autonomy, and other positive emotions. The implication is that physical and mental training – whether running, hiking, or hitting the gym – could be important modalities for spiritual development. Walt Whitman, incidentally, was a strong proponent of exercise to develop body, mind, spirit, and character, especially for those living in urban settings. Writing under the pen name Moses Velsor, he advocated for regular physical training throughout life. Indeed, his advice to students and clerks was blunt — “all study, and no developed physique, is death.”[i]
I didn’t see Kaufman addressing physical exercise, but he does contrast “stress tolerance” against “emotion-focused coping,” which includes distraction, suppression, and drugs and alcohol – maybe not the best stress-management techniques. His observation brings to mind Edward Abbey’s message in Desert Solitaire – without wilderness as a refuge, “the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or psychoanalysis.”
In the end, it seems to me that while Maslow and Kaufman may have started with a scientific approach, they ended up in the same place as the American Transcendentalists, whose authors believed that “wild” environments would strengthen people, by pushing them out of their comfort zones, whereas the increasingly indoors lifestyle they were observing in the 19th century seemed to weaken and demoralize people and leave them feeling quietly desperate.
The irony for Kaufman, Maslow, and the other well-intentioned researchers and scientists who contribute to the field of modern psychology — is that science is part of the problem. Not to say that science doesn’t create technologies, therapies, pharmaceuticals and other meaningful solutions. But science is also the source of many of those irritating voices that contribute to the cacophony and overwhelm the dream-like state. Consider the experts interviewed on a daily basis on TV or posting directly in social media — the authors of uncountable numbers of self-help books — your therapist telling you what to do and maybe prescribing pharmaceuticals. All this contributes to the noise. Maslow acknowledged as much – “Science and education, being too exclusively abstract, verbal and bookish, do not have enough place for raw, concrete, esthetic experience, especially of the subjective happenings inside oneself.”
I enjoyed Kaufman’s book. He really brought Maslow’s thinking to life. Regarding transcendence, I think they both end up with sensible positions. However, we shouldn’t beat around the bush about the importance of nature. Indeed, it is time in my opinion to reinvigorate the American Transcendentalist tradition. Because transcendence is about returning to an original, natural state of mind which predates science and technology and which should therefore not depend upon them. Transcendence should be inherent in the human experience. Spend some time in nature. Let natural stimuli, like the sight of mountains, call forth the awe. Let the natural physical challenges of moving through the wilderness strengthen and sustain you.
So put down the book, the journal, the article. Pause the podcast. Power off the device.
Look out the window of your home or office, at the primeval forest that surrounds us, and find your path there.
[i] https://thelongbrownpath.com/2022/04/30/waltman-and-wilmington/
[i] https://thelongbrownpath.com/2024/02/17/transcend-this-a-quantitative-interpretation-of-american-transcendentalism/
[ii] Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, 1849
[iii] Jacques Ellul, The Technological Society, 1954
[iv] Henry David Thoreau, “Walking,” 1883
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