2.1.6. The Alchemist

“Those who do not believe in magic will never find it.”
— Roald Dahl

My approach to alchemy begins with a simple yet radical assumption: alchemy describes a genuine process. It is not merely a metaphor, nor an outdated science. It is a path—a work—that, when sincerely followed, appears magical not because it is supernatural, but because it reveals a deeper lawfulness not immediately evident. If the alchemists of old were truly producing gold, they were engaged in a process that modern minds might struggle to distinguish from magic—what Arthur C. Clarke called “technology sufficiently advanced to seem impossible.”

However, alchemy is veiled in riddles. It seems to convey something urgent, but its instructions are encoded. Without the key to its cipher, we cannot be certain of its meaning. Yet we can trust that a message exists, just as we trust a cipher holds meaning beneath its surface.

So if we wish to uncover the message, we must avoid being distracted by its encryption. We proceed by assuming the content of alchemy is universal, even if its forms differ. This opens the door to comparison—between alchemical texts and Buddhist suttas, Kabbalistic symbols, and Gnostic parables. We compare not to erase their uniqueness, but to triangulate the ineffable. If the message is real and universal, it will resonate across all authentic paths.

The challenge, of course, is language. The message is so subtle that ordinary words fail. Words can only point; they cannot fully describe. The true territory lies between or beyond the concepts we use.

Alchemy as Science and Art

Alchemy is both scientific and artistic. Its method is structured and precise, but its execution demands creativity, sensitivity, and surrender. Certain sequences must be followed, yet the work itself requires an interpretive, intuitive approach.

In my own search for this message—this path—I have found Buddhism to be the most accessible mystery tradition available to a 21st-century English speaker. But my confidence in the message is actually broadened by the metaphors and parallels I’ve encountered in Gnostic Christianity, Kabbalah, and other traditions. I suspect all genuine spiritual systems, when pursued sincerely, lead up the same mountain, though by different trails.

Who Is an Alchemist?

An alchemist is one who seeks the deepest understanding of reality and is willing to be transformed in the process. This path appears increasingly magical, not because the world itself changes, but because the alchemist learns to interact with reality differently. Often it begins with something as modest as learning to hold one’s tongue.

The path, however, is elusive. At first, it may seem mythical. Many stumble upon it only through profound suffering. Paradoxically, the suffering must be deep enough to inspire radical inquiry, while the mind must also be sharp enough to grasp abstraction. Not all who suffer are meant to walk this path, nor should they. Other paths of devotion, service, or simple presence are equally valid and profound.

But to be an alchemist, one must truly want to know—not to collect information, but to know deeply and directly. Even that desire must eventually be purified. Selfish motives may get us started, but they will hinder progress later. Ultimately, the desire to know must evolve into the willingness to be transformed.

The Universal Ground

It does not matter which tradition the alchemist follows—Egyptian, Taoist, Hermetic, or Buddhist—the substance to be transmuted is always the same: awareness. Subtle, elusive, and easily overlooked.

As Paracelsus warned, alchemy is divine work. Only with faith can one proceed. This is not blind belief, but a willingness to release cherished paradigms. If we are not prepared to sacrifice our current model of reality, we will never glimpse what lies beyond it.

This leads to the most crucial truth: the true transmutation is of the alchemist themselves. More specifically, it is the transformation of subjective awareness. We do not change the world through magic; we change our experience of the world by understanding its mechanisms. This changes everything.

The Philosopher’s Stone

The object of the Work must be discovered. Strangely, what we seek is already within us—a persistent, troubling whisper: conscience. For some, this voice is loud and anxious; for others, it is silent and despairing. Yet it is always there.

We struggle against it, justify ourselves, feel burdened by it. Yet if this conscience is nourished by faith, something begins to grow—a subtle intuition of something better. This compels us to seek out sacred texts, traditions, or teachers. Eventually we realise that even the best of these only point; they cannot reveal.

Even now, after more than a decade of what some might call obsessive study, I feel I am only just learning where to direct my attention.

Building the Ladder

The alchemist must construct a new understanding of reality—one that integrates both rationality and faith. The Dharma serves as a ladder, bringing us to the edge of conceptual reality. But that is all it can do. From there, we must wait—patiently and attentively—for the mind to recognise its true nature.

Initially, we do not even possess the paradigms needed to build this ladder. We must fashion it from scratch, and each stage involves a transmutation of the Stone—the very paradigm that governs our being.

Eventually, even the ladder must be abandoned. The final stage of the Work involves relinquishing all concepts, all striving. The alchemist begins in an intellectual hell—knowing too much, thinking too often, spiralling in mental prisons. Without faith, no amount of knowledge suffices. It merely generates more concepts.

Faith provides the courage to defy our instincts. It allows us to challenge our inner programming. Sometimes it manifests as rebellion—but it must be a rebellion against the fabric of reality itself, not just some fragment of it.

The True Work

Turning inward, the alchemist begins to study the mind and encounters its great engine: karma. Western traditions may call this sin or morality, but the Abhidhamma offers a more refined, precise understanding.

Through insight, the alchemist starts to dissolve the illusion of self. By mastering karma—not by repressing it, but by understanding it—the alchemist becomes a benefactor, a healer. Their tranquility deepens. Their mind grows still, like a quiet lake, and in this stillness, jhanic states begin to arise.

At this point, the Work becomes subtle and elegant. The miraculous ceases to appear miraculous. The alchemist no longer reacts predictably. They no longer need the world to conform to their desires, for they have transformed their relationship to the world.

This is not the end of the path, but it is the end of confusion. The rest, we will explore in the chapters to come.


This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Albedo: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.