2.3.12. Tourist

“The kingdom of God is within you, and all around you.
Not in mansions of wood and stone.
Split a piece of wood, and I am there.
Lift the stone, and you will find me there.”

— Gospel of Thomas, Saying 77 (Coptic Nag Hammadi Library)

There’s a gentle irony in reaching this stage. After so much striving, sacrifice, and interior upheaval, I find myself simply pausing — almost as though taking a quiet holiday. It is not that the work is over; far from it. But something in me has loosened, and the world no longer presses with quite the same urgency. I stand here like a slightly bemused traveller, a tourist in my own becoming, watching new vistas unfold.

So here we are, halfway along, and I invite you to grant yourself a small reprieve. Truly, things begin to ease a little now — or so it seems. There is an inevitable adjustment period where old mental habits still flicker up. Each must be patiently addressed, and once resolved, rarely troubles us again. Slowly, existence itself simplifies.

This simplification is subtle yet unmistakable. It does not erupt in wild rapture. In truth, joy is no more reliable a guide than doom; both are distractions, pulling us back into the theatre of extremes. What grows instead is a sober resilience — a perspective that stands outside apparent and conditioned reality. I find it feels a little paternal, tinged with benevolence and a quiet seriousness.

No longer am I so easily swept by ill-will or greedy attachment. Anger still arises out of habit, but now there’s an added moment, a gentle pause in which I see it forming. With contemplation, even this fades, until anger reveals itself as largely pointless, prompting a natural resolve to abandon it altogether.

Worldly motivations have mostly dissolved. Personal gain, ambition, status — these hold no lure. I still take pleasure in supporting others in their pursuits, but my own inclinations turn exclusively toward the dhamma (the truth or teachings). As an anāgāmī, I stand in a curious threshold: not quite of this world, not yet free from becoming. The wise use this vantage to deepen their inquiry, while the less discerning might become enchanted by new powers of perception, failing to see how easily a skandha demon slips in.

Comparison of Temptations in Enlightenment Narratives

Throughout this exploration, I have woven together Christian myth and Buddhist doctrine. I can almost hear the scholars wincing — no doubt appalled by my eclectic mixing. But to me, all these traditions strive to illuminate the same fundamental mystery. When I look at Christ’s crucifixion beside the Buddha’s enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, I see profound resonance.

Christ is affixed to a wooden cross — symbolically a Tree of Life, echoing gnostic and kabbalistic lore. The Buddha, meanwhile, was neither bound nor condemned, but made a fierce inner resolve to remain seated beneath his tree until awakening or death. Both were tempted: Jesus by Satan, who offered kingdoms and demanded worship, and the Buddha by Māra, who unleashed storms, sent enticing women, then terrifying demons — each mirroring the struggle to transcend the fourth and fifth mental fetters.

The crucifixion once carried even stranger tales: talking crosses and elaborate mysteries. Despite embellishments, enough remains to sense a common thread with Buddhist enlightenment — a confrontation with the very roots of becoming.

The Buddha, already a bodhisatta (future Buddha), sat and dismantled all four stages of awakening in a single, towering session. He perceived paṭicca-samuppāda (dependent origination), unravelled the chain of conditions that sustains suffering, and realised arahantship. At this level, there was no “being” left — only a pure, undifferentiated awareness identical with the deepest formless jhānas (meditative absorptions).

This may seem abstruse, so think of ordinary consciousness as a torch beam in a dark room: it illuminates a tiny circle, leaving everything else in shadow. Reality itself flows like a broad, bright river, but we interrupt it — we “stop the stream” to examine what just passed, holding snapshots that quickly fade. This process, sliced into citta (mind moments), is riddled with distortions. Thus we live largely in frozen concepts, not in the fluid truth.

The Buddha’s mind was different. Perception occurred with the slightest disturbance of the bhavaṅga (the undercurrent of life-continuum). He no longer needed to “look”; everything appeared directly, seamlessly, without cognitive interruption.

In advanced Buddhism, there is a practice called nirodha-samāpatti — cessation — accessible only to anāgāmīs or arahants. It is the capstone of meditation, involving a carefully prepared cessation of all mental activity, often lasting about seven days. On emerging, one contemplates dependent origination, as the Buddha did. This strikingly resembles Christ’s own words on the cross: “It is finished,” which resonates eerily with this ultimate letting go.

Some traditions suggest Christ’s body remained still and corpse-like, yet returned, aligning almost too well with what happens during cessation — heart rate drops, breath ceases, but life continues in profound stillness. Even the three days before resurrection parallels the neurochemical reset familiar to contemplatives: the mind’s receptors cleanse themselves, rebalancing in silence.

Whether or not this is precisely what happened is less important than seeing how these symbols point to similar truths. Both Jesus and the Buddha, from this view, stand destined to become Buddhas — fully awakened beings whose minds are unbound by even the subtlest cravings.

Meanwhile, for us modest alchemists, life becomes more a matter of gently adapting to this new vantage. There’s no shame in resting here, stabilising, enjoying the simpler rhythms. Often we start to flourish, doing good almost by instinct, no longer needing to force morality. We remain, however, tourists — fear and desire linger, but balanced on the side of healthy indifference. Helping and teaching others deepens our understanding, like revisiting a familiar landscape with clearer eyes.

So here, mid-journey, I pause. I wonder how many of you have stayed with me this far. Regardless, we continue. In the final part of this book, I’ll try to share something of the subjective textures — what this path actually feels like from within.

Reaching this waystation, I find life lighter, though not yet free. The world seems less binding, yet subtle longings still ripple through. From here, even as a tourist between realms, I see more clearly how ancient stories echo the same timeless striving — toward a wholeness that lies just beyond thought’s grasp.

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.