A First-Person Meditation on the Unnamable Self
There are moments on the path—often when I am quietest, most receptive—when a subtle yet powerful truth begins to shimmer through the veils of mind and memory: I am not what I think I am. Not this body. Not this mind. Not even the subtle feeling of “I am.” This radical stripping away, this silent process of self-inquiry, is best expressed by the sacred formula of Advaita Vedanta: Neti neti—“Not this, not this.”
The phrase is deceptively simple. At first, it feels like a method for spiritual negation, a way to distance myself from false identities. But over time, I’ve come to understand: Neti neti is not denial, but revelation. It is how the seer peels away illusion until only the seer remains—pure, formless awareness.
I have always resonated with what Nisargadatta Maharaji said:
“The real does not die, the unreal never lived. Once you know that death happens to the body and not to you, you just watch your body falling off like a discarded garment.”
(From "I Am That")
I’ve contemplated this deeply, especially in the context of reincarnation and the great cosmic play. The body changes, the roles change, the dream worlds shift—but I, the witness, remain untouched. Even the idea of being a “witness” is eventually relinquished. Neti neti whispers, “Not this, not even this. Let it all go.”
And so, when thoughts arise—"I am a seeker," "I am evolving," "I am nearing realization"—I quietly bow and say: Not this.
When emotions swirl—pride in spiritual progress, or guilt from a stumble—I witness them gently and say: Not this.
Even when peace arrives—serene, vast, and luminous—I know: this too, while beautiful, is a passing cloud. Not even this.
Sri Adi Shankara wrote in Vivekachudamani:
“Brahman is that which is beyond speech and thought, that which remains after all else is negated.”
This statement hits me like a bell ringing in a silent cave (Plato's Cave?). The real Self cannot be named, seen, thought, or grasped. It is not an object of knowledge. And yet—it is That by which all things are known.
Lalleshwari, the mystic poetess from Kashmir, once said:
“Shiva is all-pervasive, but hidden. Lalla, strip off the clothing of illusion, and you shall see Him naked in your own self.”
When I strip off these garments of identity, what remains? No “my son’s father,” no “member of Beacon,” no body, no name. Just That. Call it Brahman, if you must. Call it pure awareness. But don’t cling even to these names. They are pointers, not the moon.
My beloved guru, Paramahansa Yogananda, spoke with fierce clarity when he said:
“You are walking on the earth as in a dream: Our senses are so limited! The light of the sun seems to be outside, but the essence of the sun is within you.”
(From "Autobiography of a Yogi")
The light within is not another object to attain. It is what I already am—before birth, after death, and even in this very moment of reading, writing, breathing.
Sometimes in meditation, I return again to the breath. But now I say: “Not this breath.” Then to the one who watches the breath: “Not this watcher.” Then to the subtle thought “I am meditating”: “Not even this.”
And a great silence opens.
Yogananda, Nisargadatta, Shankara, Lalla—they have all pointed to this silence. Not a blank emptiness, but an ineffable fullness beyond description. The Cosmic Self, unborn and undying.
“The Self is like the sky—untouched by the clouds that pass across it.”
—Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
So I sit with that, sky-like and boundless. Watching the clouds come and go. Watching even the urge to understand fade. And I whisper:
Neti
neti.
Not this…
Not even this…
And yet—
Here I Am.