interview

WIE: What, in your view, is the relationship between enlightenment and self-mastery?

Vernon Turner: Well, enlightenment is first of all coming to understand that there is no self in the conventional sense. People tend to think of the self as, "Well, I'm the guy who went to this high school and had these parents, and I'm the guy who's got an accounting degree, and I worked my way through it all and achieved these things." Now that's purely an illusory self that we're talking about. Enlightenment is coming to understand or experience that there is no objective self—there is a being, but there's no objective self—and it's in the process of letting go of that notion that one experiences what one truly is in the universal sense. That's when enlightenment comes—when you realize that you are not in control. And because of that, you are very much in control.

WIE: And how would you distinguish that from self-mastery?

VT: Well, the difference may be more in terms of language than reality because enlightenment is the opening up of the eye of perception to the ultimate reality of existence itself. But on the finite scale the application would be self-mastery. In the enlightenment aspect of it there's no one there: There is no you to operate as opposed to this person or that person; your experience is complete, it's whole, it contains the cosmos. But when this enlightenment expresses itself in form, as in walking down the street, speaking and carrying oneself, then its light shines through the eyes of a single entity, and that is when it is known as "self-mastery."

WIE: Do you think that perhaps the distinction may also go deeper than that? The reason I ask is because conventionally, self-mastery is associated with the achievement of a powerful and overwhelmingly positive sense of self, and certainly a very clear notion of oneself—an identity—while enlightenment, even when it is manifested in the world of time and space, is traditionally understood much as you have described it: as the dissolution, or the transcendence, of any separate sense of self, be it positive or negative.

VT: When an enlightened person is still, that's enlightenment, but the moment they move, it becomes, as I said, self-mastery, because the moment you move, you have to act in the world of particulars—you have to walk, talk, work, do all these things. Now people who observe your ability to function in this world are going to see you in this heightened state of reality; they're going to see the way you carry yourself and they're going to attribute extraordinary things to you. The point is, though, that in enlightenment you wouldn't necessarily attribute these things to yourself, and that's the main difference. But also, the enlightenment experience doesn't apply to anything in particular, whereas self-mastery can be divided into certain fields. So you could have mastery in many different fields, and yet, even with that mastery, not be enlightened in the true sense.

WIE: Someone like Anthony Robbins might be an interesting example in this context because what he teaches—theoretically anyway—would seem to transcend the parameters of any particular field. We're talking in this case about an individual who presents himself as, and who to all appearances seems to be, the master of himself. And it would seem to be the case that whatever he's got, whatever realization he's had, covers very systematically every aspect of his life and, as far as he's concerned, of life in general. That's more the kind of mastery that I'm interested in trying to distinguish from enlightenment. Would you say that someone like Anthony Robbins is enlightened? Or is there an attainment that lies beyond the kind of self-mastery that he has achieved?

VT: No, I would not say that's enlightenment. I would say that Robbins has an uncanny ability to master through emulation, to model that which already exists. It's like two people who play a musical instrument: One has studied at Juilliard, but the other one has the gift; he can just pick up the instrument and start playing. Of course the other one can play too—he just picks up a sheet of music and starts playing. Well, most people would say that the guy who got his degree from Juilliard is a superior player because he's got his degree. But in reality the person who gets his inspiration directly from the source is the superior one because he doesn't get it in a secondary way. We human beings have the ability to pick things up from each other—we do that in the first grade, we do it from our mother when we learn how to talk, and Dr. Shinichi Suzuki used the same method when teaching children how to play violin. So Anthony Robbins has learned what triggers that response, a like response, and has been able to pass that secret on to a lot of people.

But enlightenment is not about being able to perform tricks like that, you know? It's beyond that because it's all pervasive, and it's beyond any particular ability because it encompasses all abilities. From my point of view, everybody is playing the music, everybody is building the houses, everybody is putting together computers and all these things. They're all "me" in the first place—I have all those abilities—even though they're not all "Vernon Kitabu Turner." It's just that since I have many bodies, I don't have to do all those things in this body because one body over here is working on this part and another body over there is working on that part, and I'm reaping the fruits of it because I'm sitting here in a hotel that I did not personally build. But man built it. And because man built it, yes, I did build it, because I'm man!—I mean, who else could I be? So in that sense, enlightenment is the wholeness of what we are; it's understanding and appreciating the essence of what man is. There's a scripture that asks the question, "What is man that thou art mindful of him?" In other words, "What is man in his essential nature?" And the particular expression of that would be, "What are you doing with this same ability and power?" Well, I can feel that essence coming through you in your work and appreciate and know it for what it really is—a part of ourselves—and I can appreciate the same thing in another person as something else. And when I express that essence, for me it is being able to flow with everything, knowing that there is nothing else but this, letting it flow through this body, act through this body, be this body wholly without having to look to the left, look to the right, ask permission from anybody because it's all me, and I'm giving my whole self to it.

WIE: So practically speaking, the difference between the kind of mastery that I've used Robbins to exemplify and the condition of an enlightened individual would be—

VT: That the enlightened being encompasses all beings in one, while mastery is focused only on the individual being. So if you're a master flycaster, you know that I'm not getting any fish on my end because I can't even get the fly to go on the water right. You have mastered that body. But if I'm going to do that myself, I'm going to have to apply myself as you have, learn the techniques that are necessary to gain mastery over that particular field—or whatever field.

WIE: No matter how total or comprehensive that field might be.

VT: Right, because even then we're still talking about mastering that field and then applying it to a particular goal or a particular life. Enlightenment is not a form of mastery in that sense, because in order for there to be a form of mastery, there has to be someone who's standing above it, and if you're already everything, then how could you stand above it, you see? If you're already everything, then why would you need mastery?

WIE: The martial arts, though, would also seem to represent a particular form of mastery, and yet you've described them as a path to enlightenment. What is it that makes the martial arts a path to transcendence, or the experience of "no-self," rather than simply another powerful means of developing one's strength, one's skill, one's mastery or sense of personal accomplishment?

VT: It can be approached from both directions. The average person who studies martial arts today, and even those in ancient periods, did so because they wanted to have physical strength in order to be able to subdue an enemy or protect themselves, or to have a sense of personal power. And there was also the aspect of being aggressive or warlike as a way of earning one's living, and in that case it was a career. But then, on the other hand, you had the spiritual people. People forget that Bodhidharma, the twenty-eighth patriarch of the Buddha, was the one who introduced the foundation of what is known as Shaolin Kung Fu today. On his way to China he became aware of the dangers on the road from robbers who would try to attack him in order to get the very important records that he carried. So he meditated, and it was revealed to him to study the animals, and in time he developed what came to be called the "Eighteen Movements of Lo Han." And these Eighteen Movements evolved into Shaolin Kung Fu and inspired many other martial arts after that. The idea was that a person who is working for the good of humanity does not develop an aggressive nature but a peaceful center, and his purpose is to defend, not to attack—to defend his own body, to defend loved ones, to defend those who are weaker than himself, and never to desire to do harm even to the one who is attacking you, never to allow yourself to become like the evil ones who would destroy you. It's when you've developed that resolve that the spiritual path reveals itself to you and begins to lead you in the right direction. You'll say, "No, I will do no harm to others. I will not be a person who is aggressive and violent. But neither will I sit here and watch someone be destroyed when I know I should reach out and offer a helping hand."

That's exactly what happened with me. When the bullies saw me sitting under a tree or reading a book, for some reason they couldn't stand that, and they'd come over and kick the book out of my hand and fight me. I used to get beat up all the time. So one day I initiated this prayer in which I said, "Teach me how to defend myself." I'd read in the Bible that David was a great warrior and there was a scripture, Psalm 144, that said: "Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my fingers to fight and my hands to make war." So I said, "I'm your son; teach me, too, and I will never abuse it." Then I went out in the backyard and I began to work out and practice, believing that I would be led into the right moves and that I would come to understand. And the result of that was that eventually the bullies couldn't defeat me anymore.

Now when you take that spiritual path, the action does not come from you. I remember the first time I became aware that my body could move but that I wasn't moving it because when a person threw a punch, my hand blocked it and threw them, and I didn't even know that move. And then as I began to let go more and more, I found out that the mastery was already there; I just had to get out of the way to let it emerge, to show itself. Pretty soon I was able to use this as a platform to teach others about spirituality as a practical reality. The Japanese call it "mushin"—the art of no-mind. That's when there is no conscious attempt to act, and yet you move anyway, when the action comes from such a deep place that there is no one to take credit for it. The experience of this coexistence—of this protection that is there within you—is very powerful, and it reaffirms many of the ancient works and scriptures that say, "He who is within you is greater than he who is in the world."

WIE: How exactly is it, though, that this spiritual approach to the martial arts becomes a path to transcendence or enlightenment?

VT: Well, when you find out that you are faced with danger—when you're thinking, "What am I gonna do?"—see what happens if you say, "I'm not worried about it. I don't have to do anything. It'll be done." See what happens if you clear your mind and allow yourself to do exactly what is necessary, exactly what is correct. If you can do that, then when it's all over with, you'll discover that you're just there; you're an observer. And you'll discover that you've observed more than you've actually participated—that you have learned to still your mind so that the spirit can act. The spirit does not deliberate, only the mind does, and this is what you'll discover.

WIE: Traditionally I know it's said that from the enlightened perspective, the minute you think you are the doer—the minute you identify yourself as the one performing an action—in that moment you become the very expression of ignorance itself. Yet even after everything you've explained, I find it difficult not to suppose that the mastery of a challenging discipline like a martial art requires a strong sense of oneself as a powerful individual, a clear and focused understanding of what one is doing, and the will and self-confidence to prevail. Looked at in this way, of course, there seems to be an inherent contradiction between enlightenment and the mastery of a martial art. But your experience seems to suggest that this simply isn't true.

VT: It isn't. It just depends on how the person approaches it. Most people approach it on a finite level—as a physical or mental ability. They develop their speed, their agility and their grace through physical exertion, working out, all those things. These are the people who come on like, "I'm the toughest guy in here. I can take all of you guys on." But the person who approaches it from the spiritual is humble, and if they were to come to him and talk that way, he'd say, "You probably could; I can see that. Look at all those muscles. Look at all that. Hey, you're too great for me." But if they were to try to attack him, they wouldn't find anybody there to attack—even though they're physically looking at the person! I've been tested by seventh-degree black belts and other top masters, and I've asked them to explain what they feel when they attack me. They say, "It's like you're not there." They say, "I thought I had you, but then you were gone!" This is because the movement comes from a higher place and it knows what the other person is going to do. I don't know what the other person is going to do—but when they try it, they discover that it's counteracted. A lot of people say, "I want to learn your technique; it's a wonderful technique." But I say, "I don't have any techniques. Yes, you saw what appeared to be a technique. But it's not a technique because I did not apply it. What you need to learn is how to come from that place where all the techniques already exist, and where the proper one will be there when you need it." And I also try to teach people that there's a difference between being a martial artist and being a warrior. A martial artist is exactly what it says—a person who studies the arts of war. But a warrior is the person himself. He doesn't have to have a black belt to be a great warrior; he has the attitude of a warrior, the spirit of a warrior. And he doesn't have to be a great athlete either because he has the heart of a warrior, and the soul of a warrior, so that when the time comes, when he faces danger, he turns to steel and does what he has to do without fear. If you're a martial artist twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, then that's all you project and that's all you are. But if you're a warrior—if you're a father when your child comes up, a husband when your wife comes up, a friend when your buddy comes up—then you adapt yourself to all of those different roles and yet none of those roles are you. That's the kind of mind that when the battle starts, you're ready. Because you're not holding on to anything, you have everything at your disposal. That's how it works.

WIE: In your book Soul Sword, you describe yourself as having been "a legendary defender of the weak" who "did not hesitate to come to the rescue of victims of gangs or other practitioners of violence."

VT: Yes, I kept that promise I'd made when I prayed to God as a child. When I went up to New York in the sixties, it was completely gang-ridden, and whenever anybody was being beaten up, I never hesitated to get in the midst of the fight and take the person off of them. You see, the thing about the spirit is that the spirit can say things you would never say yourself because you know you couldn't back them up—probably you'd never even think them. So when the local gang made a circle around me in the basement of Livingstone Baptist Church after I'd been in New York for just a couple of weeks, I said, "How would you like me to handle this? Would you like it one-on-one, or do you want the group plan?" Now everybody's standing around thinking, "Boy, he's either got to be very good, or he is crazy." Then this guy called Karate came in, their warlord, of whom people said, "He's a killer; he's been in jail for murder." I'd heard of Karate—his name was written on all the buildings in graffiti—so this was one of those movie moments. They were all saying, "He's the one, Karate! Kill him! Make an example of him!" So Karate looks at me and says, "I'm going to kill you." And I said, "Well, you may do that, but before you do, I'm going to take so many pieces out of you that forever people are going to know you were in a fight with Vernon." I looked at him and he looked at me, and then he just came up and put his arms around me. He made room at the table and said, "Get us some drinks!" He made peace with me. He offered to give me a girl—I said, "No, thank you." He offered to give me an apartment—you know, the gangs control these things. "No," I said, "I have my own, but I really appreciate the honor."

So they made me an honorary warlord and they never bothered me again. Instead of them shooting me, instead of them making an example of me, they honored me because in none of the fights that I'd been in with any of those people did I ever gloat or anything. I always helped them up and apologized, and told them that I had no desire to hurt them but that they'd put me in a position that gave me no choice. I always treated them as gentlemen, so they didn't want to kill me. It was a winning experience, you see? Because they respected me, and if anybody was to say, "Well what about this guy who came in from out of town and beat all of you up?" they'd say, "He's our warlord, he's one of us." But I wasn't no gang member; it was a compromise.

WIE: What was the source of your confidence? Has it always been the same, or did it change at some point?

VT: There's a difference between the source of my confidence, period, and my confidence in my ability to defend. They began at different times. I was born into a Christian family and we went to church all the time—I mean, when the door opened we were in! And we also had worship services in our house; before we went to bed we had to have prayer and Bible study and all that—so I came from that kind of a family. Now what I didn't come from was a family who sat in the dark or under trees meditating, and no one could figure that out. But in that meditation, in that stillness, I connected with the source of life within me, and my relationship to that was direct, so in that quietness and stillness I felt secure and whole, and when people began to attack me, I had two feelings: One was that I knew exactly what to do to stop the attack, and the second feeling was—not wanting to hurt anybody. Anyway, every time someone was going to hit me, I would know what was going to come, and I would also know, "I could stop this."

But even with all that, I still didn't have the confidence to act. It was only when I began to seek, and to realize, that I actually got tired of getting beaten up, or tired of trying to stop a fight and getting beaten up, because by then I had discovered the means to ask God, "If you teach me, I will protect people." I'd heard about the Kitty Genovese stabbing, in Queens, and that moved me. I was only nine years old then, and I felt hurt that nobody who saw it had tried to help her. That was what triggered me to seek to be strong enough to come to the aid of anyone who was in trouble; I didn't want to pass by a person in trouble, and I would rather die in the struggle of trying to save them than walk away and die all my life knowing I'd never even tried. So as I began to probe into this and to practice, things began to change inside of me, and this was all part of a grand experiment in which I wasn't the one experimenting, I was simply putting together what had been there all along. See, these things were taught—they were in the Bible—and when I went to church I heard them all the time. What I began to understand was that people didn't apply the teachings to themselves. They believed that David could bring down Goliath but they didn't believe that they could. But my feeling was that the same spirit that was with David was also with me, and therefore to doubt that the spirit worked for me was to insult the Creator. In my thinking, it was very simple: If the Creator is in me also, then why am I looking at David?