IJTS 31(1)-2012

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies i

Table of ContentsEditors’ Introduction—Glenn Hartelius iii

Spirituality and the MMPI-2 Restructured Clinical ScalesDiana M. Mendez & Douglas A. MacDonald 1

Connecting the Spiritual and Emotional Intelligences: Confirming an Intelligence Criterion and Assessing the Role of EmpathyDavid B. King, Constance A. Mara, & Teresa L. DeCicco 11

The Scale for Existential ThinkingBlake A. Allan & C. Branton Shearer 21

Trauma and Transformative PassageReed A. Morrison 38

SPECIAL TOPIC: Parapsychology Introduction to Special Topic Section Sean Avila Saiter & Glenn Hartelius 47

Transpersonal Psychology, Parapsychology, and Neurobiology: Clarifying their Relations Douglas A. MacDonald & Harris L. Friedman 49

Mental Health and the Paranormal Simon Dein 61

How Should Therapists Respond to Client Accounts of Out-of-Body Experience? Alexander De Foe 75

Is the Reincarnation Hypothesis Advanced by Stevenson for Spontaneous Past-life Experiences Relevant for the Understanding of the Ontology of Past-life Phenomena? Sergei Slavoutski 83

Psychoactive Substances and Paranormal Phenomena: A Comprehensive Review David Luke 97

T he International Journal of

ranspersonal StudiesVolume 31(1), 2012

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies ii

The International Journal of Transpersonal StudiesVolume 31, Issue 1, 2012

EditorGlenn Hartelius

Senior EditorHarris Friedman

Coordinating EditorLes Lancaster

Assistant EditorsMaureen HarrahyCourtenay Crouch

Honorary EditorStanley Krippner

Editors EmeritiDon Diespecker Philippe Gross

Douglas A. MacDonaldSam Shapiro

Guest Special Topic EditorSean Avila Saiter

Associate Managing EditorsCheryl Fracasso

Adam RockRochelle Suri

Associate Circulation EditorAdrian Andreescu

Editorial AssistantLila Hartelius

Student InternsLiz Caine

Rashmi ChidanandNick Fortino

PublisherFloraglades Foundation, Incorporated

1270 Tom Coker RoadLaBelle, FL 33935

© 2012 by Floraglades Foundation, Inc.All Rights Reserved

ISSN (Print) 1321-0122ISSN (Electronic) 1942-3241

Board of Editors

Manuel Almendro (Spain)Rosemarie Anderson (USA)

Liora Birnbaum (Israel)Laura Boggio Gilot (Italy)Jacek Brewczynski (USA)Søren Brier (Denmark)

Elias Capriles (Venezuela)Michael Daniels (UK)

John Davis (USA)Wlodzislaw Duch (Poland)

James Fadiman (USA)Jorge N. Ferrer (Spain/USA)Joachim Galuska (Germany)

David Y. F. Ho (Hong Kong, China)Daniel Holland (USA)Chad Johnson (USA)

Bruno G. Just (Australia)Sean Kelly (USA)

Jeffrey Kuentzel (USA)S. K. Kiran Kumar (India)

Charles Laughlin (Canada/USA)Olga Louchakova (USA)

Vladimir Maykov (Russia)Axel A. Randrup (Denmark)Vitor Rodriguez (Portugal)Brent Dean Robbins (USA)

Mario Simöes (Portugal)Charles Tart (USA)

Rosanna Vitale (Canada)John Welwood (USA)

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies iii

Editors’ Introduction

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies, 31(1), 2012, pp. iii-iv

Transpersonal scholars at times suggest that their work is an extension of an area of study that reaches far back into human history, that in

the spirit of the great spiritual traditions it inquires into transcendent human capacities, but within the context of contemporary Western psychology and the humanities. However, it is also possible to see the contemporary transpersonal project as something quite new. Within cultures where religious traditions still hold considerable influence—India or Indonesia, for example—the average person participates in religious ritual but does not typically partake in the transformative esoteric practices reserved for mystics or renunciates. These are used by a small percentage of the population, who devote themselves to advanced spiritual study. Such an arrangement is resonant with the structure of traditional cultures throughout much of the world—a spiritual version of the sorts of social hierarchies in which political power and wealth is vested in a monarchy or small ruling class. The American and French revolutions of the late 18th century, however imperfect their implementation, brought a novel idea: Everyone can participate in political power. American transcendentalism, a movement of the mid-19th century that took shape around such luminaries as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickenson, and John Muir, took a similar view of spiritual power. It planted the notion that the esotericism of the East was something in which a simple-living American might partake. In the words of Thoreau (1854/2008), “I lay down the book and go to my well for water, and lo! there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and water jug. I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and our buckets as it were grate together in the same well. The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges” (p. 183). Though short-lived, the transcendentalist vision was revived by best-selling books of the Victorian era such as Light of Asia (Arnold, 1879/1995)—a fictional account of the enlightenment of the Buddha—by the poets of the Beatnik generation, and by the counterculture revolution of the 1960s. Esoteric visions were now not just for a few in the East, but available to everyone through either meditation or communion with psychedelic substances.

Humanistic psychology began with the premise that mental health is not merely the absence of disease, but the cultivation of human potential. Transpersonal psychology applied this inspiring stance to human spirituality, adopting the vision of democratized trans-cendence crafted by the American transcendentalists and put into practice by the anti-authoritarian youth revolutions of the 1950s and 1960s. Unlike the great Eastern traditions to which transpersonal scholars often give deference, the transpersonal movement sees transcendence not as the province of the few, but as the birthright of every human being. This confluence of human potential and spiritual democracy is the particular heritage of transpersonalism. It is an approach resonant with a widespread contemporary interest in personal growth, popular spirituality, alternative approaches to healthcare that seek to align themselves with the healing powers of the body, and concerns for social justice and environmental sustainability. Yet as a scholarly discipline, transpersonal psychology has been long on discussion and short on empirical evidence. A recent review of literature in the Journal of Transpersonal Psychology and the International Journal of Transpersonal Studies during the first four decades of the field’s existence showed that from 1970 to 1979, only 4% of articles were empirical in nature; three decades later, during the period 2000 to 2009, the percentage of empirical papers had risen to no more than 17% (Hartelius, Rothe, & Roy, in press). While this shows a clear positive trend, the amount of empirical evidence that the field has produced is still modest at best. The resistance to empirical work is understand-able, even laudable, given that it is inherited from humanistic psychology, and reflects a similar concern that the richness and nuanced complexities of human experience not be reduced to numbers and categories and statistics. Yet the tools of empirical study within psychology are vastly improved from the era in which these concerns took root—the 1950s and 1960s. Not only are there now scores of measures for qualities such as compassion, empathy, spirituality, mindfulness, and other transpersonally-related constructs (see MacDonald & Friedman, this issue), but qualitative inquiry has developed to the point where it is now represented by a division within the American Psychological Association (Division 5).

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies iv

In short, at this date the sparseness of empirical papers within the transpersonal field appears to be more habitual than justifiable on grounds that once held validity. As psychology moves toward being an evidence-based science, it will be necessary to take positions on what constitutes evidence, what philosophical assumptions may be implicit within a given methodological approach, and whether reductionistic and materialistic values should determine what is or is not reasonable to examine. However, for the field to gain the prominence that it deserves based on the importance of its subject matter and the care for preserving the authenticity of experience that permeates its approaches, a steadily increasing emphasis on empirical work can and should be made a priority. The modest occasion for this rather large preamble is the fact that in the current issue, nearly half of the papers are empirical in nature. Small though this milestone might be, it serves as an opportunity to re-state this journal’s commitment to the support and publication of empirical research within transpersonal psychology and other areas of transpersonal studies, and to call for additional empirical papers in these areas. The first paper, by Mendez and MacDonald, takes direct aim at the sort of quantitative work that is sorely needed, both by transpersonal scholars and by others interested in the practial task of assessing spirituality as a dimension of human functioning. In this paper, the authors examine correlations between measures of spirituality and the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 Restructured Clinical (MMPI-2 RC) scales, a common tool for identifying deviations from what is considered to be mental health. These results were then compared with earlier work that made a similar assessment of the original MMPI scales, and the differences explained in the context of how and why these scales have been reformulated. The second paper, King, Mara, & DeCicco, uses a measure of spiritual intelligence previously published in this journal (King & DeCicco, 2009) to examine possible correlations between spiritual intelligence and measures of both emotional intelligence and empathy. It is not only the fact that correlations were found, but the specific nature of those correlations, that offers perspectives on how spiritual intelligence might be framed. As such, this work helps to give context and substance to the notion of spiritual intelligence, which is remains a new and somewhat controversial construct. Next, Blake and Shearer introduce a new measure, the Scale for Existential Thinking, which is designed to measure how much an individual examines

basic concerns about human existence and how adept they are at meaningfully situating themselves relative to these issues. The study presents validation data on the scale as well as correlations with constructs such as curiosity and meaning in life. Given that transpersonal psychology considers matters of ultimate concern, this scale offers a novel and valuable tool for measuring the tendency to think in those terms. Finally, Morrison proposes that the experience of initiates who undergo experiences of controlled violence in traditional rites of passage significantly parallels the phenomenon of trauma disorder, and the fact that such initiates are apparently able to integrate their experiences usefully may offer insights into how trauma sufferers might be guided into similar positive outcomes. This suggestion is accompanied by two short clinical case histories, one success and one failure, that illustrate the clinical challenges and potentials of such an approach. In addition, there are five papers in a special topic section on parapsychology, prepared by Special Topic Editor Sean Avila Saiter. These are introduced separately at the beginning of that section. Here, it is noteworthy that parapsychology is perhaps the aspect of transpersonal research for which there is the most extensive and rigorous empirical research. The International Journal of Transpersonal Studies will continue to encourage and support empirical work in the transpersonal field by giving priority and expedited consideration to empirical submissions, in the hope that the flurry of empirical papers in this issue will grow into a steady stream of research that can bring transpersonal aproaches into the prominence that they deserve.

Glenn Hartelius, EditorSofia University

Arnold, E. (1995). Light of Asia. Whitefish, MT: Kessinger. (Original work published 1879)

Hartelius, G., Rothe, G., & Roy, P. (in press). A brand from the burning: Defining transpersonal psychology. The Wiley-Blackwell handbook of trans-personal psychology. Oxford, UK: Wiley-Blackwell.

King, D. B., & DeCicco, T. L. (2009). A viable model and self-report measure of spiritual intelligence. International Journal of Transpersonal Studies, 28(1), 68-85.

Thoreau, H. D. (2008). Walden: Or, life in the woods. Radford, VA: Wilder. (Original work published 1854)

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 1Spirituality and the MMPI-2

Spirituality and the MMPI-2 Restructured Clinical Scales

Diana M. Mendez & Douglas A. MacDonaldUniversity of Detroit Mercy

Detroit, MI, USA

The present investigation examined the relation between spirituality, measured by the Expressions of Spirituality Inventory (ESI; MacDonald, 2000); and the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 Restructured Clinical (MMPI-2 RC) scales (Tellegen et al., 2003) using data from a previously published study (i.e., MacDonald & Holland, 2003). Zero-order, multiple, and partial correlations were calculated to explore the association. All multiple correlations, wherein the five ESI dimensions were used collectively to predict MMPI-2 RC scales, emerged significant for all MMPI-2 RC scales. For zero-order correlations, all RC scales were found to have a significant relation with at least one ESI dimension. Existential Well-Being (EWB) was found to be significantly negatively associated with all MMPI-2 RC scales except RC9-Hypomanic Activation. When compared to correlations between the ESI and the MMPI-2 Basic Clinical Scales, the RC scales seem to produce a similar pattern of coefficients but of lower magnitude. The study concludes with a discussion of the findings, limitations, and suggestions for clinical practice and future research.

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies, 31(1), 2012, pp. 1-10

In the last few decades, spirituality has been increasingly recognized as an important aspect of human functioning, which demonstrates a robust

but complex association to health and well-being (Elmer, MacDonald, & Friedman, 2003; Gartner, 1996; MacDonald & Friedman, 2002). Despite such recognition, there appears to be a lag in how spirituality is being incorporated into assessment practices by health professionals (e.g., psychologists). Even more simply, there appears to be minimal published research that examines the relation of spirituality to instruments commonly used in clinical assessment. If spirituality is indeed an area of functioning that is important, then it would be logical that research should be done to establish how it relates to popular clinical tests since such investigations will help practitioners better incorporate spirituality into assessment. The fact that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV-TR; APA, 2000) includes a diagnostic category for religious or spiritual problems further reinforces arguments about the need for research to be done that supports ways in which spirituality can be considered in formal psychological assessment.

Based precisely on such reasoning, MacDonald and Holland (2003) completed a study examining the association of the Basic Clinical scales of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, Second Edition (MMPI-2; Butcher, Dahlstrom, Graham, Tellegen, & Kaemmer, 1989) to self-reported religious involvement and to a multidimensional measure of spirituality called the Expressions of Spirituality Inventory (ESI; MacDonald, 1997, 2000) with a nonclinical sample of 239 university students. For those unfamiliar with the test, the MMPI-2 is one of the most widely used measures of psychopathology (Greene, 2011), and while it contains a variety of scale sets, the Clinical scales are the most venerable and widely used of them all. In their original incarnation on the first MMPI (Hathaway & McKinley, 1940), the clinical scales were derived using an empirical test construction strategy (as opposed to a theory driven strategy) where items from a large item pool were assigned to scales based on their ability to differentiate between normal people and known diagnostic groups. This approach ultimately resulted in the creation of 10 scales that were preserved in the MMPI-2. These scales are called Hypochondriasis (Hs,

Keywords: spirituality, Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 Restructured Clinical (MMPI-2 RC) Scales, measurement, psychopathology

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 2 Mendez & MacDonald

a.k.a Scale 1), Depression (D, a.k.a Scale 2), Hysteria (Hy, a.k.a Scale 3), Psychopathic Deviate (Pd, a.k.a Scale 4), Masculinity-Femininity (Mf, a.k.a Scale 5), Paranoia (Pa, a.k.a Scale 6), Psychasthenia (Pt, a.k.a Scale 7), Schizophrenia (Sc, a.k.a Scale 8), Hypomania (Ma, a.k.a Scale 9), and Social Introversion (Si, a.k.a Scale 0). As for the measure of spirituality used by MacDonald and Holland (2003), the ESI was constructed by MacDonald (2000) in order to address problems with the definition and measurement of spirituality seen in the literature. In particular, starting with the view of spirituality as representing a multidimensional domain of human functioning, which incorporates experiential, cognitive, affective, and behavioral components, MacDonald completed a series of factor analyses involving a total of 20 different tests of spirituality and related constructs and

identified five robust factors which appeared to embody central features of spirituality. The ESI was constructed to tap these five factors. Table 1 presents the names of these dimensions along with a brief description of each and examples of measures that contribute to each of the dimensions. In their study, MacDonald and Holland (2003) found that those reporting active religious involvement obtained significantly lower t-scores than those reporting a religious affiliation but no involvement on Scale 2 (Depression), Scale 4 (Psychopathic Deviate), Scale 6 (Paranoia), Scale 7 (Psychasthenia), and Scale 8 (Schizophrenia). Effect sizes of these differences, however, were observed to be small (e.g., eta2 ranged from .02-.03 for all significant findings). They also found that when the sample was bifurcated into subgroups

Table 1. Descriptions and convergent correlates of ESI Dimensions from MacDonald (2000)Dimension Name Description Partial list of correlates

Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality (COS) (40 items, a = .97)

Beliefs, attitudes, and perceptions about the significance of spirituality for daily living and sense of personal identity

Measures of non-religiousspirituality and subjectivespiritual well-being includingSpiritual Orientation Inventory(Elkins et al., 1988); Assessment Scale (Howden, 1992),Spiritual Well-Being Questionnaire(Moberg, 1984)

Experiential/Phenomenological Dimen-sion (EPD)(19 items, a = .91)

Spiritual experiences including religious, mystical, and transcendent experiences

Measures of explicit spiritual and mystical experience including Mystical Experiences Scale (Hood, 1975), Peak Experiences Scale (Mathes et al., 1982), Ego Permissiveness Inventory (Taft, 1969)

Existential Well-Being (EWB)(9 items, a = .85)

Sense of meaning and purpose of existence and perception of self as being competent

Measures of explicit existential well-be-ing and self-satisfaction including Spiritual Well-Being Scale (Paloutzian & Ellison, 1982), Ego Grasping Orienta-tion (Knoblauch & Falconer, 1986)

Paranormal Beliefs (PAR)(13 items, a = .91)

Belief in paranormal phenomena (e.g., ESP)

Measures of explicit belief in the para-normal including the Paranormal Beliefs Scale (Tobacyk & Milford, 1983), and subscales of teh Assessment Schedule for Altered States of Consciousness (van-Quekelberghe et al., 1991)

Religiousness (REL)(17 items, a = .94)

Beliefs and practices associated with intrinsic religious orientation (e.g., belief in higher power, prayer/meditation

Measures of intrinsic religiosity and religious well-being including Intrin-sic Religious Motivation Scale (Hoge, 1972), and Religious Orientation Scale (Allport & Ross, 1967)

Note: Table adapted from MacDonald and Holland (2003), descriptions and alpha coefficients from MacDonald (2000)


based upon the presence versus absence of one or more clinically significant Clinical scale scores (i.e., t-score of 65 or higher), a significantly larger proportion of the not-religiously involved participants were observed to have a clinically significant MMPI-2 clinical profile. When examining the relation of the Clinical scales to the ESI dimensions, MacDonald and Holland (2003) found that, with the exception of Scale 5 (Masculine-Feminine) and Scale 9 (Hypomania), all MMPI-2 Clinical scales

were significantly associated (p< .001) with overall spirituality (as represented in standard multiple regressions wherein all five ESI dimensions were used as predictors), as well as with at least one of the five ESI dimensions of spirituality as manifested in bivariate correlations (both zero-order correlations and partial correlations where each ESI dimension was correlated to each MMPI-2 scale after controlling for the remaining four ESI dimensions). Closer inspection of their results revealed that some components of spirituality were strongly and inversely related to MMPI-2 Clinical scales (e.g., Existential Well-Being), while others demonstrated weaker but still inverse associations (e.g., Religiousness was negatively associated with Scale 4–Psychopathic Deviate). Still others produced positive associations with some Clinical scales (e.g., Paranormal Beliefs was found to be significantly and positively correlated with Scale 6–Paranoia). Table 2 presents the main correlational findings reported by MacDonald and Holland (2003). Further, using the presence versus absence of one or more clinically significant scores as a grouping variable and the five ESI dimensions as dependent variables, a MANOVA found a significant difference between groups with subsequent univariate ANOVAs uncovering Existential-Well-Being as the only dimension that had significantly different scores across the two groups (with the former group producing lower scores than the absence-of-clinically-significant-scores group).

Revision to the MMPI-2: The Restructured Clinical Scales

Since the publication of MacDonald and Holland’s (2003) findings, efforts have been made by researchers

to address longstanding problems with the psychometric properties of the MMPI-2 Clinical Scales, which include such difficulties as excessive intercorrelatedness between scales and weak evidence supporting their criterion and discriminant validity (Graham, 2006; Nichols, 2006). These efforts have culminated in the development of the Restructured Clinical (RC) scales. The RC Scales were created to “preserve the important descriptive properties of the existing MMPI–2 Clinical Scales while enhancing their distinctiveness” (Tellegen et al., 2003, p. 1). A major objective in the development of these scales was to remove the nonspecific distress variance that is shared by most psychiatric disorders from each of the Clinical scales (Tellegen et al., 2003; Sellbom, Ben-Porath, & Bagby, 2008). This was done through the use of principal components analysis wherein variance

Table 2. Summary of MacDonald and Holland (2003) correlational findings involving the MMPI-2 and ESI

ESI DimensionsMMPI-2Clinical COS EPD EWB PAR REL Mult.

R

Hs–Scale 1 .07 (-.00)

.16(.11)

-.33(-.33)

.16(.07)

.05(.04)

.38

D–Scale 2 -.11(.03)

-.10(-.09)

-.65(-.64)

.01(-.02)

-.12(-.03)

.65

Hy–Scale 3 .09(.06)

.18(.12)

-.27(-.27)

.14(.05)

.02(-.04)

.33

Pd–Scale 4 -.09(.10)

-.01(-.04)

-.46(-.44)

.14(.11)

-.21(-.19)

.50

Mf–Scale 5 -.11(-.16)

-.03(.10)

.08(.08)

-.16(-.15)

-.01(.10)

.23

Pa–Scale 6 .00(.05)

.10(.02)

-.47(-.46)

.24(.19)

-.07(-.05)

.52

Pt–Scale 7 -.04(.10)

-.04(-.09)

-.54(-.53)

.10(.07)

-.10(-.08)

.55

Sc–Scale 8 -.01(-.01)

.14(.11)

-.48(-.47)

.19(.11)

-.06(-.02)

.51

Ma–Scale 9 .02(.01)

.18(.13)

-.06(-.03)

.18(.11)

-.07(-.09)

.25

Si–Scale 0 -.15(-.00)

-.26(-.21)

-.45(-.47)

-.13(-.09)

-.09(.04)

.53

Note. Mult R = Multiple Correlation based upon standard regres-sions using all five ESI dimensions as predictors of each MMPI-2 Clinical Scale. All multiple correlations significant at p<.001 ex-cept those for Mf and Ma. Coefficients in parentheses are partial correlations (df= 233) where the ESI dimension was correlated to the each MMPI-2 clinical scale while controlling for the re-maining four ESI dimensions. Zero order and partial correlation coefficients of .21 or greater are significant at p<.001.


associated with general distress was extracted as the first component and partitioned out of the total item score variance. Thereafter, items were retained that were found to associate in conceptually expected ways on the remaining components. In their finalized form, the RC scales are made up of a total of nine scales, one of which is designed to measure generalized demoralization (RCd) and the remaining eight to assess statistically and conceptually redefined versions of all but two of the original Clinical scales (i.e., all but Scale 5–Masculine-Feminine and Scale 0–Social Introversion, which were deemed to be of minimal clinical importance). These eight scales are called Somatic Complaints (RC1), Low Positive Emo-tions (RC2), Cynicism (RC3), Antisocial Behavior (RC4), Persecutory Ideation (RC6), Dysfunctional Negative Emotions (RC7), Aberrant Experiences (RC8), and

Hypomanic Activation (RC9). One noteworthy change that deserves mention relates to RC3. In particular, Tellegen and colleagues (2003) elected to reverse score the items so that it transformed the scale from a measure of naiveté to a measure of cynicism. Table 3 presents descriptions of each of the RC scales. While the RC scales have garnered a good deal of attention since their release in 2003 with a fair number of empirical studies showing that they are an improvement over the original Clinical scales and with their popularity resulting in the creation of the MMPI-2 Restructured Form (MMPI-2-RF; Ben-Porath & Tellegen, 2008), to date no research has appeared in the published literature investigating the association of the RC scales to spirituality. In this vein, the purpose of the present study was to examine the relation of the MMPI-2 RC scales to spirituality as measured by

Table 3. Description of MMPI-2 Restructured Clinical ScalesRC Scale Name Parent Clinical

ScaleGeneral Description

Demoralization (RCd)(24 items, a = .89)

None

General unhappiness; Hopelessness

Somatic Complaints (RC1) (27 items, a = .83)

Scale 1Hypochondriasis

Preoccupation with bodily concerns

Low Positive Emotions (RC2)(17 items, a = .73)

Scale 2Depression

Lack of hedonic capacity; passive social withdrawal

Cynicism (RC3) (15 items, a = .78)

Scale 3Hysteria

Other-referential belief about malevolence and untrustworthiness

Antisocial Behavior (RC4)(22 items, a = .73)

Scale 4PsychopathicDeviate

Externalizing proclivities; disinhibitory style; nonconformity

Ideas of Persecution (RC6)(17 items, a = .70)

Scale 6Paranoia

Self-referential paranoid ideation; persecutory delusions

Dysfunctional Negative Emotions (RC7)(24 items, a = .85)

Scale 7Psychasthenia

Negative emotions including: fear, anxiety, and anger

Aberrant Experiences (RC8)(18 items, a = .79)

Scale 8Schizophrenia

Bizarre perceptual experi-ences/hallucinations and nonpersecutory delusional beliefs

Hypomanic Activation (RC9)(28 items, a = .75)

Scale 9Hypomania

Grandiose self-view; general excitation; risk taking

Note. Descriptions based on Tellegen et al. (2003). Alpha coefficients based upon cur-rent sample. Basic Clinical scales Masculine-Feminine (Scale 5) and Social Introver-sion (Scale 0) not included in RC Scale set.

the ESI through a re-analysis of the data used by MacDonald and Holland (2003). We elected to re-analyze these data since it would allow for a direct comparison of the RC scales to the Basic Clinical scales in a way that would help determine if the RC scales demonstrate a more robust and differentiated pattern of associations with the ESI as compared to the original scales. Considering the findings of the MacDonald and Holland study, it was expected that (a) all of the ESI dimensions collectively would be significantly related to all MMPI-2 RC scales as manifested in statistically signifi-cant multiple correlations, (b) at the level of the individual ESI dimensions, every MMPI-2 RC scale would produce a significant correlation with at least one ESI dimension, with Existential Well-Being demonstrating a more general pattern of significant negative associations, Religi- ousness producing a significant negative correlation with RC4, and Paranormal Beliefs generating a significant positive association with RC6.

MethodsParticipants The sample used in this study was the same used in MacDonald and Holland (2003). It consisted of 239 self-


selected university students from a mid-sized Canadian university (65 males, 174 females). The sample had a mean age of 21.16 years, ranging from ages 18 to 51 (SD=4.51). For all cases in the sample, MMPI-2 validity scores fell within the score ranges recommended by Butcher, Graham, and Ben-Porath (1995; e.g., less than 30 missing item responses, L and K t-scores less than 80, F scale raw score less than 30, VRIN t-score less than 80, and TRIN raw score greater than 5 but less than 13). Measures The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory-2 (MMPI-2; Butcher et al,, 1989) was used in this study. The MMPI-2 is a paper-and-pencil measure of personality structure and psychopathology, which consists of 567 items in a true-false response format and takes approximately 60 to 90 minutes to complete. The Restructured Clinical (RC) scales were used in this investigation. Examination of the psychometric properties of the MMPI-2 RC scales indicates satisfactory internal consistencies for all the RC scales using multiple samples (Tellegen et al., 2003). For instance, Tellegen and colleagues (2003) reported median Cronbach’s alphas across samples ranging from .76 to .86 for men and .76 to .85 for women. With the sample from our study, the mean t-score across all RC scales was 54.77 with scale means ranging from 49.05 (RC2) to 57.44 (RC8). The mean inter-item reliability coefficient across all RC scales was .78 with RC6 obtaining the lowest value (a = .70) and RCd producing the largest (a = .89). The Expressions of Spirituality Inventory (ESI; MacDonald, 1997, 2000) was used to measure spirituality. The ESI is a 98-item self-report measure that utilizes a Likert-type scale with five response alternatives ranging from 0 (Strongly Disagree) to 4 (Strongly Agree). The ESI measures five dimensions of spirituality: Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension (EPD), Cognitive Orientation towards Spirituality (COS), Existential Well-Being (EWB), Paranormal Beliefs (PAR), and Religiousness (REL). Dimension scores are obtained by adding appropriate item responses. It contains 40 items on COS, 19 items on EPD, 9 items in EWB, 13 items on PAR, and 17 items on REL. Brief descriptions of what is measured by each dimension can be found in Table 1. The ESI has revealed reliable scores with scale alphas ranging from .85 to .97 across the five dimensions. Furthermore, the ESI has been shown to have good factorial, convergent, discriminant, and criterion validity (MacDonald, 2000).

Procedure Data for this study were originally collected as a part of a larger test battery used in a factor analytic investigation on spirituality (MacDonald, 1997) and more recently used in a study of the MMPI–2 clinical scales and spirituality by MacDonald and Holland (2003). Participants were recruited through in-class presentations and advertisements posted around the university community. Those who volunteered completed the questionnaires at one of several testing sessions held on campus and proctored by the second author. All participants read and signed an informed consent form prior to completing the tests.

Results

In order to assess the shared and unique association each ESI dimension has with the MMPI-2 RC scales,

multiple correlations, zero-order correlations, and partial correlations were calculated. For the multiple correlations, all ESI dimensions were used as predictors of each MMPI-2 RC scale in nine standard multiple regressions. For the partials, each ESI dimension was correlated with each MMPI-2 RC scale after controlling for the other four ESI dimensions (see Table 4). Examination of the multiple correlations reveals coefficients ranging in magnitude from .23 for RC9 to .71 for RCd. All coefficients were significant at p<.001, with the exception of multiple correlation involving RC9 for which the coefficient was found to be significant at p<.05.

Inspection of the zero-order correlations showed a differential pattern of significant coefficients between the MMPI-2 RC scales and each of the five ESI dimensions. EWB obtained the most noticeable array of significant correlations. The EWB dimension is significantly negatively correlated (p<.001) with MMPI-2 RCd (r = -.71), RC1 (r = -.44), RC2 (r = -.57), RC3 (r = -.25), RC4 (r = -.27), RC6 (r = -.24), RC7 (r = -.46), and RC8 (r = -.26). COS is negatively correlated with MMPI-2 RCd (r = -.14, p<.05), RC2 (r = -.17, p<.01), RC3 (r = -.13, p<.05), and RC4 ( = -.13, p<.05). EPD generated significant positive correlations with RC1 (r = .20, p<.01), RC8 (r = .29, p<.001), and RC9 (r = .20, p<.01), and a significant negative correlation with RC2 (r = -.16, p<.05). PAR produced significant positive correlations with RC1 (r = .18, p<.01), RC6 (r = .19, p<.01), RC8 (r = .32, p<.001), and RC9 (r = .15, p<.05). Lastly, REL obtained a significant negative correlation with RC4 (r = -.26, p<.001).


Finally, examination of the partial correlations reveals a similar pattern of significant coefficients between the MMPI-2 RC scales and each of the five ESI dimensions as seen with the zero order correlations. EWB dimension showed significantly negative partial correlations with MMPI-2 RCd (r = -.70, p<.001), RC1 (r = -.43, p<.001), RC2 (r = -.55, p<.001), RC3 (r = -.26, p<.001), RC4 (r =-.25, p<.001), RC6 (r = -.19, p<.01), RC7 (r = -.47, p<.001), and RC8 ( r= -.24, p<.001).

COS generated a significant negative partial correlation with MMPI-2 RC3 (r = -.14, p<.05). EPD generated significant positive partial correlations with RC1 (r=.16, p<.05), RC8 (r = .23, p<.001), and RC9 (r = .13, p<.05). PAR produced significant positive partial correlations with RC6 (r = .17, p<.05) and RC8 (r = .22, p<.001). Lastly, REL obtained a significant negative partial correlation with RC4 (r = -.23, p<.001).Comparison with Basic Clinical Scales

In order to determine if the zero-order correla-tions obtained with the RC scales were markedly different from those obtained with the Basic Clinical scales as reported in MacDonald and Holland (2003), Steiger’s z was calculated comparing the coefficients of Basic Clinical Scales 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 9 to RC scales 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 9 respectively. No calculations were done involving RCd since there is no corresponding scale in the Basic Clinical scale set. Also, Steiger’s z was not calculated for correlations involving RC3 since the scale is reverse keyed compared to its parent scale (i.e., Scale 3- Hysteria) and, as such, the directionality of associations are likely to differ as a result. Considering the coefficients involving ESI Existential Well-Being, the correlations between Scale 4 and RC4 were found to be significantly different (Steiger’s z= -3.35, p<.001; r(scale 4) = -.46; r(RC4)= -.27) as were the correlations between Scale 6 and RC6 (Steiger’s z = -3.96, p<.001; r(scale 6) = -.47; r(RC6) = -.24) and Scale 8 and RC8 (Steiger’s z = -4.22, p<.001; r(scale8) = -.48; r(RC8) = -.26). There were no significant differences found between correlations for all coefficients involving ESI Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality, Experien-tial/Phenomenological Dimension, Paranormal Beliefs, and ESI Religiousness.

Discussion

As expected, all the ESI dimensions both collectively and individually are significantly related to the

MMPI-2 RC scales with each RC scale having a significant relation with at least one ESI dimension. Moreover, ESI Existential Well-Being (EWB) was significantly negatively correlated with all of the MMPI-2 RC scales, with the exception of Hypomanic Activation (RC9). Other negative correlations include: ESI Cognitive Orientation towards Spirituality (COS) and Cynicism (RC3), ESI Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension (EPD) and Low Positive Emotions (RC2), and ESI Religiousness and Antisocial Behavior (RC4). These results are consistent with a vast amount of literature

Table 4. Zero Order, Partial, and Multiple Correlations between ESI Dimensions and MMPI-2 Restructured Clinical (RC) Scale T-scores

ESI DimensionsMMPI-2 RC COS EPD EWB PAR REL Mult.

R

RCd -.14* (-.07)

-.06(-.06)

-.71***(-.70)***

.06(.04)

-.12(.04)

.71***

RC1 .04(-.09)

.20**(.16)*

-.44***(-.43)***

.18**(.07)

.08(.12)

.50***

RC2 -.17**(-.07)*

-.16*(-.13)

-.57***(-.55)***

.03(.05)

-.12(.06)

.59***

RC3 -.13*(-.14)*

-.06(.01)

-.25***(-.26)***

-.05(-.04)

-.03(.11)

.29***

RC4 -.13*(.05)

.00(.00)

-.27***(-.25)***

.13(.10)

-.26***(-.23)***

.38***

RC6 .01(-.11)

.07(.02)

-.24***(-.19)**

.19**(.17)*

.06(.12)

.31***

RC7 -.11(-.02)

-.08(-.10)

-.46***(-.47)***

.04(.06)

-.09(.02)

.47***

RC8 .01(-.12)

.29***(.23)***

-.26***(-.24)***

.32***(.22)***

-.01(.03)

.45***

RC9 .07(-.02)

.20**(.13)*

-.09(-.11)

.15*(-.08)

.03(-.00)

.23*

Note. COS = Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality, EPD = Experiential/ Phenomenological Dimension, EWB = Existential Well-Being, PAR = Paranormal Beliefs, REL = Religiousness. Mult R = Multiple correlation. RCd = Demoralization, RC1 = Somat-ic Complaints, RC2 = Low Positive Emotions, RC3 = Cynicism, RC4 = Antisocial Behavior, RC6 = Persecutory Ideation, RC7 = Dysfunctional Negative Emotions, RC8 = Aberrant Experiences, RC = Hypomanic Activation (RC9). Partial correlations reported in parentheses involved correlating each ESI dimension to each MMPI-2 RC scale after controlling for the other four ESI dimen-sions. *p<.05, **p<.01, ***p<.001.


which suggests that more spiritual individuals are likely to experience higher levels of physical health and psychological well being and less psychopathology and antisocial behavior (Brown, O’Grady, Farrell, Fechner, & Nurco, 2001; Cotton, Larking, Hoopes, Cromer, & Rosenthal, 2005; McCoubrie & Davies, 2006; Miller, 1998; Pargament, 1997).

However, akin to MacDonald and Holland (2003), the results of this investigation also yielded some significant positive correlations between some ESI dimensions and MMPI-2 RC scales. More specifically, the Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension (EPD) was significantly positively correlated with Somatic Complaints (RC1), Aberrant Experiences (RC8), and Hypomanic Activation (RC9). Also, ESI Paranormal Beliefs was significantly positively associated with Persecutory Ideation (RC6) and Aberrant Experiences (RC8), the former of which was consistent with our research expectations based upon past findings with the Basic Clinical Scales. These results are generally in line with what has been reported in the published literature; spiritual experience tends to demonstrate inconsistent associations with measures of psychopathology and belief in the paranormal is more generally linked to higher levels of pathology (MacDonald & Friedman, 2002). When comparing our findings to those of MacDonald and Holland (2003), it appears that with only a few exceptions involving RC3 specifically, the magnitude and directionality of correlations are essentially the same for the RC scales as they are for the Basic Clinical scales. Where significant differences in correlations were found, the most ostensible trend was in the direction of the coefficients being smaller for the RC scales than for the Basic Clinical scales (e.g., with EWB, correlations with RC4, RC6, and RC8 were significantly smaller than with the corresponding Clinical scales). This downward trend in the correlations makes sense since the RC scales were designed with the intent of removing a general distress component that contributed to the Clinical scales being markedly intercorrelated. The resulting effect of partialing out this general variance would be the attenuation of the magnitude of correlations with measures of well-being, including existential well-being. In the case of RC3, different correlations from Scale 3 were produced with both Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality (COS) and the Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension (EPD). In both instances, the coefficients for Scale 3 and

RC3 were in different directions (e.g., Scale 3 correlated positively and RC3 negatively with COS and EPD). This finding does not really come as a surprise since RC3 is comprised of items from Scale 3 that were reverse keyed thereby resulting in a construct that is the opposite of what Scale 3 was originally designed to assess. Also, when one considers the magnitude of the coefficients with both MMPI-2 scales, the effect size can be described as small. By association, these findings are unlikely to hold much import for elucidating the relation of spirituality to specific forms and manifestations of psychopathology. Taken together, the results of this study suggest that the RC scales may be generally viewed as equivalent to the Basic Clinical Scales, offering neither benefit nor liability in the exploration of the relation of spirituality to mental health. With that stated, there do appear to be a number of specific scales within both MMPI-2 scale sets that demonstrate sufficiently substantive associations to spirituality, which would justify not only further empirical investigation but also could serve as the basis for utilizing the MMPI-2 for the identification of problems in functioning that may be associated with spirituality (e.g., spiritual emergency; Grof & Grof, 1990). By substantive associations, we mean correlations of a magnitude of .21 or higher. This follows the suggestion of Butcher et al., (1995, p. 322) who argued that, based upon their own research, correlations .20 or lower generally tend to be uninformative. In particular, with the exceptions of Scale 5 (Masculine-Feminine), Scale 9 (Hypomania), and RC9 (Hypomanic Activation), elevations on the remaining Clinical and RC scales may be associated with diminished existential well-being (e.g., problems finding meaning and purpose in life; perception of self as inefficacious and/or unable to cope with life’s adversities). Elevated scores on Scale 4 (Psychopathic Deviate) or RC4 (Antisocial Behavior) may be indicative of difficulties associated with identification with and/or adherence to an organized faith system (e.g., problems with religious doctrine, practice, or lifestyle). Lastly, elevations on the Clinical scales of Schizophrenia (Scale 8) and Social Introversion (Scale 0) or the RC scale of Aberrant Experiences (RC8) may indicate the presence of non-ordinary experiences and thought patterns associated with the occurrence of spiritual experiences and belief in the paranormal that should garner further attention by clinicians. Based upon the results of this study and MacDonald and Holland (2003), Scale 1 (Hypochondriasis), Scale 6


(Paranoia), RC1 (Somatic Complaints), and RC6 (Ideas of Persecution) also appear to have some relevance to the identification of non-ordinary experiences and beliefs associated with spirituality, though the magnitude of their associations to spiritual variables suggests that the utilization of these scales should be done with some degree of caution.

Elevations on any of the scales named above should prompt health professionals to make deliberate and specific inquiries about their clients’ spirituality through both qualitative (e.g., interview) and quantitative (e.g., standardized assessment instruments) means to ascertain the extent to which problems in spirituality are contributing to dysfunction. A formal and systematic exploration of client spirituality is an absolute necessity since the presence of some its core elements, such as spiritual experiences, is often erroneously assumed by conventional practitioners to reflect serious psychopathology (e.g., psychosis; see Clarke, 2001) when, in many cases, they may simply be a natural manifestation of states of consciousness that have been espoused by transpersonal clinicians and theorists as a human developmental and evolutionary birthright and as an expression of advanced states of health and integration (e.g., Johnson & Friedman, 2008; Grof & Grof, 1990; Wilber, 2000). In fact, we strongly recommend that clinicians consider adopting the approach to the differentiation of conventional pathology from spiritual emergence and spiritual emergency that was devised and thoroughly presented by Grof and Grof (1990), since it is consistent with current diagnostic practices utilized by medical and psychological practitioners and yet is inclusive of transpersonal views of health and pathology. Limitations of the Study

Despite the potential of our results to inform clinical practice and to further an understanding of the linkage of spirituality to psychopathology, our findings should be interpreted with some caution for at least three reasons. First, even though MacDonald and Holland (2003) provided compelling argumentation supporting the utilization of a nonclinical student sample (e.g., see footnote on page 403 of their article), since the MMPI-2 is used primarily with clinical populations, it appears reasonable to conjecture that there may be some constraints on the generalizability of our results to such populations. Replication of this study with samples drawn from a variety of clinical populations is ostensibly needed. Second, we did not adjust significance

levels to account for the increase in statistical Type I error (i.e., finding a significant result because of chance alone) that occurs when a large number of analyses are simultaneously conducted. As such, it is reasonable to conjecture that at least some of our results may be due to chance. This would seem to be most likely with significant correlations that reflect a small effect size (e.g., correlations of absolute magnitude between .13 and .20). Third, research on the relation of spirituality and religion to health has suggested that the association may be at least partially mediated by such factors as social support (e.g., Sternthal, Williams, Musick, & Buck, 2010). Extending from this, future research examining the association of MMPI-2 scale sets to spirituality should try to incorporate potential mediators to see if significant associations with spiritual variables continue to exist.

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About the Authors

Diana M. Mendez, PhD, completed her doctorate in Clinical Psychology at the University of Detroit Mercy. She is currently completing a Behavioral Medicine Postdoctoral Fellowship at the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine Department of Psychiatry. Her professional and research interests include those in the areas of spirituality, trauma, and Latino mental health. Email: [email protected] or [email protected]. Phone: (407) 493-0545., Miami, FL, USA

Douglas A. MacDonald, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Psychology at the University of Detroit Mercy, in

Detroit, Michigan, USA and a licensed psychologist in Ontario, Canada. He has been doing research in the area of spirituality for the past 20 years and is involved in an editorial capacity with a number of scholarly journals. Email [email protected] or [email protected]. Phone: (313) 578-0388, Address: 4001 West McNichols Road, Detroit, MI 48221-3038 USA

About the Journal

The International Journal of Transpersonal Studies is a peer-reviewed academic journal in print since 1981. It is published by Floraglades Foundation, and serves as the official publication of the International Transpersonal Association. The journal is available online at www.transpersonalstudies.org, and in print through www.lulu.com (search for IJTS).

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 11Connecting Spiritual and Emotional Intelligence

Connecting the Spiritual and Emotional Intelligences: Confirming an Intelligence Criterion and Assessing the Role of Empathy

A viable model and self-report measure of spiritual intelligence were previously proposed and supported by King and DeCicco (2009). Despite such advances, evidence is needed demonstrating significant associations with other intelligences. The current study sought to test this criterion in relation to emotional intelligence. Among a sample of 420 Canadian adults, results demonstrated significant associations between spiritual intelligence and two self-report measures of emotional intelligence. Due to the suggestion by some theorists that empathy be included in a model of spiritual intelligence, associations with empathy were also investigated. Results bode well for the inclusion of a spiritual ability set in the broader framework of human intelligence, and further clarify the ways in which these two “alternative” intelligences intersect and digress. Key limitations, including the self-report nature of the current measures, are discussed.


Human intelligence has long been the subject of controversy among psychologists and non-psychologists alike (Cianciolo & Sternberg,

2004). One of the most frequently debated issues is that of multiple intelligences; specifically, whether intelligence is best conceptualized as a single factor (as measured by IQ) or an interrelated set of multiple intelligences. Of those who support the latter position, Howard Gardner (1983) may be the most well-known. His theory of multiple intelligences posits a variety of human ability sets, each representing key domains of human experience, from language to music. Given Gardner’s (1983) supplementary proposition of criteria for intelligence (including a set of interrelated mental abilities as opposed to behavioral tendencies), additional intelligences have since been suggested (Gardner, 1999). Some have received greater consideration than others, particularly those pertaining to the moral, existential, and spiritual domains of existence.

Although myriad interpretations of spiritual intelligence have been proposed in the past decade (e.g., Amram, 2007; Emmons, 2000; Nasel, 2004; Noble, 2000; Vaughan, 2002; Wolman, 2001; Zohar & Marshall, 2000), the notion of a spiritual intelligence has yet to fully satisfy leading intelligence theorists (e.g., Gardner, 1999, 2000; Mayer, Caruso, & Salovey, 2000). Recently, King and DeCicco (2009) have attempted to overcome preceding limitations and comply with popular psychological criteria for intelligence (e.g., Gardner, 1983; Mayer et al., 2000; Sternberg, 1997), defining spiritual intelligence as “a set of mental capacities which contribute to the awareness, integration, and adaptive application of the nonmaterial and transcendent aspects of one’s existence” (p. 69). Four core components have been proposed: (1) the capacity to engage in critical existential thinking, (2) the capacity to construct meaning and purpose in all physical and mental experiences, (3) the capacity to perceive transcendent dimensions of the self,

David B. KingUniversity of British Columbia,

Vancouver, BC, Canada

Constance A. MaraYork University,

Toronto, ON, Canada

Teresa L. DeCiccoTrent University,

Peterborough, ON, Canada

Keywords: intelligence, spiritual intelligence, emotional intelligence, spirituality, emotion, personal meaning, empathy, self-report

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 12 King, Mara, & DeCicco

of others, and of the physical world (e.g., a transcendent self, nonmaterialism, holism, interconnectedness), and (4) the capacity to enter expanded or spiritual states of consciousness at one’s own discretion (King, 2008; King & DeCicco, 2009). This model relied on definitions of spirituality as distinct from (but related to) religiosity (e.g., King, Speck, & Thomas, 2001; Koenig, McCullough, & Larson, 2000; Sinnott, 2002), in order to not limit the construct’s universal application and to delineate it from preferred ways of behaving. The related development of a self-report measure, the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (SISRI-24), has revealed psychometric and statistical support for this four-factor model across two large university samples (King, 2008; King & DeCicco, 2009). Significant inter-subscale correlations have been confirmed (ranging from .42 to .61), supporting established criteria for intelligence (Gardner, 1983; Mayer et al., 2000; Sternberg, 1997). Although preliminary support for construct and criterion-related validity has also been obtained (King & DeCicco, 2009), little is known of the construct’s relationship to other intelligences or ability sets, such as emotional intelligence.

Howard Gardner (1983) claimed that any intelligence should be autonomous and independent of other intelligences. In slight contrast to Gardner, who also suggested that intelligences should demonstrate some degree of association, Sternberg (1988) argued that “an intelligent system has to work together” (p. 78), suggesting that mental self-management would break down if ability sets were truly independent. This tends to be the popular perspective, so that psychometric investigations of interrelationships should reveal low to moderate correlations among intelligences (Mayer et al., 2000). Just as intra-relatedness within ability sets is a widely maintained criterion (Gardner, 1983; Mayer et al., 2000; Sternberg, 1997), inter-relatedness between various intelligences is equally important. As stated by Mayer et al. (2000), an intelligence should “be related to pre-existing intelligences, while also showing some unique variance” (p. 267), reflecting earlier notions of cognitive ability (e.g., Neisser et al., 1996). This repre-sents an important condition that must be met in the validation of a newly proposed intelligence, but has yet to be confirmed in the case of spiritual intelligence.

Although empirical investigations are lacking, Zohar and Marshall (2000) have proposed a model of human intelligence in which spiritual intelligence is positioned at the top of a hierarchy, representing the

brain’s integrative processes (as involved in meaning making, values, and moral reasoning). Below spiritual intelligence are the emotional and social intelligences, reflecting the brain’s associative processes. At the bottom of the hierarchy are the rational intelligences (i.e., verbal, mathematical, spatial, logical) or those that are measured by the intelligence quotient (IQ). With the additional consideration of Gardner’s (1983) bodily-kinesthetic intelligence at the hierarchy’s lowest level, the ensuing model reflects a holistic approach to human intelligence, integrating factors on the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual levels. Although lacking scientific consensus and investigation, it is one of the only theoretical models to date that describes the relationship between the spiritual and emotional intelligences, suggesting that of all the intelligences, emotional intelligence is the most closely linked to a spiritual ability set. In order to confirm the criterion of inter-relatedness among intelligences in the case of spiritual intelligence, an investigation of its association with emotional intelligence is a logical starting point.

Emotional Intelligence

Following Thorndike’s (1920) use of the term social intelligence to describe one’s ability to relate to other

people, emotional intelligence was conceived by Payne (1985) as one’s ability to relate creatively to fear, pain, and desire. The concept was thereafter expanded by Salovey and Mayer (1990) who formulated a model of emotional intelligence based on how people appraise, communicate, and utilize emotions. According to Salovey and Mayer, emotional intelligence is the capacity to both understand emotional information and reason with emotions. It is comprised of four primary abilities: (1) the capacity to accurately perceive emotions, (2) the capacity to use emotions to facilitate thinking, (3) the capacity to understand emotional meanings, and (4) the capacity to manage emotions. Although their linking of emotion and intelligence has been heavily criticized, Mayer and Salovey (1993) argued that many intellectual problems contain emotional information that must also be interpreted and processed. Mayer et al. (2000) have further demonstrated that the Salovey and Mayer (1990) model of emotional intelligence meets the standard criteria for intelligence. A similar model was proposed by Daniel Goleman (1995), who added the capacity to enter and sustain satisfactory interpersonal relationships.

The measurement of emotional intelligence varies greatly across studies. Emotional task performance


is often considered the most reliable indicator, as it measures one’s emotional intelligence during its real-time manifestation. Emotional perception, for example, is usually measured using a series of emotional recognition tasks, in which participants are asked to identify emotions in a series of faces (Mayer et al., 2000). In contrast, written self-report questionnaires can be used to determine one’s perceived emotional intelligence, the score from which is often referred to as one’s emotional quotient (EQ). Although some have interpreted the finding that self-report measures of EQ are poorly related to performance tests (Brackett & Mayer, 2003; Goldenberg, Matheson, & Mantler, 2006) as suggesting a weakness in self-reports, this remains to be confirmed. Nevertheless, self-report measures have proven valuable to researchers in their affordability and efficiency, as some studies simply cannot accommodate performance-based testing. Of the self-report measures developed thus far, the Trait Meta-Mood Scale (TMMS; Salovey, Mayer, Goldman, Turvey, & Palfai, 1995) is one of the most widely employed. The TMMS measures three key components of intrapersonal emotional intelligence: attention to feelings, clarity, and repair (including emotional regulation). Other popular self-report measures include the Assessing Emotions Scale (AES; Schutte et al., 1998), which is also based on Salovey and Mayer’s (1990) model, and the Bar-On Emotional Quotient Inventory (Bar-On, 1997).Empathy

In their original model, Salovey and Mayer (1990) noted the important role of empathy in emotional intelligence, suggesting that empathy was a critical aspect in the appraisal of others’ emotions. Although previously regarded as a dispositional tendency, the authors defined empathy as “the ability to comprehend another’s feelings and to re-experience them oneself” (p. 194). Similarly, Goleman (1995) recommended the ability to read and be sensitive to others’ emotions as a key component of emotional intelligence, reflecting Gardner’s (1983) suggestion that individuals in the helping professions (e.g., therapists) demonstrate a high level of interpersonal intelligence. Indeed empathy appears to be an established facet of emotional intelligence, as it is also measured by items on the AES (Schutte et al., 1998) and the Bar-On Emotional Quotient Inventory (Bar-On, 1997). Such inclusion is somewhat intuitive, given that empathy requires the recognition and accurate identification of emotional responses in others (Mayer et al., 1990). Nevertheless, Caruso and Mayer (1998) developed a self-

report measure of emotional empathy for adolescents and adults, intended for the broader and multifaceted measure of empathy alone.

Despite theoretical recommendations, recent theorists (e.g., Amram, 2007; Amram & Dryer, 2007; Noble, 2000; Vaughan, 2002) have alternatively posited empathy as an integral part of spiritual intelligence. Noble (2000), for example, described empathy as a hallmark of spiritual intelligence, which was more recently supported by Amram’s (2007) inclusion of empathy in the transcendence theme of his spiritual intelligence model. Vaughan (2002) further suggested that cultivating empathy was an important part of developing one’s inner spiritual life, essentially connecting the emotional and spiritual ability sets. This perspective leaves a third possibility: that in addition to empathy as an exclusive component of either emotional or spiritual intelligence, it may be a factor that is common to both constructs. Although theory and research on emotional intelligence seem to confirm empathy as a key component, newly emerging theoretical models of spiritual intelligence beg for this issue to be clarified. It is equally possible that a high capacity for empathy is simply a correlate of spiritual intelligence, potentially representing an adaptive outcome of the construct. This would reflect recent path analyses by Huber and MacDonald (2011), which suggest that empathy is a product of spiritual development, particularly nonreligious experiences of self-transcendence. With the advent of a self-report measure of spiritual intelligence, the SISRI-24, a more precise examination of the relationship between spiritual intelligence and empathy is now possible.

Current Study

To date, no study has investigated the relationship between the spiritual and emotional intelligences.

Given the recent boom in interest in a spiritual intelligence (e.g., Amram, 2007; Emmons, 2000; King, 2008; King & DeCicco, 2009; Noble, 2000; Vaughan, 2002; Zohar & Marshall, 2000), as well as established theoretical guidelines regarding the interrelationship of multiple intelligences (Mayer et al., 2000; Sternberg, 1988), examining spiritual and emotional intelligence together is a critical step in the theoretical and statistical investigation of this emerging construct. The initial purpose of this study was to investigate the strength of the relationship between these two intelligences. Because no performance measure of spiritual intelligence exists, self-report measures of emotional intelligence


were deemed most appropriate in order to offer a methodologically valid comparison of the constructs. Based on recommendations by Mayer et al. (2000), it was hypothesized that a low to moderate positive correlation would be observed between the emotional and spiritual intelligences, confirming the additional intelligence criterion of inter-relatedness among intelligences.

This study also sought to bring clarity to the issue of empathy as a potential component of spiritual intelligence. Empathy was not a clearly defined compo-nent of Salovey and Mayer’s (1990) original model of emotional intelligence, which led to its absence in King and DeCicco’s (2009) model of spiritual intelligence. Its absence in this model was also supported by the lack of broader definitions and conceptualizations of spirituality which include focused discussions of empathy. Nevertheless, empathy has been proposed by some theorists as relating to a spiritual ability set (e.g., Amram, 2007; Amram & Dryer, 2007; Noble, 2000; Vaughan, 2002). Method

The current study aimed to investigate the relationship between empathy and spiritual intelligence, with the expectation that empathy would display a correlation of comparatively greater size and strength with emotional intelligence, reflecting Salovey and Mayer’s (1990) original model. In particular, both the AES (Schutte et al., 1998) and the TMMS (Salovey et al., 1995) were employed as measures of emotional intelligence in the current study. The TMMS is strictly a measure of intrapersonal emotional capacities, thereby avoiding overlap between this measure and one of empathy (which is interpersonal). For similar reasons, items directly measuring empathic abilities on the AES were not considered when examining the scale’s association with a separate measure of empathy. The lack of sufficient research and theory on empathy’s relationship with spiritual intelligence prevented further speculation on this association. Examining empathy in the current study will aid in clarifying the relationship between the spiritual and emotional intelligences, adding to an understanding of how these two “alternative” intelligences intersect and/or digress. Participants. Respondents were 420 (322 female, 98 male) adults, the majority of whom (n = 362) were Canadian university students enrolled in undergraduate psychology courses at Trent University and Durham College in Ontario, Canada. The study

was advertised to these students in their classes and as part of the psychology participant research pool. The remaining 58 participants were from the community and responded to advertisements at local community centers. No significant differences were observed between these two groups (university and community) on any of the included measures, although related conclusions were limited by the lack of comparable sample sizes. The mean age of participants was 26.3 years (SD = 10.76, range = 18 – 81). Measures. Measures used included the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory, the Trait Meta Mood Scale, the Assession Emotions Scale, and the Multi-Dimensional Emotional Empathy Scale.

Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (SISRI-24; King, 2008; King & DeCicco, 2009). The SISRI is a 24-item (α = .94 in the current sample) self-report measure of spiritual intelligence. It is comprised of four subscales: critical existential thinking (i.e., the ability to critically contemplate existential issues such as life, death, reality, and existence), measured by 7 items (α = .85); personal meaning production (i.e., the ability to construct meaning and purpose in all physical and mental experiences), measured by 5 items (α = .84); transcendental awareness (i.e., the capacity to perceive transcendent dimensions of the self, of others, and of the physical world), measured by 7 items (α = .89); and conscious state expansion (i.e., the capacity to enter expanded or spiritual states of consciousness at one’s own discretion), measured by 5 items (α = .92). Item responses ranged on a 5-point Likert scale from 0 (“not at all true of me”) to 4 (“completely true of me”), with higher responses representing higher levels of spiritual intelligence. A total spiritual intelligence score can be calculated by summing across all subscales, with a total range of 0 to 96. Preliminary support for test-retest reliability and both construct and criterion-related validity has been obtained (King & DeCicco, 2009).

Trait Meta Mood Scale (TMMS; Salovey et al., 1995). The TMMS is a 30-item (α = .86 in the current sample) self-report measure of intrapersonal emotional intelligence. It is designed to measure one’s perceived ability to regulate and manage emotions. Participants rate their perceived ability on a 5-point Likert scale from 1 (“strongly disagree”) to 5 (“strongly agree”), with higher scores indicating higher emotional intelligence (total range = 33-165). The measure includes three subscales: attention to feelings (i.e., how aware one


is of one’s own moods), measured by 13 items (α = .80); clarity of feelings (i.e., the ability to differentiate one’s mood states), measured by 11 items (α = .86); and mood repair (i.e., the ability to maintain good moods and repair negative mood states), measured by 6 items (α = .30). These subscales were examined in the current study to more accurately account for the potential interrelationship between spiritual intelligence and emotional intelligence. Reliability and discriminant validity for each of the subscales were reported by Salovey et al. (1995).

Assessing Emotions Scale (AES; Schutte et al., 1998). Given that this was the first empirical investigation of the relationship between the emotional and spiritual intelligences, multiple measures of emotional intelligence were included in the current study in order to increase confidence in observed relationships. The AES is a 33-item (α = .90 in the current sample) self-report measure of emotional intelligence and includes indicators of emotional awareness, management, and problem-solving (both intra- and interpersonal). This scale was designed to reflect Mayer and Salovey’s (1993) model of emotional intelligence, and has been found to be a valid and reliable measure of the construct (Austin, Saklofske, Huang, & McKenny, 2004; Schutte et al., 1998). Respondents rate how well the items describe them using a 5-point Likert scale from 1 (“strongly disagree”) to 5 (“strongly agree”), with higher scores indicating higher emotional intelligence (total range = 33-165). Schutte et al. (1998) reported positive correlations between the AES and the TMMS, supporting the construct validity of both measures of emotional intelligence.

in a total empathy score due to a lack of theoretical insight regarding these subscales and their relationship with other variables of interest. Good reliability and validity of the EES were reported by Caruso and Mayer (1998). When examining the relationship between the Assessing Emotions Scale and the Emotional Empathy Scale, one item (“When another person tells me about an important event in his or her life, I almost feel as though I have experienced this event myself.”) was removed from the AES so as to avoid overlap (and therefore potential inflation of results) between the two scales. Procedure

University IRB approval was granted prior to all data collection. Participation took place online (using a secure SSL enabled server on http://www.surveymonkey.com) at the convenience of participants and required approximately 30 minutes. Each participant was asked to read a consent form prior to participation ensuring confidentiality and the right to withdraw at any time without penalty. Retyping one’s name following this consent form and clicking “I agree” was interpreted as providing consent to participate in the study. Basic demographic information (age, sex) was collected first, followed by the other aforementioned questionnaires.

Results

Descriptive statistics for all measures, as well as subscales of interest to the current study, are

presented in Table 1. The current sample reported relatively moderate levels of spiritual intelligence and its components, with the exception of conscious state expansion, the mean of which was comparatively lower.

Table 1. Means, Standard Deviations, and Observed Ranges for Key Measures and Relevant SubscalesMeasure: Variable N M (SD) RangeSISRI-24: Total Spiritual Intelligence 402 59.23 (18.68) 18-114SISRI-24: Critical Existential Thinking 402 178.99 (6.57) 1-35

SISRI-24: Personal Meaning Production 402 13.19 (4.21) 2-25SISRI-24: Transcendental Awareness 402 19.11 (6.05) 2-35SISRI-24: Conscious State Expansion 402 8.94 (5.26) 0-25AES: Total Emotional Intelligence 402 128.43 (13.93) 65-164TMMS: Total Intrapersonal Intelligence 103 113.82 (12.39) 81-141TMMS: Emotional Attention 103 51.00 (6.38) 30-63TMMS: Emotional Clarity 103 41.58 (6.43) 24-54TMMS: Emotional Repair 103 21.23 (2.85) 14-27EES: Emotional Empathy 103 119.35 (12.74) 79-145

M u l t i - D i m e n s i o n a l Emotional Empathy Scale (EES; Caruso & Mayer, 1998). The Emotional Empathy Scale is a 30-item (α = .87 in the current sample) self-report measure of emotional empathy. Participants rate their perceived ability on a 5-point Likert scale from 1 (“strongly disagree”) to 5 (“strongly agree”), with higher scores indicating greater empathic tendencies (total range = 33-165). Although six subscales have been proposed and supported (including suffering, positive sharing, responsive crying, emotional attention, feeling for others, and emotional contagion), the current study was primarily interested


Participants scored somewhat higher on the remaining measures overall, with moderate-to-high sample means on the Assessing Emotions Scale (AES), the Trait Meta Mood Scale (TMMS), and the Emotional Empathy Scale (EES).

Bivariate correlational analyses (see Table 2) revealed significant correlations in the low to moderate range between the Assessing Emotions Scale and both total and subscale scores on the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (rs = .25-.49). Weaker and less consistent correlations were observed between the TMMS and scores on the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (SISRI-24), with the critical existential thinking and conscious state expansion subscales demonstrating no significant relationships with the TMMS whatsoever. The correlation between the SISRI-24 and the TMMS was also lower than that between the SISRI-24 and the AES (r = .26 and .40, respectively). Of the TMMS subscales, total SISRI-24 scores only correlated significantly with emotional attention (r = .30), accompanied by varying and inconsistent correlations among SISRI-24 subscales and TMMS subscales. The correlation between the TMMS and the AES was higher (r = .59) than that between the SISRI-24 and either emotional intelligence measure (rs = .40 and .26 respectively for the AES and TMMS). The EES, on the other hand, displayed no significant correlations with either total or subscale scores on the SISRI-24, which is in contrast to the scale’s significant correlations (of equal size; rs = .37) with both the AES

and the TMMS. The emotional attention subscale of the TMMS was the most highly related to the EES (r = .47), while emotional clarity displayed no significant relationship with empathy.

Discussion

With regard to a spiritual intelligence, the current study offers the first empirical support for the

additional intelligence criterion of interrelatedness among intelligences, at least as the construct relates to emotional intelligence. This lends further support to the construct validity of the SISRI-24 (King & DeCicco, 2009) and, more generally, to the theoretical model of spiritual intelligence on which it was based. Both measures of emotional intelligence, the AES and the TMMS, displayed significant positive correlations with the SISRI-24 in the low-to-moderate range. These were comparatively lower than the correlation observed between the two emotional intelligence measures. This supports earlier suggestions by Sternberg (1988) and Mayer et al. (2000), who suggested that psychometric investigations of interrelationships should reveal low to moderate correlations among intelligences. Interestingly, a comparatively stronger correlation was revealed between the SISRI and the AES, a measure of both intrapersonal and interpersonal aspects of emotional intelligence. This may have occurred due to the ability of the AES to more accurately capture the full spectrum of emotional intelligence (versus the more limited intrapersonal focus of the TMMS), thereby resulting in a somewhat larger and more significant correlation with spiritual

Table 2. Bivariate Correlations among Key Measures and Relevant SubscalesMeasure: Variable 6 7 8 9 10 11

SISRI-24: Total Spiritual Intelligence (1) .40*** .26* .30** .11 .18 .14

SISRI-24: Critical Existential Thinking (2) .25*** .07 .17 -.06 .06 .12SISRI-24: Personal Meaning Production (3) .49*** .43*** .31** .35*** .41*** .17SISRI-24: Transcendental Awareness (4) .35*** .28** .37*** .12 .13 .12SISRI-24: Conscious State Expansion (5) .31*** .11 .17 .01 .07 .05

AES: Total Emotional Intelligence (6) — .59*** .39*** .51*** .52*** .37***TMMS: Total Intrapersonal Intelligence (7) — — — — — .37***TMMS: Emotional Attention (8) — — — — — .47***TMMS: Emotional Clarity (9) — — — — — .14TMMS: Emotional Repair (10) — — — — — .24*EES: Emotional Empathy (11) — — — — — —Note. N = 402 for correlations between the SISRI and the AES. N = 103 for all other correlations. *p < .05, **p < .01, *** p < .001

intelligence. Although the precise reason cannot be determined from this study, correlations with both emotional intelligence measures support the intelligence criterion proposed by Mayer et al. (2000), which had not previously met empirical investigation, and lend additional support to spiritual intelligence as a valid component of human intelligence.

Of the com-ponents of spiritual


intelligence, personal meaning production correlated most strongly with both measures of emotional intelligence. This observation may reflect the intimate connection between emotion and meaning, as it has been suggested that personal meaning arises from the reflection on and integration of one’s emotional experiences (Greenberg, 2006). It is speculated that this is one key point of intersection between the spiritual and emotional intelligences. Specifically, it is proposed that one’s ability to construct personal meaning may aid in the organization of one’s emotions and, alternatively, that one’s ability to accurately perceive and interpret emotions contributes to more efficient meaning making, at least as it relates to emotional experience. This would also appear to hold true on a strictly intrapersonal level, given that personal meaning production was the only component of spiritual intelligence to be consistently related to all three factors on the Trait Meta Mood Scale (i.e., attention, clarity, and repair). Of these, meaning production was most strongly related to emotional repair, extending support to the notion that the ability to make meaning is intimately tied to the ability to make sense of one’s emotional experiences. Although not dependent, these capacities are likely reciprocal, in so much that they each contribute to the development of the other. These findings may further speak to the adaptive potential of a spiritual ability set.

All components of spiritual intelligence related significantly to emotional intelligence to some extent, at least as measured by the AES. A similar pattern did not emerge for the TMMS, which displayed significant relationships with personal meaning production and transcendental awareness only. Of the TMMS subscales, transcendental awareness correlated significantly with emotional attention. This association is likely related to the theoretical definitions (and their accompanying operationalizations) of these two capacities, both of which focus on abilities of perception and awareness. In particular, transcendental awareness includes the ability to perceive a transcendent or transpersonal self (what has been called a spiritual center), for which the perception of one’s emotions is surely a supporting factor. This may be a second key point of intersection between the spiritual and emotional intelligences.

Empathy, on the other hand, displayed no significant relationships with either spiritual intelligence or any of its components, supporting its recent exclusion from a model of spiritual intelligence (King, 2008; King

& DeCicco, 2009). This is in contrast to suggestions made by Amram and Dryer (2007) and Noble (2000), who implicated empathy as an aspect of spiritual intelligence. These authors did not place their theories of spiritual intelligence within a broader intelligence framework, rather focusing only on experiential information and literature on spirituality. As a result, established criteria for intelligence were overlooked and spiritual intelligence was left as a broader reframing of spirituality. Although additional evidence is needed to fully explore a potential relationship between empathy and spiritual intelligence, current findings suggest that empathy is not related to the construct, further limiting its potential as an adaptive outcome of this ability set. Empathy was, however, significantly related to both measures of emotional intelligence in the current study, confirming its appropriate involvement in models of emotional intelligence (e.g., Salovey & Mayer, 1990). These findings also support the second hypothesis, which suggested that empathy would display a correlation of comparatively greater size and strength with emotional intelligence. These findings help to clarify recent suggestions in the spiritual intelligence literature, and further cast doubt on empathy’s ability to connect the spiritual and emotional intelligences, as was suggested by Vaughan (2002). Indeed, current findings suggest that empathy is exclusive to the emotional capacities. While findings by Huber and MacDonald (2011) posit empathy as a product of spirituality, a distinction between spirituality and spiritual intelligence may explain these differential relationships.

This study attempted to broaden the scope of data collection beyond a university undergraduate sample, gathering additional responses from a small community-dwelling non-student population. Although future studies should attempt to replicate findings in larger and exclusively community-based samples, the current lack of statistical distinction between the two groups is promising in regards to generalizability. Clark and Watson (1995) have claimed, for instance, that student populations serve as appropriate participant pools for scale development. Nonetheless, readers are cautioned against generalizing current findings until such research has validated these relationships in non-university samples. All participants were also Canadian, resulting in the ongoing need for cross-cultural research on spiritual intelligence and its assessment. More equalized samples of male and female participants would further facilitate meaningful analyses of sex differences.


Statistically speaking, the current study may be perceived as lacking complexity. Although the statistical methods employed (i.e., correlations) may be very basic, they were the most suitable tools for examining the intelligence criterion suggested by Mayer et al. (2000). The value of meeting this criterion, however statistically simple, should not be underestimated. One of the primary difficulties in establishing spiritual intelligence as a valid construct worth scientific consideration is its seemingly inherent opposition to the basic notion of human intelligence (see Gardner’s [2000] criticisms for more explanation). The model proposed by King and DeCicco (2009) attempted to overcome this opposition by offering a universal model of spiritual intelligence free of particular religious or cultural viewpoints and/or terminology. The current correlational analyses add greatly to the support for the validity of this model (and a spiritual intelligence more generally), for they suggest that spiritual intelligence is not some obscure esoteric concept that has no place in the intelligence literature; rather, spiritual intelligence appears to be connected to at least one other established intellectual component of the human mind, implicating it in the larger contemporary conceptualization of human intelligence. This is a noteworthy step in the validation of this construct.

The greatest limitation of the current body of research may be the use of self-report measures of intelligence. As was noted (King & DeCicco, 2009), no performance-based measure of spiritual intelligence currently exists. Although there is evidence to suggest that performance-based measures of intelligence are more valid than self-report measures (Brackett & Mayer, 2003; Goldenberg et al., 2006), too little is understood about spiritual intelligence to develop performance-based measures at this time. Indeed, such a task is reasonably easier when it comes to the verbal and mathematical abilities, for which objective criteria are well established. Nevertheless, as King and DeCicco (2009) have previously recommended, future research should strive to develop performance-based measures of the construct as additional information is gathered. Nevertheless, given the likelihood of self-report biases, the current body of research should be interpreted with caution and viewed as a step towards better understanding the viability of spiritual intelligence as an independent psychological construct.

Although Zohar and Marshall’s (2000) hierarchical model posits spiritual intelligence above

emotional intelligence, the current study was unable to confirm such ranking in terms of associative mental processes. Nevertheless, the current study does not negate such a relationship, as a moderate association does appear to exist between the two intelligences. Future research should investigate the relationship between spiritual intelligence and more traditional forms of intelligence, such as verbal intelligence, mathematical intelligence, and IQ more generally, in order to extend support for the interrelatedness criterion. Based on Zohar and Marshall’s model, one would expect spiritual intelligence to demonstrate comparatively stronger associations with emotional intelligence. From a conceptual perspective, the connection between the spiritual and emotional intelligences has been somewhat illuminated by the current findings. Personal meaning production and transcendental awareness were revealed as potentially key points of intersection between these two intelligences, while empathy appears to be a point of divergence. While these results bode well for the inclusion of a spiritual ability set in the broader framework of human intelligence, they do so from the potentially limited perspective of self-report measures. Further investigation, including that of a clinical nature, is needed to more accurately estimate the presence and/or constitution of a spiritual intelligence.

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About the Authors David King, MSc, completed his Master’s degree at Trent University and is currently a PhD student at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada. His general areas of interest include health, stress and coping, spirituality, and dreams. Correspondence con-cerning this article should be addressed to David B. King, Department of Psychology, University of British Columbia, 2136 West Mall, Vancouver, British Columbia, V6T 1Z4. E-mail: [email protected] k Constance A. Mara, BSc, MA, is a graduate student in quantitative psychology at York University. Her research interests focus on equivalence testing, structural equation modeling, longitudinal data analysis, and testing statistical mediation, with applied interests in social and personality psychology.

Teresa L. DeCicco, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Psychology at Trent University and Principle Investigator at The University of Pisa, Italy and The University of United Arab Emerits, UAE. Her major areas of interest are dream content and dream therapy as linked to waking life.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 21Scale for Existential Thinking

The Scale for Existential Thinking

This study introduced the construct of existential thinking, which we defined as the tendency to explore the fundamental concerns of human existence and the capacity to engage in a meaning-making process that locates oneself in respect to these issues. We also assessed the psychometric properties of the 11-item “Scale for Existential Thinking” (SET). In two studies, we found the SET to have unidimensional factor structure and good reliability diagnostics in both student and adult samples. Moreover, the SET showed construct validity by correlating with meaning in life, curiosity, and other existential variables. Furthermore, we found meaning in life to mediate the relation of existential thinking and existential well-being, which supports our conceptualization of existential thinking as a meaning-making process.


Engaging with the fundamental questions of existence, such as the meaning of life and what happens after death, is a universal human

experience, and most people have formed beliefs around existential issues. Furthermore, the ability to consider and make sense of ultimate issues is valued in every culture, especially in areas such as philosophy, the arts, theoretical science, and religion (Gardner, 1999), and several scholars have discussed the psychotherapeutic benefit of addressing existential issues (Frankl, 1963; Spinelli, 2005; Yalom, 1980). Therefore, considering existential issues and making sense of one’s existence may be important for optimal human functioning. However, people differ considerably in how often they contemplate these core issues, and modern psychology would benefit from a measure of existential thinking that would allow us to assess its effects and correlates. Therefore, this study aimed to explore the concept of existential thinking and examine the reliability and validity of the Scale for Existential Thinking (SET).

The idea that people possess differing capabilities to explore and understand existential issues arose from research investigating multiple forms of intelligence. In his book Intelligence Reframed, Howard Gardner (1999),

who had earlier proposed eight multiple intelligences, suggested a new intelligence: existential intelligence. Existential intelligence was a candidate for inclusion as a ninth intelligence, and Gardner (1983/2004) evaluated its fit with the eight criteria needed to be considered an intelligence. Although Gardner asserted that existential intelligence fit well with the criteria, evidence was too sparse to endorse its addition as a multiple intelligence. Therefore, we use the term existential thinking in place of existential intelligence. Gardner (1999) defined existential intelligence as the tendency, “to be con-cerned with ‘ultimate’ issues of life, …to engage in transcendental concerns…[and] the capacity to locate oneself with respect to the furthest reaches of the cosmos—the infinite no less than the infinitesimal—and the related capacity to locate oneself with respect to the most existential features of the human condition—the significance of life, the meaning of death, the ultimate fate of the physical and the psychological worlds, such profound experiences as love of another human being or total immersion in a work of art” (Gardner, 1999, p. 60).

Several aspects of this definition are worthy of note. Existential is used here in the sense of pertaining

Blake A. AllanUniversity of FloridaGainesville, FL, USA

C. Branton ShearerMultiple Intelligence Research and Consulting, Inc.

Kent, OH, USA

Keywords: existential psychology, spirituality, religiousness, meaning in life, well-being

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 22 Allan & Shearer

to existence, rather than existential in the philosophical sense. Therefore, existential thinking has to do with considering issues related to one’s personal existence. Gardner (1999) referred to these issues as ultimate and transcendental, which describes concerns above and beyond superficial matters. These ultimate concerns involve one’s relation to the grand organization of the cosmos, such as the nature of reality, as well as the most fundamental, inescapable parts of the human condition, such as the meaning of life and the inevitability of death (Yalom, 1980). In this way, existential thinking is concerned with aspirations beyond the self (Hartelius, Caplan, & Rardin, 2007).

However, Gardner (1999) asserted that existen-tial thinking also involves locating oneself in respect to existential issues. This implies that existential thinking includes a process whereby people determine their personal relationships to, and make meaning out of, larger existential issues. As described by Spinelli (2005), all people derive meaning from their lived experiences and reactions to stimuli in the world. In this way, meanings are tied to the individual, because they are constructed relationally. Similarly, existential thinking involves engaging with the ultimate concerns of the human condition and establishing meaning between these issues and oneself. For instance, when made to reflect on their deaths, people tend to report a greater sense of gratitude (Frias, Watkins, Webber, & Froh, 2011). Frias et al. (2011) explained that when people confront their mortality they see life as a limited and valuable resource, which increases their gratitude for their own life. In this example, people create meaning from their engagement with an existential issue (i.e., death) and apply it to themselves. However, since meanings are relational and constructed, they cannot be permanent or final (Spinelli, 2005). Similarly, as explained by Gardner (1999), existential thinking does not presuppose an ultimate truth or end point but instead describes a process of engagement with existential concerns. Therefore, following from Gardner’s definition of existential intelligence and the discussion above, we define existential thinking as the tendency to engage with ultimate concerns and the capacity to carry out a meaning-making process that locates oneself in relation to these existential issues.

This raises the question as to how existential thinking fits with other existential and transpersonal constructs in the literature. Psychologists have devel-

oped many measures concerned with one’s personal relationship to existential issues. Many of these have assessed the degree to which people have meaning in their lives (e.g., Schulenberg, Schnetzer, & Buchanan, 2011; Steger, Frazier, Oishi, & Kaler, 2006), which has also been measured within a number of spiritual and transpersonal constructs (MacDonald & Friedman, 2002). Other existential constructs have measured emotional-existential states, such as existential well-being, existential guilt, existential anxiety, and death anxiety (Cohen, Mount, Strobel, & Bui, 1995; Templer, 1970; Weems, Costa, Dehon, & Berman, 2004). Other measures have examined existential beliefs and values, such as the nature of reality (Narasimhan, Bhaskar, & Prakhya, 2010). Finally, more comprehensive assessments have measured the entirety of one’s existential status in the world (Reker & Peacock, 1981; Thorne, 1973). For example, Reker & Peacock’s (1981) Life Attitudes Profile measures life purpose, existential vacuum, life control, death acceptance, will to meaning, goal seeking, and future meaning to fulfill. However, none of these measures have directly assessed the degree to which people engage with existential issues. Perhaps the closest construct to existential thinking is existential quest. Existential quest is the willingness of people to reexamine and change their existential beliefs (Van Pachterbeke, Keller, & Saroglou, 2012). While similar to existential thinking, existential quest measures the flexibility of one’s existential belief system, rather than one’s tendency to consider existential issues.

Existential thinking has also been considered in relation to another of Gardner’s (2000) proposed intelligences: spiritual intelligence. Authors have evaluated and defined spiritual intelligence in multiple ways (Emmons, 2000; King & DeCicco, 2009; Vaughan, 2002; Wolman, 2001). Emmons (2000) referred to spiritual intelligence as the ability to achieve transcendence, attain higher states of consciousness, sanctify everyday experiences, use spiritual resources, and engage in virtuous behavior. Others have defined spiritual intelligence as “the human capacity to ask ultimate questions about the meaning of life, and to simultaneously experience the seamless connection between each of us and the world in which we live” (Wolman, 2001, pp. 83-84), and as “a capacity for a deep understanding of existential questions and insight into multiple levels of consciousness” (Vaughan, 2002, p. 19). King and DeCicco (2009) described spiritual intelli-


gence as “a set of mental capacities which contribute to the awareness, integration, and adaptive application of the nonmaterial and transcendent aspects of one’s existence, leading to such outcomes as deep existential reflection, enhancement of meaning, recognition of a transcendent self, and mastery of spiritual states” (p. 69). These definitions contain aspects of existential thinking, from asking ultimate questions to understanding existential issues deeply. However, unlike our conceptualization of existential thinking, these definitions of spiritual intelligence also include an experiential component that references expanded states of consciousness.

Indeed, Gardner (2000) rejected the inclusion of spiritual intelligence as one of the multiple intelligences within his model due to its emphasis on the attainment of affective and phenomenological states and its possible implication that certain spiritual truths or paths are correct. In contrast, existential thinking does not necessarily have an end goal or state, making it a more inclusive construct. For example, if one considers the Dalai Lama and Carl Sagan, only the Dalai Lama would be considered high in spiritual intelligence, while both would be considered high in existential thinking. In addition, although much of transpersonal psychology focuses on transcendent states of consciousness, it is often defined more broadly to include relevant behaviors and theory, which are perhaps more amenable to quantitative inquiry (MacDonald & Friedman, 2002). Regardless, when considering the discussion above, spiritual intelligence and existential thinking appear to be separate yet overlapping constructs (Halama & Strizenec, 2004). Despite this, no studies have compared these variables directly.

Just as existential thinking relates to spiritual intelligence, it may also relate to religiosity. In a recent review, la Cour and Hvidt (2010) suggested that spiritual, religious, and secular domains are separate but overlapping approaches to meaning-making. Examples of secular approaches to meaning-making include Yalom’s (1980) ultimate concerns and Frankl’s (1963) will to meaning. These ideas are part of a tradition of existential psychology that attempt to locate humanity in relationship to ultimate issues. This may suggest that existential thinking is primarily associated with secular thinking. However, since existential thinking is simply a process of considering existential issues and engaging in meaning-making, it should occur in secular, religious, and spiritual domains. Moreover, existential

thinking would be likely to occur within religions, which are frameworks for meaning-making that supply global beliefs, general goals, situational meanings, and coherence to beliefs about ultimate issues (Simpson, 2002; Wortmann & Park, 2009). Specifically, religions may provide meanings and explanations for existential concerns. However, the degree to which people are invested in their religions may be more relevant for existential thinking. Particularly, existential thinking may be associated with intrinsic religiosity, which refers to a personal commitment to one’s religion, and thereby increase time spent considering existential issues and engaging in meaning-making (Gorsuch & McPherson, 1989). For example, meaning-making coping strategies mediate the relationship between religiousness and psychological well-being (Park, 2005). Therefore, we expect existential thinking and religiosity to be separate yet overlapping constructs.

If existential thinking involves a meaning-making process, it may be a critical part of understanding how people establish, discover, or maintain a sense of meaning in their lives. However, two distinctions are needed to hypothesize about this process. First, Steger et al. (2006) distinguished between the presence of and the search for meaning in life. The presence of meaning in life reflects a felt sense that one’s life has purpose, and the search for meaning reflects a quest to find meaning in life. Existential thinking likely overlaps with the search for meaning, because people who are looking for purpose and meaning in life would logically spend more time contemplating their life purpose or the meaning of life in general. However, Steger, Dik, and Duffy (in press) also distinguished between making sense of one’s life and feeling that one’s life is meaningful. These do not always go together. For example, a person could understand existence as a fortunate outcome of blind, impersonal evolution, which might make life seem ultimately meaningless. In our conceptualization, existential thinking primarily involves making sense of one’s existence (Spinelli, 2005), which is what we refer to as meaning-making. However, this may only translate to life purposes or the felt experience of life’s meaningfulness in some circumstances. For example, for some individuals, awareness of one’s death can increase perceptions of meaning in life (Taubman-Ben-Ari, 2011). Taking these distinctions into consideration, existential thinking is likely related to both the search for and the presence of meaning in life.


Furthermore, if existential thinking is related to the presence of meaning in life in some situations, it may also relate to well-being. Several existential psychologists have suggested that addressing existential concerns is central to well-being, especially because doing so can create a sense of meaning in life (Frankl, 1963; Koehn, 1986; Spinelli, 2005; Yalom, 1980). Despite this, the literature exploring the relationship of existential thinking to mental health is essentially non-existent (la Cour & Hvidt, 2010). However, scholars have consistently linked the presence of meaning in life to well-being variables, such as self-esteem, life satisfaction, and lack of depression (e.g., Reker, 1997; Steger et al., 2006). Therefore, existential thinking may relate to well-being through the presence of meaning in life.Initial Scale Development

The goal of the following two studies was to assess the reliability and construct validity of the Scale for Existential Thinking (SET) and examine the relathionship between existential thinking and other variables of interest. The SET was developed by Shearer (2006) in three studies. Shearer used the approach employed for the Multiple Intelligences Developmental Assessment Scales (MIDAS), which is an established, reliable, and valid measure of the multiple intelligences (Shearer, 2005, 2006; Wiswell, Hardy, & Reio, 2001; Wu, 2007; Yoong, 2001). In Study 1, Shearer used four domains of existential inquiry (Religious, Philosophical, Artistic, and Scientific) to generate items, which were reviewed by experts, including Gardner. The new 14-item measure was tested on a small group of teachers and students. Shearer found two primary factors representing existential thinking applied to philosophical concerns, and existential thinking applied to the self. In Study 2, Shearer recruited a large sample (N = 584) of participants ranging from teenagers to adults. He found a one-factor solution was the best fit for the entire sample. In Study 3, Shearer replicated results from his previous two studies. He also found the SET to have a test-retest reliability of .91. These studies found the SET to have internal consistencies ranging from a = .88 to a = .94. Shearer recommended that three items be removed due to redundancy, item missingness, and low item-scale correlations. This resulted in the current, 11-item scale.

Study 1

Study 1 had two main goals. First, we intended to assess the psychometric properties and factor structure of

the SET in a student population. Given that the current

version of the SET had not been formally assessed, these analyses were largely exploratory. Second, we examined convergent validity of the SET by correlating the scale to a number of theoretically related variables, including demographics and measures of intrinsic religiousness, life satisfaction, the search for meaning in life, and the presence of meaning in life. Given existential thinking’s theoretical relationship to religiosity (la Cour & Hvidt, 2010) and meaning in life (Gardner, 1999; Spinelli, 2005), we expected existential thinking to positively relate to these variables. Method Psychology undergraduates completed the 11-item SET scale, as well as other measures, in an online survey format.

Participants. The participants were 379 undergraduate students recruited from a large Southeastern university in the United States. The sample had a mean age of 18.62 (SD = 1.50) and was 42.2% (n = 160) male and 57.8% (n = 219) female; 70.4% (n = 267) identified as White, 9.8% as Asian American (n = 37), 9.0% as African American (n = 34), 4.2% as Cuban (n = 16), 3.7% as Caribbean (n = 14), 3.7% as South American (n = 14), 2.9% as Puerto Rican (n = 11), 2.1% as American Indian (n = 8), 1.6% as Middle Eastern (n = 6), 1.3% as Central American (n = 5), 1.3% as Pacific Islander (n = 5), 0.3% as Mexican (n = 1), and 1.3% as Other (n = 5).

Procedure. The study was conducted via online survey. Participants were students who joined the study from the psychology undergraduate participant pool in the Fall 2010 semester and received course credit for their participation.

Instruments. Measures included demographics, the SET, and

scales assessing life satisfaction, meaning in life, and internal versus external religiosity.

Demographics. In the demographics section, we assessed gender, age, parental income, and parental level of education. Parental income was assessed with a single question: “On average, what do you estimate is your parents’ combined yearly income over the last five years?” Participants responded on a 9-point scale ranging from Less than $25,000 per year to $200,000+ per year, with a final item I don’t know. Parental level of education was assessed with two questions, “What is the highest level of education achieved by your mother/father?” which participants answered on a 7-point scale


ranging from Grade school to Graduate school, with a final item, Not applicable/I don’t know.

Existential thinking. The current SET is an 11-item measure with scores ranging from 11 to 55 (Appendix A). Participants rate how often they engage in various existential thinking behaviors on a 6-point scale ranging from no or every once and awhile to all the time. The final item was I don’t know. Sample items include, “Do you ever reflect on your purpose in life” and “Do you ever think about life’s Big Questions?”

Life satisfaction. Life satisfaction was measured with the Satisfaction with Life Scale (SWLS), developed by Diener, Emmons, Larsen, and Griffin (1985), which consists of 5-items on 7-point scale ranging from strongly disagree to strongly agree. Sample items include, “I am satisfied with my life” and “The conditions of my life are excellent.” Diener and colleagues (1985) found good internal consistency (a = .87) and test-retest reliability (r = .82). The scale correlated expectedly with other measures of well-being, including positive and negative affect. The internal consistency in the present study was a = .87.

Meaning in life. Meaning in life was assessed using the Meaning in Life Questionnaire (MLQ), which is a 10-item scale assessing the presence of and search for meaning in life (Steger et al., 2006). Responses are on a 7-point scale ranging from absolutely untrue to absolutely true. Sample items from the presence subscale include, “I understand my life’s meaning,” and “My life has no clear purpose.” Samples from the search subscale include, “I am searching for meaning in my life” and

ranging from strongly disagree to strongly agree. Sample items include, “I enjoy reading about my religion” and “It is important to me to spend time in private thought and prayer”. The scale has good internal consistency (a = .83) and is related to other measures of religiousness (Worthington et al., 2003). In the current study, the three negatively worded items did not load on the entire factor, so only the five positively worded items were used for analysis. The 5-item measure in this study had an internal consistency of a = .94.Results

The factor structure of the 11-item SET was examined through an exploratory factor analysis. Principal axis factoring of the SET revealed a single factor with an eigenvalue over one, and the scree plot clearly indicated one factor. This factor explained 65.31% of the variance in SET scores (eigenvalue = 7.18), and all items loaded at .69 or above. Internal consistency as measured by Cronbach’s alpha was excellent (a = .95). Therefore, the SET appears to be measuring a unidimensional construct with good internal reliability.

We summed items on the SET to create existen-tial thinking scores. Responses answered “I don’t know” were considered missing. The mean of the SET was 30.60 (SD = 11.16). The visually inspected distribution of SET scores appeared normal and had a skewness of .42 (SE = .13) and a kurtosis of -.46 (SE = .25). An independent samples t-test found no significant gender difference on SET scores, t(377) = -.50, ns. In addition,

Table 1. Descriptive information and correlations of existential thinking, meaning in life, life satisfaction, and intrinsic religiosity

1 2 3 4 5

1. Existential thinking -

2. Presence of meaning .25 -

3. Search for meaning .21 .08 -

4. Life satisfaction .12 .46 -.05 -

5. Intrinsic religiosity .25 .31 .05 .25 -

M 30.60 23.79 24.25 25.96 28.88

SD 11.16 6.24 6.43 5.94 8.07

Note. Correlations in bold are significant (p < .01)

“I am always searching for something that makes my life feel significant.” Steger and colleagues reported good internal consistency (presence: a = .82; search: a = .87) and test-retest reliability (presence: r = .70; search: r = .73). The reliability in the current study was comparable (presence: a = .87; search: a = .88). Steger et al. (2006) also found presence of meaning to correlate in the expected directions with life satisfaction, depression, self-esteem, and other measures of life purpose. The search for meaning in life correlated negatively with these variables.

Intrinsic religiosity. Religiosity was measured with the Intrinsic/Extrinsic Revised Scale (I/E-R) developed by Gorsuch and McPherson (1989), which is an 8-item measure administered using a 7-point Likert scale


SET scores were not significantly correlated to age (r = .03, ns), parental income (r = .05, ns), father’s level of education (r = .07, ns), or mother’s level of education (r = .10, ns). Given the number of correlations conducted, the alpha level was adjusted to p < .01. As shown in Table 1, existential thinking was positively correlated with the presence of meaning in life, the search for meaning in life, and intrinsic religiosity. However, SET scores were not correlated with the measure of life satisfaction (SWLS). Discussion

The first goal of Study 1 was to explore the factor structure and reliability of the SET in a student population. The scale showed variability, had excellent internal consistency, was normally distributed, and loaded on a single factor. Therefore, the SET appears to be a reliable assessment of existential thinking in college-aged students.

The next goal of the study was to establish convergent validity by correlating scores on the SET to several theoretically related constructs. As hypothesized, SET scores correlated positively with measures of the search for meaning in life and the presence of meaning in life, even though these two constructs often negatively correlate with one another (Steger et al., 2006). This suggests that existential thinking could play a role in both searching for, discovering, and/or maintaining meaning in life. As suspected, the SET also moderately correlated with a measure of intrinsic religiousness, which supports the notion that spending time engaged with one’s religion is associated with considering existential issues. Contrary to our predictions, existential thinking was not related to life satisfaction. Therefore, a satisfactory life may not require regular thinking about existential issues.

Several limitations of this study prevented us from drawing conclusions regarding the validity of the SET and our follow-up analyses. First, the study only included college-aged students who may not be at a stage in their lives when they are thinking about and struggling with existential issues. Moreover, the limited age range restricted the generalizability of the results. Finally, the variables used for construct validity should be expanded to provide broader validation of the SET. This led to the development of Study 2.

Study 2

Study 2 had several goals. Specifically, we planned to confirm the unidimensional factor structure of the

SET established in Study 1, assess the validity of the SET with a broader range of constructs, and establish the reliability of the SET in a diverse, adult sample. To establish construct validity, we correlated the SET to demographic, meaning, personality, and well-being variables. We also correlated the SET with a measure of spiritual intelligence and its critical existential thinking subscale.

In terms of demographic variables, it was predicted that existential thinking would be positively related to age. As people get older, they may consider existential issues more readily, perhaps due to the loss of loved ones (Kim, Kjervik, Belyea, & Choi, 2011). However, we did not expect existential thinking to be associated with gender, level of education, or income.

For the SET to have divergent validity, existential thinking must represent more than just a desire to gain knowledge or engage in complex thought. Some personality variables that reflect these tendencies include curiosity, the need for cognition, and openness to experience. Litman and Spielberger (2003) differentiated two types of curiosity: curiosity based on a joy of learning new things (Interest-type) and curiosity based on the avoidance of uncertainty and ignorance (Deprivation-type). Generally, I-type curiosity correlates with positive traits whereas D-type curiosity correlates with negative traits (Litman, 2008, 2010). While curiosity may predict some consideration of existential issues, it reflects a much broader and less specific search for knowledge. Therefore, we expected existential thinking to show small to moderate correlations with both types of curiosity, since people should pursue existential questions both out of intrinsic enjoyment and avoidance of uncertainty.

Similar to curiosity, we expected existential thinking to differ from the need for cognition, which refers to the tendency to enjoy complex and analytical thinking (Cacioppo, Petty, & Kao, 1984). Although a tendency to analyze complex issues may be associated with considering complex existential issues, the need for cognition is much broader and less specific than the tendency to consider core issues about one’s existence. Therefore, we expected existential thinking to show a small to moderate correlation with the need for cognition. Finally, we predicted that existential thinking would differ from openness to experience. Openness to experience, a member of the big five personality traits, is similar to intellect but is defined more broadly to include


sensitivity to art and beauty, a need for variety, and a tendency toward unconventional thought (Donnellan, Oswald, Baird, & Lucas, 2006; McCrae, 1992). As mentioned by Garner (1999), existential thinking could involve profound experiences, like immersion in artwork, and a need for intellectual variety could relate to a quest for existential answers. However, openness to experience would not necessitate thoughts or experiences about existential issues specifically, so we predicted openness to experience and existential thinking to have a small to moderate correlation.

Building off of Study 1, measures of well-being were expanded to include both life satisfaction and existential well-being. Existential well-being is defined as the “perception of purpose, meaning in life, and the capacity for personal growth and transcendence” (Cohen et al., 1995, p. 208). Given both existential thinking’s relation to meaning in life (Study 1) and meaning in life’s relation to well-being (Steger et al., 2006), we expected existential thinking to relate to existential well-being through meaning in life. Therefore, the goal was to examine if existential thinking related to existential well-being and if meaning in life mediated the relationship between existential thinking and existential well-being. Similar effects have been observed for religious variables. For example, Steger and Frazier (2005) found meaning in life to mediate the relationship between religiousness and life satisfaction, and Park (2005) found meaning-making coping strategies to mediate the relationship between religiousness and psychological well-being. Therefore, if existential thinking leads to increases in meaning in life (la Cour & Hvidt, 2010), these findings may be replicable for existential thinking. Finally, despite the results from Study 1, we again predicted that existential thinking would correlate with life satisfaction in adults.

We also planned to assess the relationship between existential thinking and existential anxiety and death anxiety. In addition to citing the potential benefits of considering existential issues, some authors (e.g. Yalom, 1980) have suggested that awareness of ultimate concerns could lead to anxiety. Moreover, searching for meaning in life and thinking about death without a sense of life meaning is associated with general anxiety and death anxiety (Routledge & Juhl, 2010; Steger, Mann, Michels, & Cooper, 2009). Finally, existential anxiety, which is anxiety about the ultimate meanings of life and death, includes thoughts of death, meaninglessness, and guilt (Weems et al., 2004). Therefore, existential thinking

may be associated with anxiety for some people, perhaps those without meaning in life. Therefore, we predicted small correlations between existential thinking and existential anxiety and death anxiety.

As previously discussed, spiritual intelligence and existential thinking are similar constructs, with spiritual intelligence emphasizing expanded states of consciousness and existential thinking emphasizing engagement with ultimate concerns in a meaning-making process. However, some authors have subsumed existential thinking under spiritual intelligence. King and DeCicco (2009) developed and factor-analyzed the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (SISRI-24), which measures four subscales: critical existential thinking, personal meaning production, transcendental awareness, and conscious state expansion. In this model, the authors defined critical existential thinking as the ability to contemplate existential issues critically and analytically. Although critical existential thinking was highly related to most other subscales, the authors did not conduct a higher order factor analysis to confirm that these subscales loaded onto a spiritual intelligence factor. Therefore, the authors did not provide evidence that critical existential thinking is part of spiritual intelligence. Regardless, given critical existential thinking’s interrelationship with the other subscales of the SISRI-24, we predicted existential thinking to relate highly to spiritual intelligence. We also expected existential thinking to relate highly to the SISRI-24’s critical existential thinking subscale. Method A diverse adult sample was recruited through social media, classified websites, and an online data collection service, and completed the 11-item SET scale and additional measures in an online survey format.

Participants. A total of 316 participants aged 18 to 81 completed the survey (M = 32.39, SD = 12.35). Of this group, 45.3% were male (n = 143) and 54.7% were female (n = 173); 56.3% identified as White (n = 178), 31.3% as Asian (n = 99), 3.8% as Multiracial (n = 12), 3.2% as Hispanic (n = 10), 2.2% as African American (n = 7), 1.3% as Other (n = 4), 0.9% as Middle Eastern (n = 3), 0.9% as Native American (n = 3), 0.6% as Pacific Islander (n = 2), and 0.6% were missing (n = 2). Of the participants, 50.6% were American (n = 160), 24.7% Indian (n = 78), 12.4% Canadian (n = 39), 2.5% British (n = 8), 2.5% Other Asian (n = 8), 2.2% Western European (n = 7), 1.6% Eastern European (n = 5), 1.3%


Australian (n = 4), 1.0% South American (n = 3), 0.6% Mexican (n = 2), and 0.6% South African (n = 2).

Procedure. In order to collect data from a diverse, adult sample we recruited participants in two ways. First, a link to the survey was posted on social networking and online classified websites. In this case, people volunteered to complete the survey. Other individuals joined the study through the online data collection service Mechanical Turk (MTurk). This service allows people from across the globe to be compensated for completing surveys online. Buhrmester, Kwang, and Gosling (2011) reviewed this form of data collection and concluded that samples from MTurk were more diverse than other internet survey methods but were equally valid and reliable. Participants who completed the survey this way received $0.40 for completing the survey. All participants were given the opportunity to include their email address for a one-month follow-up survey, which re-administered the SET for test-retest reliability. Participants were provided with informed consent and were able to drop out of the study at any time without penalty. In total, 51.58% (n = 163) of the participants joined from the first method, and 48.42% (n = 153) of the participants joined from MTurk.

Instruments. As in study 1, assessments measured existential thinking (SET; a = .93), the search for meaning (MLQ; a = .91), the presence of meaning (MLQ; a = .89), and life satisfaction (SLS; a = .89). Their corresponding internal consistencies for this study are in parentheses. In addition, the following constructs were also measured:

Demographics. The demographics section assessed gender, age, income, level of education, and the country in which participants were currently living. Income was assessed with a single question: “On average, what is the combined yearly income of your household?” Participants responded on a 9-point scale ranging from Less than $25,000 per year to $200,000+ per year. Level of education was assessed with a single question, “What is the highest level of education you achieved?” Participants answered on a 7-point scale ranging from Grade school to Graduate school, with a final item, Not applicable.

Spiritual intelligence. Spiritual intelligence was measured with the Spiritual Intelligence Self-Report Inventory (SISRI-24) developed by King and DeDicco (2009). The scale consists of four subscales: critical existential thinking, personal meaning production, transcendental awareness, and conscious state expansion.

It is measured with 24-items on a 4-point scale ranging from Not true of me to Completely true of me. Sample items include “I recognize aspects of myself that are deeper than my physical body,” and “I have developed my own techniques for entering higher states of consciousness or awareness.” King and DeCicco reported good internal reliability (a = .97) and test-retest reliability (r = .89) and found spiritual intelligence to positively correlate with the presence of meaning, the search for meaning, mysticism, and religiosity. The internal consistency for the present study was a = .94.

Existential anxiety. Existential anxiety was assessed with the Existential Anxiety Questionnaire (EAQ) developed by Weems et al. (2004). The EAQ consists of 13 true-or-false statements on three subscales: fate/death, emptiness/meaninglessness, and guilt/con-demnation. Examples include, “I often think about death and this causes me anxiety,” and “I often think that the things that were once important in life are empty.” Weems and colleagues reported adequate internal consistency (a = .71-.76) and two week test-retest reliability (r = .72) and found that the scale predicted general anxiety and depression. The internal consistency for the present study was a = .73.

Death anxiety. Death anxiety was measured with Templer’s (1970) Death Anxiety Scale (DAS). The scale consists of 15 true-or-false statements. Examples include, “I am very much afraid to die,” and “The subject of life after death troubles me greatly.” Templer reported an internal consistency of a = .76 and a test-retest reliability of r = .83. The measure correlated with general anxiety and other measures of death anxiety. The scale’s internal consistency for the present study was a = .71.

Existential well-being. Existential well-being was measured with the 6-item existential subscale of the McGill Quality of Life Questionnaire (MQOL; Cohen et al., 1995; Cohen et al., 1997). Participants respond to statements by rating how close their answers fit with two separate poles ranging from 0 to 10. Examples include, “My life to this point has been... 0 = completely worthless/10 = very worthwhile,” and “To me, every day seems to be... 0 = a burden/10 = a gift.” Cohen and Mount (2000) reported internal consistencies of the subscale from a = .75 to a = .81 and a test-retest reliability of r = .76. Existential well-being correlated with other quality of life measures. The internal consistency in the present study was a = .86.


Depression. To assess depression, participants completed the 20-item Center for Epidemiological Studies Depression Scale (CES-D; Radloff, 1977). Statements are answered based on the previous week on a 4-point scale ranging from Rarely or none of the time (less than 1 day) to Most or all of time (5-7 days). Sample items include, “I felt lonely,” and “I felt sad.” Radloff reported internal consistency from a = .85 to a = .90 and a one-month test-retest of r = .67. The scale correlated in the expected direction with positive affect, negative affect, and other measures of depression. The internal consistency in this study was a = .90.

Openness to experience. Openness to experiences was assessed with the intellect/imagination subscale of the Mini-International Personality Item Pool (Mini-IPIP; Donnellan et al., 2006). The subscale consists of 4 items rated on a 5-point scale ranging from Very inaccurate to Very accurate. Sample items include “Have a vivid imagination” and “Have difficulty understanding abstract ideas” (reverse coded). Donnellan and colleagues (2006) reported acceptable internal consistency (a = .65) and good test-retest reliability (r = .77). The subscale positively correlated with imagination, artistic interest, emotionality, adventurousness, intellect, and liberalism. The internal consistency in the present study was a = .78.

Need for cognition. Need for cognition was measured with the short form of the Need for Cognition Scale (NCS; Cacioppo et al., 1984). The NCS consists of 18 items on a 9-point Likert scale ranging from Very strong disagreement to Very strong agreement. Sample items include “I would prefer complex to simple problems,” and “I prefer my life to be filled with puzzles that I must solve.” Cacioppo et al. (1984) found an internal reliability of a = .90. The internal reliability in the present study was also a = .90.

Curiosity. Interest and deprivation curiosity was assessed with Litman and Spielberger’s (2003) 10-item Epistemic Curiosity Questionnaire (ECQ). The ECQ is answered 4-point scale ranging from Almost never to All the time. Sample items include “I enjoy exploring new ideas,” and “I feel frustrated if I can’t figure out the solution to a problem, so I work even harder to solve it.” Litman and Spielberger (2003) reported good internal consistency for both the interest subscale (a = .80-.81) and the deprivation subscale (a = .71-75). The corresponding reliabilities for the present study were a = .81 and a = .84 respectively.

ResultsTo confirm the unidimensional factor structure

found in Study 1, a confirmatory factor analysis was conducted using AMOS 18. For all models AMOS estimated missing data with Full Information Maximum Likelihood, which uses all available data to impute missing values. All items significantly loaded on the existential thinking factor at values of .59 and above (p < .001). The chi-square test suggested poor fit, c²(44) = 169.71, p < .001, but this test is sensitive to multivariate non-normality and sample sizes over 200 (Tabachnick & Fidell, 2007). Although the Comparative Fit Index (.94) indicated good fit, the chi-square/df ratio (3.85) and the Root Mean Square Residual (.10, p < .001) indicated poor fit. We examined modification indices and found that several errors correlated with each other. Since the suggested item pairs shared similar content, we allowed the errors of the following item pairs to covary: 3 and 8; 2 and 9; 8 and 9; and 9 and 11. This substantially improved model fit: c²(40) = 83.98, p < .001, chi-square/df ratio = 2.10, CFI = .98, and RMSEA = .06, ns. Therefore, evidence suggests that the one factor solution for the SET is a good fitting model.

However, as recommended by methodological experts (Martens, 2005), our model should be tested against a plausible alternative. Shearer (2006) found some evidence for a two factor model of existential thinking with one factor reflecting existential issues applied to philosophical concerns and another factor representing application of existential issues to one’s personal life. For example, factor 1 (items 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, and 9) includes items about the meaning of life, what happens after death, and if there is a grand plan for humanity, whereas factor 2 (items 3, 4, 5, 10, and 11) includes questions about life’s Big Questions and the nature of reality. This two factor model was tested in AMOS 18. We retained the correlated error variances from the one factor model to maintain continuity. This model had very similar fit to the one factor model: c²(39) = 83.59, p < .001, chi-square/df ratio = 2.14, CFI = .98, and RMSEA = .06, ns. However, given that the one factor model is more parsimonious, we contend that this one best describes the factor structure of the SET.

Cronbach’s alpha showed the SET to have good internal consistency (a = .93). SET scores for each participant were created by summing each item. Items answered “I don’t know” were considered missing. The scale was normally distributed with a skewness of .11 (SE


= .15) and a kurtosis of -.87 (SE = .30). The mean SET score was 33.96 (SD = 10.95). An independent samples t-test found no gender differences on the measure t(257) = .49, ns. Also, the SET did not correlate with age (r = -.08, ns), income (r = -.12, ns), or level of education (r = .02, ns). The diverse sample allowed investigation of regional differences in existential thinking, but due to low numbers in some groups, comparisons were only made between participants from the United States, Canada, Europe, and India. A one-way analysis of variance revealed significant differences in SET scores among geographic regions, F(3, 239) = 7.24, p < .001. Bonferroni adjusted post hoc tests found that SET scores were significantly higher in India (M = 39.46, SD = 9.72) compared to Canada (M = 31.17, SD = 11.43), t(239) = 3.58, p < .01, the United States (M = 32.99, SD = 10.80), t(239) = 3.79, p < .001, and Europe (M = 28.71, SD = 11.23), t(239) = 3.48, p < .01. The United States, Canada, and Europe did not differ significantly. Testing was done to determine whether the two sources of data (i.e., social networking sites and MTurk) differed in SET scores. There was a significant relation between source of data and SET scores, β = .14, SE = 1.35, t(257) = 2.29, p < .05. However, this effect was likely due to the fact that the majority of the MTurk sample was from India. After

including a variable indicating if participants were from India or not, β = .28, SE = 1.96, t(250) = 3.83, p < .001, source of data ceased to have a relation with SET scores, β = -.03, SE = 1.61, t(250) = -.35, ns.

The significant difference in SET scores between people from India and those from the United States, Canada, and Europe could mean that the SET’s factor structure does not hold for all groups. To test factorial invariance, we followed the guidelines of Little (2008). Little suggested the multiple group confirmatory factor analysis approach, which involves using AMOS to specify the same factor model simultaneously for multiple groups while gradually adding more constraints between the two groups. Changes in fit indices are evaluated at each level. Little proposed testing three levels of invariance: configural (pattern of fixed and free parameters are constrained to be the same), weak factorial (factor loadings are constrained across groups), and strong factorial (indicator means are constrained across groups). Given the limited numbers of participants in each group, we decided to compare only the largest two groups, those from the United States and India. The configural model is essentially an average between the two groups and showed good fit, c²(80) = 149.29, p < .001, chi-square/df ratio = 1.87, CFI = .95, and RMSEA

Table 2. Descriptive information and correlations of existential thinking, spiritual intelligence, meaning variables, well-being variables, and personality variables.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 1. Existential thinking - 2. Spiritual intelligence .67 - 3. Critical existential thinking .67 .82 - 4. Presence of meaning .37 .50 .29 - 5. Search for meaning .28 .28 .24 -.16 - 6. Life satisfaction .15 .29 .10 .51 -.08 - 7. Existential anxiety .07 -.15 .01 -.41 .24 -.38 - 8. Death anxiety .10 -.09 .01 -.24 .07 -.18 .50 - 9. Existential well-being .27 .41 .16 .66 -.06 .67 -.47 -.18 -10. Openness to experience .14 .22 .27 .15 -.15 -.00 -.10 -.10 .02 -11. Need for cognition .07 .08 .19 .05 -.09 .04 -.16 -.11 -.02 .61 -12. Interest curiosity .20 .25 .32 .12 .04 .05 -.09 -.08 .10 .46 .65 -13. Deprivation curiosity .35 .30 .28 .08 .20 .02 .11 .03 .02 .05 .27 .40 - M 33.96 52.92 16.51 24.64 23.06 23.03 4.67 6.72 17.91 15.72 18.23 15.94 12.71 SD 10.95 19.56 5.94 6.87 7.86 7.40 2.94 3.15 10.72 3.37 23.22 2.94 3.72

Note. Correlations in bold are significant (p < .001)


= .06, ns. In the weak factorial condition, factor loadings were constrained to be the same across groups. This slightly improved the fit of the model, c²(90) = 156.05, p < .001, chi-square/df ratio = 1.73, CFI = .96, and RMSEA = .06, ns, but this change was not significantly different from the configural model, c²(10) = 6.76, ns. The strong factorial model constrained the indicator means to be equal. This restriction degraded the fit of the model, c²(101) = 229.01, p < .001, chi-square/df ratio = 2.27, CFI = .91, and RMSEA = .07, p < .01. This change was significantly different from the weak invariance model, c²(21) = 79.72, p < .001.

Table 2 depicts the correlations amongst the study variables. As hypothesized, SET scores were significantly related to spiritual intelligence, critical existential thinking, the presence of meaning in life, the search for meaning in life, existential well-being, interest curiosity, and deprivation curiosity. However, contrary to our hypotheses, it was not correlated with measures of life satisfaction, existential anxiety, death anxiety, depression, openness to experience, or need for cognition. A total of 29 participants completed the test-retest follow-up survey at a one-month interval. Only the SET was included in the follow-up survey. The test-retest reliability was r = .74, and a paired samples t-test revealed that the mean SET scores did not differ significantly from time 1 (M = 30.90, SD = 10.25) to time 2 (M = 28.62, SD = 8.58), t(28) = 1.76, n.s.

Finally, a mediation analysis was conducted exam-ining whether the presence of meaning in life mediated the relationship between existential thinking and existential well-being. Using the SPSS mediation macro developed by Preacher and Hayes (2008), a mediation analyses was performed based on 5000 bootstrapped samples using bias-corrected 95% confidence intervals. Existential thinking had significant, direct paths to presence of meaning in life (β = .24, SE = .04, p < .001) and existential well-being (β = .26, SE = .06, p < .001). Presence of meaning in life also had a significant direct path to well-being (β = .99, SE = .08, p < .001). When meaning in life was included in the model, existential thinking ceased to have a relation with existential well-being (β = .02, SE = .05, ns), and this indirect effect was significant (SE = .04, CI = .16-.33). Therefore, the presence of meaning in life fully mediated the relationship between existential thinking and well-being. The total model was significant (F(2, 243) = 102.19, p < .001) and explained 45.68% of the variance in existential well-being.

DiscussionThe first goal of Study 2 was to investigate the

SET’s psychometric properties in an adult sample. As in the student sample, the measure demonstrated strong, unidimensional factor structure and excellent internal consistency. It also had good test-retest reliability. This provides evidence that the SET is a reliable measure of existential thinking in adults.

Next, we investigated existential thinking’s relationship to demographic variables. Contrary to our hypothesis, SET scores were unrelated to age and, as expected, did not relate to gender, income, or level of education. Therefore, existential thinking does not appear to increase as people get closer to death, and gender and socioeconomic status do not seem to influence the level of existential thought. In terms of geographic differences, India had significantly higher levels of existential thinking than the United States, Canada, and Europe. This was corroborated by our test of factorial invariance between Americans and Indians. The model fit did not degrade significantly when SET items were restricted to load on the same, single factor with the same weights. This suggests that the factor structure may hold up across these two groups. However, when we restricted the SET’s indicator means to be equal, the fit degraded. This again indicates that SET scores are different for Indians than Americans. The reason for this is unknown. However, spiritual or existential issues may be more central to Indian culture (Bhawuk, 2003), which would be associated with higher levels of existential thinking. Although the impact of culture on existential thinking is beyond the scope of this article, this finding opens up an interesting avenue for future research.

Our third goal was to establish construct validity by correlating SET scores to measures theoretically related to existential thinking. As predicted, SET scores highly correlated with spiritual intelligence and critical existential thinking. However, these correlations were not high enough to make the SET redundant, which supports the notion that existential thinking and spiritual intelligence are separate yet highly related constructs. Furthermore, critical existential thinking was highly related to existential thinking, although the two constructs showed a differing pattern of correlations with other variables. Namely, existential thinking was more related to meaning and existential well-being whereas critical existential thinking was more related


to personality variables, such as openness to experience and need for cognition. Existential thinking was more related to deprivation curiosity and less related to interest curiosity than critical existential thinking. However, these two measures may be reflecting the same underlying construct, and future research should explore this possibility. Regardless, the SET demonstrated convergent validity by correlating with spiritual intelligence and critical existential thinking.

In addition, SET scores showed small to moderate correlations with meaning in life, the search for meaning in life, interest curiosity, and deprivation curiosity. However, contrary to our hypotheses, it did not correlate with the need for cognition or openness to experience. Existential thinking’s relationship to interest and deprivation curiosity is not surprising since a drive for knowledge should be somewhat related to a drive to understand existential dilemmas. However, the moderate correlation of SET with curiosity suggests that existential thinking reflects a focus on existential issues, rather than only representing general curiosity. Furthermore, although we expected need for cognition and openness to experience to be related to thoughts about existential problems, the lack of relationships here also suggest that existential thinking is different from the tendencies to enjoy cognitive endeavors or abstract ideas.

In terms of well-being, existential thinking was positively related to existential well-being but was unrelated to life satisfaction, death anxiety, or existential anxiety. Again, satisfaction with one’s life seems to be unrelated to the degree of existential thinking. In addition, the relation of existential thinking to existential well-being was mediated by meaning in life. This generally supports the idea that existential thinking represents a process whereby people generate meaning in life by placing oneself in respect to ultimate concerns (Gardner, 1999; Spinelli, 2005). Establishing meaning in life may subsequently lead to well-being (Steger et al., 2009). These are preliminary results but provide initial support for the validity of our conceptualization of existential thinking as a meaning-making process. Contrary to our hypotheses, existential thinking did not relate to death anxiety or existential anxiety. This was somewhat surprising considering that these variables should be related to some thoughts about death and the purpose of existence. However, as previously discussed, existential thinking may only relate to anxiety when people have low meaning

in life (Routledge & Juhl, 2010; Steger et al., 2009). Therefore, future research should explore if meaning in life moderates the relationship between existential thinking and anxiety.

General Discussion

This study introduced the concept of existential thinking, which we defined as the tendency to

consider the core issues of human existence and the ability to engage in a meaning-making process that locates oneself in respect to ultimate concerns. We also assessed the reliability and validity of a measure for existential thinking, the 11-item Scale for Existential Thinking (SET). The SET demonstrated individual variability, unidimensional factor structure, good internal consistency, and good test-retest reliability in both student and adult samples. The SET also showed construct validity by correlating with conceptually related variables, including spiritual intelligence, critical existential thinking, meaning in life, intrinsic religiosity, existential well-being, and curiosity. These results suggest that the SET reliably assesses individual differences in the underlying construct of existential thinking.

The SET’s psychometrics throughout the study, including a unidimensional factor structure, good internal consistency, and evidence of construct validity, suggest that existential thinking may represent a unique personality trait. This is in line with Gardner’s (1999) assertion that existential intelligence may have a unique location in the brain and a distinct evolutionary history. One also sees exemplars of existential thinking in wider culture, including spiritual leaders and philosophers. However, why is considering existential issues different than considering other issues? What is special about issues related to one’s personal existence? In some ways, this study has brought up more questions than it has answered. The construct of existential thinking is underdeveloped, and when more scholars and researchers begin exploring this topic with newly developed measures, an expanded and richer understanding of existential thinking can be established.

Although the concept existential thinking should be further explored and developed, study findings generally supported our conceptualization of existential thinking. SET scores correlated with measures of constructs that also assess an engagement with existential issues, such as spiritual intelligence and critical existential thinking. In addition, we showed that existential thinking represents more


than curiosity, openness to experience, and need for cognition. Moreover, both studies revealed a relation between existential thinking and meaning variables. However, the moderate correlations between existential thinking and meaning in life suggest that though existential thinking would involve making sense of ultimate concerns, this does not always translate into the presence of meaning in life. Rather, variables may moderate the relation between existential thinking and meaning in life such that some people are better able to translate existential thinking into concrete life purposes or meanings. For example, religiousness may act as such a moderator because religions provide a framework for understanding existential questions (Simpson, 2002; Wortmann & Park, 2009). In addition, existential thinking’s relationship to existential well-being via meaning in life suggests that existential thinking could lead people to develop a sense of meaning in life, which subsequently relates to well-being. Limitations and Future Directions

This study should be considered in light of a number of limitations that suggest directions for future research. All data were cross-sectional, so existential thinking’s causal relationships to other constructs cannot be determined. In particular, our meditation results should be interpreted with caution. Both longitudinal data and controlled studies would reveal important information about the development and effects of existential thinking. For example, longitudinal data could be used to assess changes in existential thinking across the lifespan, because existential thinking may be heightened during life transitions or existential crises when people are more likely to consider their purpose in the world. In addition, experiments could directly assess the result of engaging in existential thinking. Specifically, people engaging in existential discussions may report an increase in meaning in life when compared to control groups. Such information would have important implications for therapists and other mental health practitioners.

Next, our internet sample was biased in that it was composed mostly of North Americans and Indians. Although the factor structure appeared to hold between Americans and Indians, the degradation of the model when we restricted indicator means to be equal suggests that Americans and Indians may have different patterns of relations between existential thinking and other variables. Therefore, future studies should consider the relations measured in our study possibly moderated. As a

result, studies should validate the SET in representative North American samples as well as specifically explore cross-cultural differences.

Furthermore, in both studies, the validity of the SET was based only on questionnaires, and the SET only considered behavioral thought patterns. Therefore, we did not consider specific interests, skills, or tasks associated with existential thinking. Not only does restricting our methods to thinking behaviors and questionnaire methods create the possibility of inflated correlations between the SET and other variables, it also restricts our conceptualization of existential thinking. Future studies should address this concern by using SET scores to predict observed behavioral measures. Self-report ratings could also be corroborated with secondary informants. Finally, this study did not include measures of social desirability and response bias. Therefore, we cannot be sure if all participants’ responses were reflecting true differences in existential thinking. Future studies should take this into account when further validating the SET.

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Van Pachterbeke, M., Keller, J., & Saroglou, V. (2012). Flexibility in existential beliefs and worldviews: Introducing and measuring existential quest. Journal of Individual Differences, 33(1), 2-16. doi:10. 1027/1614-0001/a000056

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Appendix A

Scale for Existential Thinking

1= No or rarely.2= Sometimes.

3= Often.4= Almost all the time.5= All the time.6= I don’t know.

Circle answers that best fit for you either now or in the past.

1. Do you ever reflect on your purpose in life?2. Do you ever think about the human spirit or what happens to life after death?3. Have you ever spent time reading, thinking about, or discussing philosophy or beliefs?4. Do you have a philosophy of life that helps you to manage stress or make important decisions?5. Do you think about ideas such as eternity, truth, justice and goodness?6. Do you spend time in meditation, prayer, or reflecting on the mysteries of life?7. Do you discuss or ask questions to probe deeply into the meaning of life?8. Do you ever think about a “grand plan” or process that human beings are a part of?9. Have you ever thought about what is beyond the “here and now” of your daily life?10. Do you ever think about life’s Big Questions?11. Have you ever reflected on the nature of reality or the universe?

About the Authors

Blake Allan, MS, is currently attending the counseling psychology doctorate program at the University of Florida. In addition to working as a therapist and academic adviser within the university, he conducts research on the intersection of positive, existential, counseling, and vocational psychology. In particular, he investigates how having meaning and purpose in life relates to well-being and work-related outcomes. He may be reached at PO Box 112250, Department of Psychology, University of Florida, Gainesville, FL 32611-2250, Email: [email protected], Phone: 352-246-5992.

Branton Shearer, PhD, is an internationally recognized authority on multiple intelligences assessment and its practical applications in academic settings. Dr. Shearer is a neuropsychologist whose work provides insights into how each person’s strengths can be activated so as to


maximize success, achievement, and personal satisfaction. He created the Multiple Intelligences Developmental Assessment Scales (MIDAS™) in 1987, which has since been translated into 12 different languages and has a global reputation as the “gold standard” for providing a richly detailed understanding of a person’s intellectual disposition. MIDAS™ profiles are now being used at all levels of education, in the workplace, and by the U.S. military. He has published numerous books and articles in English, Danish, Chinese, and Korean. His recently revised The MIDAS Handbook for Multiple Intelligences in the Classroom (Shearer, 2011) provides a wealth of practical examples for interpreting both individual profiles as well as whole class MI profiles. He is also a published poet.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 38 Morrison

Trauma and Transformative Passage

The strategic introduction of stressors to intentionally produce targeted psychological states has a long history among indigenous peoples. Rites of passage ceremonies commonly involve subjecting individuals to controlled violence to attain desired transformative outcomes. In this context, violence is held to be sacred and generative, ritually introducing distress in the service of loosening orientation and preparing the individual for spiritual advancement and the acquisition of a new identity. Traditional ritual initiation ceremonies are typically tripartite and characterized by stages of Separation, Ordeal, and Return. This article suggests that accounts of the experiences of initiates in Separation and Ordeal stages bear striking correspondences to trauma disorder phenomena, yielding insights that may contribute to improving the effectiveness of modern trauma interventions.


Psychological trauma is surely a problem of the ages. The psychological impact of disease, war, and natural disasters has been a perennial concomitant of human

experience. Early recorded history and religious writings were rife with references to traumatic events and representational interpretations of their origins and meanings. In the modern era, trauma first belonged to anthropology and comparative religion until it was usurped by the science of psychology. Before the current age of scientific hegemony, deities and demons instigated traumatic events, and shamans and their equivalents treated the fallout. In 1931, C. G. Jung noted the passing of that era when he observed that “the gods have become diseases” (1957/1967, p. 37). Jung’s comment was a metaphoric lament for the shift in symbolic language, from the pre-scientific to the scientific, which corresponded to a loss of intimate, direct relationships to psychological and spiritual phenomena and their powers to convey personal and cultural meaning. Modern thought welcomes the transfer of cultural lore to the scientific paradigm and calls it progress, but has it prematurely or too exclusively escorted trauma disorders to the non-Olympian realm of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)? Or do pre-scientific practices for dealing with trauma disorders, although considered obsolete, still have the power to inform contemporary psychological methods?

Trauma and Psychological Adaptation

Successful adaptation to trauma has been a determinant of survival throughout human evolution. It can be

argued that the evolvement of the human species, through

its neurological development to its social, cultural, and religious expressions, can be attributed to adaptations to trauma.1 Surviving trauma has been a prime organizing principal for biological and social evolution. The first manifestations of culture and religion developed within contexts of attempts to come to terms with greater forces that, if not appeased, stamped-out life (Hart & Sussman, 2005). Following this line of thinking, early societies became deeply engaged in activities aimed at preventing traumatic losses and coping with the aftermaths of trauma. Stated in contemporary terms, human beings have always needed to diagnose and treat trauma in order to live. Diagnoses were generally drawn from mythic etiologies populated by legions of deities and demons, while treatment became the evolvements of ritual practices. Concerning the latter, anthropologists have reported on the correspondences between needs for preventing and treating the fallout from traumatic events and the proliferation of indigenous ritual practices (Turner, 1969/1995).

In fact, the cultural propensity for creating coping solutions to trauma may be anatomically hard-wired. D’Aquila and Laughlin (1996), a neuroscientist and an anthropologist, argued for a neurobiological imperative for the development of myths and rituals:

given an organism in which the neural mechanisms for abstract thought have evolved . . . that organism must necessarily use these mechanisms in an attempt

Reed A. MorrisonPrivate Practice

Baltimore, MD, USA

Keywords: trauma, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), ritual, passage, initiation

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 39Trauma and Transformative Passage

to explain his existential situation. Such explanation involves the obligatory structuring of myths, com-plete with the organization of the world into . . . observed reality that man calls gods, spirits, demons and the like. These mechanisms are not a matter of choice but are necessarily generated by the structure of the brain in response to the cognitive imperative. (p. 144)

D’Aquila and Laughlin contended that the generation of myths seeks to identify/diagnose a problem by placing it within a context of a god-man conflict, that is, a confusion of god-mortal boundaries. Donald Kalsched (1996), in The Inner World of Trauma, observed: “Mythology and all the great religions of the world are preoccupied with one essential question–the question of the relationship between the human and divine and how it is maintained in the face of human suffering” (p. 142). God-mortal boundary questions have traditionally arisen around traumatic events where loss of control has threatened loss of reason: What caused the trauma? Was trauma the result of a mortal transgression into godly domains? Are the gods and goddesses simply angry? How can they be appeased?

Mythic explanations narratively differentiate the realms of the deities from the mundane domains of mortals and proffer clarifying explanations for otherwise inexplicable phenomena. This kind of folk diagnosis, although anxiety reducing, usually cannot completely solve problems because analysis alone is a passive activity. Ritual naturally followed myth as an active mode for reducing tension and initiating resolution in the forms of experiencing unified wholeness, harmony, appeasement, and spiritual justice. Because rituals typically involve intensely arousing repetitive behaviors, D’Aquila and Laughlin (1996) associated the neural basis of myth- making phenomena with ergotrophic (energy expend-ing) sympathetic and central nervous system (CNS) activation. The trophotropic (energy conserving) systems that extend to parasympathetic and CNS regions are ordinarily reciprocal to the ergotrophic processes. However, upon maximal excitation, the ergotrophic system “spills-over” and stimulates intense trophotropic reactions. The mutual activations, according to D’Aquila and Laughlin, translate to dual hemispheric stimulation in high arousal states, which can lead to experiential solutions to problems posed by myth. In this condition, individuals have reported feelings of unity and well-being

using terms such as oceanic and ineffable. To summarize this line of thinking, neural substrates, when presented with trauma, endogenously create explicative myths, which call for neural mediation via ritual behaviors. The neurological expressions of rituals can provide means for processing trauma symptoms from levels of high activation to those characterized by tension reduction and emblematic of problem resolution.

Myths, according to this logic, are spontaneously generated and impel the creation of rituals to supply resolutions to mythic dilemmas.2 Rituals answer a neurobiological need for creating a treatment for the mythically diagnosed problem. If rituals are not avail-able, then the deities become autonomous unconscious forces. As such, they make themselves known as psychopathological symptoms, hence Jung’s (19571967) observation. If the CNS spontaneously gives rise to myths and rituals as palliatives and defenses against trauma, then the structure of the human psyche must correspondingly reflect and evidence this activity. The term archetype was used, primarily by Jung and his followers, to describe the nexus of biology and psychology. This is the liminal psychological space where mortals encounter gods.

The image of the archetype may offer humans’ best cognizance of that which cannot be further reduced or articulated except by the imaginal. Pursuing this line of inquiry, Wilson (2004) described trauma as an archetypal phenomenon and imaged the experience evoked by the archetype of trauma an “Abyss Experience,” characterized by “the core set of fear based emotional responses inherent in traumatic experiences and integral to understanding the unconscious dynamic of trauma’s impact to psychological functioning” (p. 51). In Wilson’s view, trauma is associated with an autonomous archetypal reaction that constellates in a human psyche by way of a trauma complex. The trauma complex, in context of Jungian theory, becomes a cluster of emotions and images surrounding the archetypal event. In the case of trauma, the complex describes the impact of the Absyss Experience upon the human psyche: “the undifferentiated state of death, profound psychological uncertainty and the potential for psychic disintegration” (p. 56).

Ritual and Death

The psychological experince of death is common to both modern posttrauma symptomatology and

to certain ritual practices, particularly those involving


initiation. In indigenous initiation rites, it was (and still is today3), common for controlled trauma to be introduced to produce desired effects upon candidates. In puberty initiation ceremonies described by Eliade (1958/1995), candidates in some initiation rites were deliberately frightened until they were certain that death was imminent. Proximity to death prepared the candidate to advance to new stages of spiritual development by loosening the candidates’ ego-dependent bearings on foundations for maintaining personal and tribal identity. When everything familiar and safe was stripped away by trauma, the candidates became vulnerable and more apt to adopt new identities and new beliefs. The inclusion of trauma in initiation ceremonies accomplished more than mere manipulation of youthful psyches. It prepared the individual for a world where the threat of traumatic death was recognized as real and ubiquitous. The initiate, by virtue of encountering ritual trauma, was prepared to meet real-life trauma on terms that were integrative to the tribe’s social system and spiritual beliefs. Rather than encounter trauma as senseless and random, as many tend to do today, the initiate could meet trauma as an opportunity for meaningful participation with the greater spiritual powers. Arnold van Gennep (1960), in his seminal work Rites of Passage, described the role of death in Australian aboriginal initiation ceremonies:

In some tribes the novice is considered dead, and he remains dead for the duration of his no-vitiate. It lasts for a fairly long time and consists of a physical and mental weakening which is un-doubtedly intended to make him lose all recol-lection of his childhood existence. Then follows the positive part: instruction in tribal law and a gradual education as the novice witnesses to-tem ceremonies, recitations of myths, etc. The final act is a religious ceremony. . . . Where the novice is considered dead, he is resurrected and taught how to live, differently than in child-hood. Whatever the variations of detail, a series which conforms to the general pattern of rites of passage can always be discerned. (p. 75)

Initiation rites intentionally incorporate ceremonial activities that lead initiates from life to death and back to life again. Rites typically include three sub-phases to accommodate the tripartite transitional nature of the process. Robert Moore (2001) maintained that the

tripartite initiation process, described by van Gennep, is in itself archetypal, rooted in instinct and “wired into human beings” (p. 39). The ceremonies serve as containers for what may be called archetypal neuropsychological manifestations (Bion, 1962/1984). They make the archetypal dimension accessible to conscious experience and cultural life.

Van Gennep (1960) found these stages occurring across cultures, throughout time, and across continents: “Beneath a multiplicity of forms, either consciously expressed or merely implied, a typical pattern always recurs: the pattern of the rites of passage” (p. 191). He defined the three stages as preliminal, liminal, and postliminal and corresponded them to “rites of separation, transition rites and rites of incorporation” (p. 11). The renowned ethnologist Victor Turner (1969/1995) also elaborated upon the concept of liminality. Turner called liminality the state of transition and those in liminal states as “neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between . . . thus liminality is frequently likened to death, to being in the womb, in invisibility, to darkness, to bisexuality, to the wilderness, and to an eclipse of the sun or moon” (p. 95). Initiation rites often forced initiates from preliminal mundane life into experiences of abject loss and death in order to set the stage for profound spiritual transformations. The liminal stage was key to losing all vestiges of ordinary identity and to creating a spiritual and psychological vacuum to be filled by new teachings, new identities of self, and a new postliminal place in a world that is sacred and of the deities.

Stages of Initiation

World religion historian Mircea Eliade’s (1958/1995) accounts of initiation rites conformed to

patterned stages he called Separation, Ordeal, and Return. Initiation, for Eliade, was a series of structured, culturally prescribed procedures through which an individual became a full human being. To be fully human, within this context, meant entering, enduring, and completing a triadic process through which the individual gained access to the religious life of the culture. Initiation, for Elaide, was the “fundamental existential experience” (p. 3) that made the human condition possible. Separation

According to Eliade (1958/1995), the pattern typically begins with a phase of Separation or, in certain cases, actual abduction from the candidate’s community. The initiates are brought, by elders, to a location that


is deliberately unfamiliar and frightening. They are separated, often violently, from all that is familiar, safe, and known and thrust into a space that becomes wild, dark, dangerous, and threatening. Ordeal

The Ordeal stage is where spiritual death and rebirth are encountered. Eliade (1958/1995) conceptualized it as containing two sub-phases. The first involves the induction of trauma and leads to the precipitation of a profound spiritual crisis; the second phase engenders spiritual rebirth and resolution.

The first sub-phase of the Ordeal stage (i.e., the unfamiliar/hostile location where the separation stage is enacted) is conceptually analogous to what Kalsched (1996) called profane space. In terms of ritual, it is the site where trauma is intentionally introduced and strategically sustained. Within the context of initiation, trauma moves from profane to sacred when it is used to prepare the initiate for sacred transformation. In the second sub-phase of the Ordeal stage, the appointed elders, at an opportune time, introduce the candidates to sacred space via a new spiritually informed vision of reality and identity, a second birth (Moore, 2001). Sometimes the candidates are physically moved to a new location, a physical analog to sacred space, but actual physical re-location is not necessary. It is in this space where tribal secrets, cosmic stories and interpretations of mysterious symbols are revealed and experienced. The candidates, now initiates, are given symbolic keys for decoding the mysteries of life. Through this process, the initiates undergo profound changes. Often they are given new names. They emerge with new understandings of their places in the community and in the cosmos.Return

In this final stage, the new initiates have returned from psychological death to a spiritual rebirth that has important individual and social ramifications. When the new initiates return to the community, they are typically welcomed by tribal ceremonies that recognize and honor their initiation experiences. The initiates may have new names that validate their new identities and new social positions; other members of the society know to no longer use the initiate’s old name. Although initiates may enjoy a new status as individuals, initiation grants them a deeper, more profound connection to their communities. The process of initiation has carried them through a state of sacred community, a communitas (Turner, 1969/1995) that remains a spiritual influence

throughout their lives. Most importantly, through the transformation of individuals, the society as a whole is enriched and renewed.

Trauma and Transformation

The ideas that psychotherapy is a therapeutic ritual and that there are corresponding methods for

performing psychotherapeutic rituals have been well documented in the literature (Cole, 2003; Krippner & Feinstein, 2006; Moore, 1983; Wyrostok, 1995). However, it is not an aim of this article to reiterate these assertions or to prescribe methods for the practice of psychotherapy with trauma victims, but rather to invite psychotherapists to examine trauma symptoms within a context of the progressions of ritual. The template of ritual phases allows the psychotherapist to re-discover trauma symptoms as belonging to a progressive and purposeful arc, a natural and autonomous movement in the direction of intrinsic transformative healing. This notion is consistent with analyst Robert Moore’s insistence that the psychotherapist must find, amid the patient’s chaos and suffering, the “germ of a creative adaptive response” (p. 289). Here, the recognition of a ritualizing adaptation to trauma is the creative germ. The job of the psychotherapist then becomes, in Moore’s words, to provide a “special kind of transformative space for the individual in therapy” (p. 289) that in this case supports and allows for participation with the natural ritualizing process. The psychotherapist’s own orientation, training, and preferences determine what “ritual” methods will be used. However, while psychotherapeutic methods are constantly evolving and mutating, ritual structure and its properties are ancient, timeless, and paradigmatic. Herein dwells the crux of its creative power.

There are striking parallels between the phenomenology of traumatic incidents and the structure of ritual initiation that suggest common archetypal roots. The Separation and Ordeal stages have characteristics that correspond to those of typical anecdotal reports of trauma survivors. Trauma, whether born of initiation ceremonies, pre-meditated criminal actions, or natural causes, abducts victims and initiates alike from the confines of their day-to-day lives. It is socially separating and often psychologically dissociating. Suddenly, and without warning, trauma victims and ritual initiates are forcibly removed from familiar circumstances and involuntarily deposited into unfamiliar psychological environments. Trauma victims next undergo ordeals


of suffering and pain. They are held against their wills and subjected to alienating (and often life-threatening) assaults upon physical and psychological survival. Unfortunately, the paths followed by trauma victims and initiates are rarely coterminous. Most initiates do not actually die during initiation rites. Real-life trauma abducts too many of its victims into situations that can only end in horrible and tragic death. Biological death is the worst outcome of trauma, but not the only maleficent one. Trauma victims who become survivors can be hostages of “living deaths” marked by protracted psychological and spiritual torment.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV-TR; American Psychiatric Association, 2000) diagnostic description of posttraumatic stress disorder could well describe the experiences of candidates for initiation in the first sub-phase of the Ordeal stage. The DSM-IV-TR diagnostic criteria for posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) include the following:

1) re-experiencing the trauma via intrusive thoughts, dreams, hallucinations, and dissociative flashbacks; 2) persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma; 3) numbing of general responsiveness including restricted range of affect, feelings of detachment and estrangement; and 4) persistent symptoms of increased arousal which may include impairments to sleep, and concentration, emotional outbursts, hypervigilance, exaggerated startle response. (pp. 467-468)

From the perspective of rites of passage, modern day trauma victims are stuck in an aborted ritual, waylaid in liminal sacred space and awaiting passage through to a transformative identity.4 These are victims of “failed initiations” who suffer from a protracted “chronic liminality” (Moore, 2001, p. 31). If these trauma survivors are to achieve a full initiation experience, they must be able to move forward through the initiation process. Trauma must become a rite of passage.

This is too rarely the case, as Ronald Grimes (2000) observed, we can go through life passages without transformative ritual passage:

Not every passage is a rite of passage. We undergo passages, but we enact rites. Life passages are rough, fraught with spiritual potholes, even mortal dangers.Some passages we know are coming; others happen

upon us. Birth, coming of age, marriage, and death are widely anticipated as precarious moments requiring rites for their successful negotiation. But there are other treacherous occasions less regularly handled by ritual means: the start of school, abortion, a serious illness, divorce, job loss, rape, menopause and retirement. More often than not, these events especially when they arrive unanticipated are undergone without benefit of ritual. (p. 5)

Following this logic, “treacherous” events that become traumatic are most likely attended passively and undergone without the containment of ritual enactment. In the case of trauma, ritual enactment can provide symbolic means for incorporating and co-opting otherwise violent events for transformation. According to Eliade (1958/1995), ritual violence takes on a transitional function that leads to the symbolic death of the profane identity and rebirth of a sacred one. Rene Girard (1977) called this kind of violence the “secret soul of the sacred” (p. 30) and distinguished between degenerative violence and generative violence. Generative violence is the intentional and purposeful violence of sacred ritual that is instrumental in creating the transformative passage.

Degenerative violence is associated with psychopathology. Following the indications of D’Aquila and Laughlin (1996), degenerative violence must correspond to a spontaneously created pathological mythology, which in turn, prompts pathological rituals. These are the cognitions, behaviors, and symptoms of PTSD. The therapeutic task, therefore, must begin with the identification of the extant pathologizing mythology and its corresponding rituals. The pathologizing myth-ology will usually represent a limiting story that ends with the suspension of the trauma survivor in an ordeal of liminal suffering. The trauma-bound story cannot tolerate and symbolize a complete passage. The following case, from the author’s psychotherapy practice, serves as an illustration.

Calvin: An Unsuccessful Passage

Calvin was 55 when he began psychotherapy to treat heroin addiction. He had been using alcohol and

marijuana since age 12 and heroin since he was 30. Heroin addiction quickly became the organizing principle in his life, numbing his pain, but bringing chaos to his family and his professional career. Later, in psychotherapy, he came to recognize that heroin provided a way to


anesthetize the psychological and social consequences of an early life of physical and emotional abuse by his father and multiple rapes by an older boy in his neighborhood beginning at age eight. Calvin fit the PTSD profile. His symptoms, when he was not self-medicating, included periods of intense depression with frequent flirtations with suicide, free-floating anxiety, intrusive memories of sexual abuse, periodic flashbacks to sexual abuse episodes, compulsive sex with prostitutes, compulsive use of pornography, and global insomnia.

Separation. Calvin, like many addicts, was coerced into psychotherapy; his wife insisted he get help or move out. I agreed to meet with him and perform an assessment. Since his addiction was powerful and active, I referred him to an inpatient detoxification and substance abuse treatment program; completion was prerquisite for beginning therapy. In my experience, psychotherapy with substance dependent patients cannot be effective until physical dependency is addressed and until the patient receives an exposure to substance abuse education and treatment that establishes a language and framework for recovery. Inpatient treatment also served the ritual initiation schema by affecting its initial stage, that of Separation from preliminal life. Separation operated on multiple levels for Calvin: separation from drugs, the drug subculture, and his distressed family. It also helped introduce an internal boundary, separating him from identification with his symptoms 5, containing them and placing them in a context where they could be exploited for the psyche’s rituals. Calvin successfully completed treatment and reported for psychotherapy clean and sober.

Ordeal. Early in my work with Calvin, I recommended that he participate in Narcotics Anony-mous (NA). A 12-Step program can supply the all-important element of communitas, in this case, a spiritually oriented social structure with the requisite companionship and mentoring to act as a ritual container. Communitas is essential for surviving the first sub-phase of Ordeal stage, that of creating a sacred space where the pain and chaos that routinely bombard an addict’s life can be exploited for a purposeful suffering that is the hallmark of a transformative passage.

Calvin complied with the recommendation and attended faithfully; he acquired a sponsor, diligently worked the steps, and achieved substantial “clean time.” Through his step work and dream work, he began to see that when drug-free he could allow trauma symptoms

to strip away his defenses, making him vulnerable not just to pain, but to spiritual experiences. He was shedding a profane identity based upon a trauma-based pathologizing mythology and opening to a new life story. Although Calvin’s success in psychotherapy and NA was predictably punctuated by setbacks and relapses typical of an Ordeal stage of ritual initiation, the degenerative violence that had dominated his life had begun to give way to a generative progression of meaning and healing. At this point, I was optimistic; it appeared that Calvin was advancing through the second sub-phase of the Ordeal stage, working towards resolution and rebirth. I was wrong.

Return. Success proved Calvin’s undoing. Calvin had a charismatic personality that encouraged others in his NA home group to place him on a high, precarious pedestal as a role model and confidante. Calvin did nothing to discourage them; he loved the attention and basked in the adulation. Ritual initiation, when successful, supplants an immature pre-initiation identity with a maturing spiritually-oriented one, analogous to the Jungian notion of the ego within an individuating psyche submitting to the authority of the Self (Edinger, 1972). This is the critical shift that precedes and allows for a sacred return to a profane world. Calvin, however, ultimately found it impossible to allow a heroic, adolescent-like ego identification to die and surrender to a rebirth into a mature postliminal identity. His recovery waxed and waned as he fought pitched battles against the relentless demons of trauma and addiction, all the while suspended in an abysmal chronic liminality from which he would never effectively return. I was grief stricken when I learned that Calvin was found dead of a heroin overdose in a downtown motel. From Death to Life

The limiting mythic container must be supplanted by a larger narrative that can hold and symbolically structure a complete ritual passage that leads to transformation. Kalsched (1996) observed: “The symbol is itself a bridge or link between us and the mystery of existence” (p. 142). An effective mythology contextually places the individual in relationship to the greater mysteries of life in such a way that personal meaning is connected to the transcendent (White, 1997). The new mythology must encompass the threat of death in a portrayal of sacred ritual death. It must move death from the physical to the psychological,


transitioning death from the ultimate threat to life into a prerequisite opportunity for initiation into a new life. The following is a case from the author’s practice that illustrates a transformative outcome.

Kathy: A Case of a Successful Passage

Kathy, a 44 year old woman, entered psychotherapy complaining of panic attacks, dissociative episodes

of flashbacks to early trauma experiences, hypervigilance, pervasive anxiety that unpredictably erupted into episodes of agitation and anger, global insomnia, periods of depression with suicidal ideations, and a deteriorating marriage. Her symptoms were lifelong, but now threatened a 20-year marriage she cherished. She found relief, temporarily, by literally escaping—impulsively jumping into her car and driving hundreds of miles, usually at night. She typically called her husband the next day to arrange to come home.

Separation. Kathy, at the beginning of her psychotherapy, asked that her husband attend with her. The husband was supportive by his own account and by hers; she insisted he was the only person she trusted and that she could not possibly come to therapy without him. After a few months, she felt comfortable enough to attend by herself. The therapeutic relationship had begun to provide a protective temenos that paralleled the preliminal Separation stage of ritual initiation. The term temenos is an alchemical allusion, used by Jung and his followers, to describe the sacred dimensions of intra-psychic or relational containment (Samuels, Shorter, & Plaut, 1986). Gradually, within well-defined boundaries, she became able to relate and reflect upon historical information that supported a complex posttrauma disorder diagnosis (van der Kolk, Roth, Pelcovitz, Sunday, & Spinazzola, 2005).

Kathy also revealed that she felt an unusual closeness to animals, that is, she felt she could communicate with them. She worked as a veterinary technician and maintained that animals, particularly dogs, could tell her what was wrong with them. Her intuitive diagnoses were nearly always borne out by her boss, the veterinarian. The veterinarian trusted her intuitive abilities and sometimes asked Kathy to consult on difficult cases. This was very satisfying to Kathy.

Ordeal. Kathy’s first Ordeal sub-phase was a living hell. She reported intact memories of brutal sexual molestation by her father, from ages 4 through 8. Her mother knew of the molestation, but failed to protect her. She described the memories as intrusive

and sometimes of a re-experiencing, flashback nature. Kathy also reported occasionally seeing ghosts or visions, primarily of an old woman who watched her. The visions frightened her because she realized no one else could see them and feared they signaled severe mental illness. Therapy aimed at helping her create a temenos, for the second sub-phase of the Ordeal stage, by first focusing upon self-regulation (diaphragmatic breathing and meditation) to help her contain and withstand the onslaught of symptoms. Further exploration entailed dreamwork, active imagination, and grief counseling.

As the experiences of her Ordeal stage became generative, Kathy came to see that her psyche was engaged in a healing process that was transformative. In the beginning, she only wanted the symptoms to stop and to “be normal like everyone else.” Gradually, she came to an understanding that her trauma history both wounded her and granted her unique opportunities to achieve the self-acceptance and self-esteem that had always eluded her. She learned that she could actively participate with what she came to recognize as a natural healing process. During her course of therapy, she successfully let go of her pathologizing mythology: fear-based strategies for managing her life and old self-images relating to failure and inadequacy. As a result, she assumed a spiritual outlook that granted new purpose and meaning to her life.

Return. The traumatic incidents of her past came to be viewed as events that ultimately, though painfully, forged a unique identity and created exceptional gifts. She felt that she had metaphorically died and had been reborn. At the close of her six years of psychotherapy, Kathy was no longer afraid to identify herself as a healer of animals and no longer afraid of her visions. She came to view her envisioned old woman as a wise spirit guide whose presence comforted her and gave her the confirming sense of security that her mother never could offer. Kathy’s debilitating symptoms relinquished, and she became serene and confident. Her passage through trauma enriched her marriage and the lives of many others she touched, including her psychotherapist.

Transformative Passage

Eliade (1958/1995) wrote: “It is only in initiation that death is given positive value” (p. xix). In the language

of traditional ritual passage, it must narrate a way for the survivor and the gods to mend their differences and live together. The survivor, of course must submit to the deities and learn to live on their terms. A new relationship to the


gods and goddesses and to one’s own life is required. It is this new relationship that allows for the integration of the traumatic past into a new posttrauma identity. When the gods are discovered in the disease, trauma is made sacred and ritual passage becomes possible. In contemporary terms, the subsequent psychotherapeutic acquisition of new identity is analogous to the ritual work of the Return stage. Identity, moral values, self-image, social standing, occupation, relationships of all kinds, and spiritual beliefs are all subject to revision and re-integration. It is a ritualized therapeutic enactment that reveals, transforms, and heals.

References

American Psychiatric Association. (2000). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (4th ed.–Text Revision). Washington, DC: Author.

Bernstein, J. S. (2005). Living in the Borderland: The evolution of consciousness and the challenge of healing trauma. New York, NY: Routledge.

Bion, W. R. (1962). Learning from Experience. London, UK: William Heinemann.

Cole, V. L. (2003). Healing principles: A model for the use of ritual in psychotherapy. Counseling and Val-ues, 47(3), 184-194. doi:10:1002/j.2161-007x.2003.tb00265.x

D’Aquila, E. G., & Laughlin, C. D. (1996). The neuro-biology of myth and ritual. In Grimes, R. L. (Ed.), Readings in ritual studies (pp. 132-146). Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.

Edinger, E. F. (1972). Ego and archetype. Boston, MA: Shambhala.

Eliade, M. (1995). Rites and symbols of initiation: The mysteries of birth and rebirth. Woodstock, CT: Spring. (Original work published 1958)

Girard, R. (1977). Violence and the sacred. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Grimes, R. L. (2000). Deeply into the bone: Re-inventing rites of passage. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Hart, D., & Sussman R. W. (2005). Man the hunted. Cambridge, MA: Westview Press.

Jung, C. G. (1967). Commentary on the secret of the golden flower. (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). In H. Read et al. (Series Eds.), The collected works of C. G. Jung (Vol. 13, p. 37). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1957)

Krippner, S., & Feinstein, D. (2006). Psychotherapy in a mythic key: The legacy of Carl Gustav Jung. ReVision, 28(4), 2-16.

Kalsched, D. (1996). The inner world of trauma: Archetypal defenses of the human spirit. London, UK: Routledge.

Moore, R. L. (1983). Contemporary psychotherapy as ritual process: An initial reconnaissance. Zygon, 18(3), 283-293. doi:10.1111/j.1467-9744.1983.tb00515.x

Moore, R. L. (2001). The archetype of initiation: Sacred space, ritual process and personal transformation. Philadelphia, PA: Xlibris.

Paulson, D. S. (2005). Walking the point: Male initiation and the Vietnam experience. New York, NY: Paraview.

Pfaller, R. (2003). Little gestures of disappearance: Interpassivity and the theory of ritual. Journal of European Psychoanalysis, 16, 3-16.

Samuels, A., Shorter, B. & Plaut, F. (1986). A critical dictionary of Jungian analysis. New York, NY: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Somé, M. P. (1994). Of water and the spirit: Ritual, magic and initiation in the life of an African shaman. New York, NY: Penguin.

Turner, V. (1995). The ritual process: Structure and anti-structure. Hawthorne, NY: Aldine de Gruyere. (Original work published 1969)

van der Kolk, B. A., Roth, S., Pelcovitz, D., Sunday, S., & Spinazzola, J. (2005). Disorders of extreme stress: The empirical foundation of complex adaptation to trauma. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 18, 389-399.

van Gennep, A. (1960). The rites of passage. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

Wallace, J. (1985) Working with the preferred defense structure of the recovering alcoholic. In Zimberg, S., Wallace, J., & Blume, S., Practical approaches to alcoholism psychotherapy (2nd ed.; pp. 23 -35). New York, NY: Plenum Press.

Wilson, J. P. (2004). The abyss experience and the trau-ma complex. Journal of Trauma and Dissociation, 5(3), 43-68. doi:10.1300/J229v05n03_04

White, R. A. (1997). Dissociation, narrative, and exceptional human experiences. In Krippner, S. C., & Powers, S. M. (Eds.), Broken images, broken selves: Dissociative narratives in clinical practice (pp. 88-121). Washington, DC: Brunner/Mazel.

Wyrostok, N. (1995). The ritual as a psychotherapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy, 32(3), 397-404. doi:10. 1037/0033-3204.32.3.397


Notes

1. Jerome Bernstein (2005) made the case that passage through trauma can play a role in a new evolvement of the human psyche. Trauma, according to Bernstein, can open a portal to a domain of exceptional consciousness that he referred to as Borderland. Borderland phenomena, as differentiated from Borderline psychopathology, may be concurrent with the debilitating symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD); however, it represents a perspective and a body of new attributes that can enrich and enhance the trauma survivor’s life.

2. The sequential generation of myths followed by ritual may not be universally supported. Research exists (Pfaller, 2003) identifying rites occurring without corresponding myths.

3. For an eloquent and dramatic account of a modern indigenous initiation, see Of Water and the Spirit: Ritual, Magic and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman by Malidoma Somé (1994).

4. Far too many soldiers who have returned from today’s wars tragically belong to this group. For a powerful account linking battlefield trauma to incomplete initiation, see Walking the Point: Male Initiation and the Vietnam Experience by Daryl Paulson (2005).

5. For the original presentation of this classic concept in the psychotherapy of substance abuse, see John Wallace’s (1985) chapter on theoretical orientation in Practical Approaches to Alcoholism Psychotherapy.

About the Author

Reed Morrison, PhD, is a licensed psychologist in private practice in Baltimore, Maryland, specializing in the treatment of addiction and trauma. He received his doctorate in psychology from Saybrook University in 1978. His postdoctoral studies include the Advance Studies Seminar of the Philadelphia Jung Society (2000-2002) and the Maryland Psychological Association Post Doctoral Institute on Psychological Trauma (2007- 2009). He co-founded and directed a publically funded drug treatment program in Baltimore (1973-1983), served as adjunct faculty in the Department of Psychiatry, University of Maryland School of Medicine (1979-1986), and is currently collaborating on research in conjunction with the Johns Hopkins University Center for Learning and Health. Dr. Morrison holds the APA-CPP Certificate

of Proficiency in addictions and is a charter member of APA Division 56 (Trauma Psychology). His writings have appeared in: the Alcoholism Treatment Quarterly, the Association for the Study of Dreams Newsletter, the Humanistic Psychology Institute Review, and Alcoholism and Spirituality. He has presented workshops nationally since 1977. Cello, dreamwork, grandparenting, and marriage (alphabetically!) prioritize his personal life.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 47Introduction to Parapsychology Special Section

Introduction to Special Topic Section:Parapsychology


Parapsychology could be defined as those aspects of psychology that are marginalized for the simple reason that they are not congruent with a

mechanical materialist model of mind implicit within much of mainstream psychology. To orthodox believers in this sort of materialism, parapsychological phenomena are necessarily the product of experimental errors magnified by the wishful thinking of uncritical researchers. From a transpersonal perspective, such critiques seem as if they might be based in an irrational attachment to certain philosophical assumptions about the nature of reality. An empirical attitude follows the evidence where it leads with both curiosity and skepticism, and greets challenges to its own fundamental assumptions with an openness to dialogue and reconsideration. Parapsychology has risen admirably to the challenge of pursuing exceptional human experiences with both experimental rigor and openness of mind, and in this way has set an example that is worthy of emulation.

There is significant overlap between para-psychology and transpersonal psychology, since many of the phenomena studied by parapsychologists are related in some way to spirituality. Precognition, telepathy, clairvoyance, and psychokinesis are experiences reported by and about mystics and spiritual adepts, while apparitional experiences, near-death experiences, and experiences suggestive of reincarnation are fre-quently interpreted as having spiritual significance. Parapsychologists tend to view these phenomena separate from their spiritual context, whereas transpersonal researchers are more likely to be interested also in how such experiences relate to spirituality as an aspect of human functioning. The issue of relationship between parapsych-ology and transpersonal scholarship is the topic of the first paper, by MacDonald and Friedman, entitled Transpersonal Psychology, Parapsychology, and Neurobiology: Clarifying their Relations. The authors

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 48 Kumar

suggest that nebulousness and lack of consistency in scientific constructs within transpersonal psychology and parapsychology have contributed to the lack of rigor and clarity in both fields. They examine ways in which transpersonal psychology and parapsychology are more alike than dissimilar in their goals, suggesting that both might find common ground through neurobiology.

The next paper, by Dein, considers what its title suggests: Mental Health and the Paranormal. He points to the rather remarkable fact that, despite the frequent denigration of paranormal experiences as some departure from soundness of mind, there is little research examining the relationship between mental health and such beliefs and experiences. He cites evidence that paranormal experiences are widespread within the general population, then examines the relationship of these to psychopathology in a number of areas including psi and the unconscious, dissociation and fantasy proneness, schizoptypy, transliminality and reality monitoring, child abuse, reasoning and information processing and transpersonal psychology. He concludes that there is no evidence that paranormal experiences, or belief in such experiences, is pathological per se, despite the fact that some paranormal experiences can mimic symptoms of psychosis, and that such experiences may trigger psychopathology or may also occur in the mentally ill. For this reason, it is important to be aware of the inherent differences between genuine paranormal experiences in a healthy individual and in someone who is clinically ill.

Following is a clinically-oriented paper by De Foe, titled with the practical question: How Should Therapists Respond to Client Accounts of Out-of-Body Experience? Despite the fact that nearly 10% of the population has had an out-of-body experience (OBE) at least once in their lifetime, few therapists have an adequate or confident sense of how to approach or treat a client who reports such an experience. DeFoe distinguishes OBEs from dissociation, autoscopy, and near-death experiences, all of which can be confused by a therapist unaware of what makes them different. After clarifying the nature of the OBE, DeFoe proposes two clinical approaches can be utilized in such cases: person-centered dialogue, and guided visualization. With the former, the therapist works to create an open and welcoming environment in order for the client to feel that he or she can talk freely about an experience that is often misunderstood or ignored. Similarly, guided

visualization coupled with normalization through psychoeducation about what OBEs are and are not can assist the client to reintegrate such experience(s) in ways that allow meaningful spiritual interpretations.

Reincarnation, a topic of interest to both para-psychology and transpersonal psychology, is the topic of Slavoutski’s paper, which asks, Is the Reincarnation Hypothesis Advanced by Stevenson for Spontaneous Past- life Experiences Relevant for the Understanding of the Ontology of Past-life Phenomena? The author undertakes a careful, critical, and thorough review of the relevant literature, then concludes that the past-life hypothesis is, in fact, the most complete and parsimonious one that has been advanced to explain these experiences.

Finally, Luke’s paper on Psychoactive Substances and Paranormal Phenomena: A Comprehensive Review, delivers on its title and provides an excellent overview of literature in the parapsychology field that relates to psychedelic experiences—chiefly drug-induced experi-ences of extrasensory perception, OBEs, and NDEs. This extensive paper brings together research not only from the fields of parapsychology and transpersonal studies, but also anthropology, ethnobotany, phytochemistry, psychiatry, psychotherapy, psychopharmacology, and neurobiology, and should serve as an invaluable resource for research in this interdisciplinary area of study. This collection of contemporary works in parapsychology is timely and relevant. It reflects the ways in which the field has evolved and adapted to not only the demands of a dominant worldview that is threatened by psi phenomena but also to the steadily evolving field of transpersonal studies. We hope that you are inspired and moved.

Sean Avila Saiter, Special Topic EditorBurlington College

Glenn Hartelius, EditorSofia University

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 49Transpersonal, Parapsychology, & Neurobiology

Transpersonal Psychology, Parapsychology, and Neurobiology:Clarifying their Relations

Douglas A. MacDonald1

University of Detroit MercyDetroit, MI, USA

Harris L. Friedman Walden University

Minneapolis, MN, USA


Mainstream psychology has long been suspicious of the worth of one of its subdisciplines, transpersonal psychology (e.g., Ellis & Yeager,

1989). However, this suspiciousness is exceeded by the almost stark rejection of another of its subdisciplines, parapsychology. This is exemplified by how parapsycho-logy is often used in introductory psychology texts to debunk pseudoscience and illustrate supposed problems in critical thinking (e.g., Wade & Tavris, 2008), while specific educational programs meant to dissuade students from any beliefs in parapsychological findings are designed to rectify so-called errors in proper thinking (Beins, 2002). As an example of this effect, one of us was openly allowed to pursue research on transpersonal phenomena as part of his doctoral studies within a mainstream psychology department; simultaneously, he was discouraged from publishing parapsychological data—as that was seen by his advisor as an act that would end all chances for his future acceptance as a legitimate

scholar within the academic mainstream (Friedman, 2010).

Nevertheless, both of these psychological subdisciplines share much in common, namely almost all spiritual traditions studied by transpersonal psychologists discuss so-called supernatural events such as the siddhis of Hindu yoga (Feuerstein, 1989) and miracles of Judeo-Christianity (Wilber, 1980), which are obviously similar to what parapsychologists study as so-called psychic events. Both subdisciplines also bring into question fundamental assumptions about the nature (or possible “supernature”) of the world, such as Tart’s (2009) questioning of the fundamental assumptions of materialism that underlie most contemporary scientific efforts, including being the basis of most contemporary approaches to psychology. However, instead of being viewed as closely related subdisciplines, there instead appears to be an interesting tension between parapsychology and transpersonal psychology,

Keywords: transpersonal psychology, parapsychology, neurobiology, science

Neurobiological advances have resulted in growing interest in many psychological phenomena heretofore resistant to scientific scrutiny, including within transpersonal psychology and parapsychology. These advances perhaps can resolve longstanding tensions between these two psychological subdisciplines, which have generally been treated as disparate. To implement such a rapprochement requires more than just additional empirical findings, as theoretical development is also needed. Consequently, we identify some important theoretical problems, such as conventional assumptions about scientific naturalism and materialism that potentially undermine substantive advances in further understanding such phenomena through neurobiology. We also discuss links between parapsychology and transpersonal psychology that can be forged through neurobiology (e.g., identifying specific brain regions that can serve as candidates for future investigations in parapsychology and transpersonal psychology).

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 50 MacDonald & Friedman

despite the occasional works by scholars who attempt to bridge across them (e.g., Braud, 2004; Tart, 2002). Our purpose in this paper is to juxtapose transpersonal psychology into closer alignment with parapsychology by grounding both within a neurobiological perspective. By this, we do not mean to imply that either of these subdisciplines can be reduced to just neurobiology, as the radical implications of both point beyond such a reduction. Rather we think a neurobiological approach provides a useful lens to see some of their similarities and differences, as could other approaches (e.g., social psychological).

Both prior and subsequent to the emergence of psychology as a formal discipline, scientists and laypersons alike have demonstrated a fascination with psychic phenomena (Broughton, 1991; Leahey, 1987).2, 3

This fascination is quite controversial, and there are ample published commentaries generated by both counteradvocates (e.g., Alcock, 1990) and advocates (e.g., Tart, 2002) of parapsychology. Occasionally these advocates and counteradvocates have engaged in dialogue with each other, but most commonly they approach their positions from incommensurate, starting assumptions (e.g., that all can or cannot be explained by materialistic reductions) and frequently even cast aspersions on each other’s credibility and character (see Krippner & Friedman, 2010a).

However, over the past three decades, significant changes in the attitude of the scientific establishment toward spiritual and transpersonal phenomena have occurred (e.g., with the huge number of scientific papers recently published on spirituality), with an accompanying and refreshing openness to seriously examining such areas as spirituality, mysticism, and anomalous/non-ordinary experience, much of this resulting from new avenues of investigation opened by advances in neurobiology (see Krippner & Friedman, 2010b). It is now not only relatively commonplace to see empirical and theoretical studies on these topics in many of psychology’s and psychiatry’s most respected journals, but there are also several subdisciplines in psychology that have emerged dedicating themselves to investigating such topics.4 As proponents of transpersonal psychology (i.e., one of the emergent subdisciplines concerned with spiritual experiences), we see the current climate in the psychological sciences as a boon for research on aspects of human functioning that have been typically marginalized by the broader field of psychology. More

specifically, while we ourselves are somewhat critical about the appropriateness of applying only naturalistic and materialistic assumptions inherent in contemporary science to the study of spirituality and transpersonal states (MacDonald & Friedman, 2001), as well as to psychic experiences (Krippner & Friedman, 2010b), we are nevertheless excited and highly supportive of efforts to identify robust neurobiological correlates of these expressions of consciousness through conventional scientific investigative methodologies.

Thus the currency of transpersonal psychology, at least as seen in the light of the growing popularity of spirituality as a field of study, appears to be ascending, while parapsychology largely remains in disrepute. Given the overlap between the two psychological subdiscipines, however, we expect eventually some benefit of the astounding success of spirituality studies to eventually inure to parapsychology. Review of the extant literature, however, reveals to us two overlapping trends that temper our enthusiasm and even raise some red flags pointing to potential problems. First, while parapsychological phenomena often have been tied to religion and spirituality (as seen in both the psychological and religious literature; MacDonald, 2000), little rigorous research has been done to firmly establish the conceptual boundaries between these areas. That is, how are they related, and how are they different? Also, should they be viewed as parts or facets of a larger construct domain or process?

Upon first thought, the distinction between these areas might seem somewhat straightforward. For example, it may be argued that spirituality is generally and best seen as reflecting a universal aspect of human functioning concerning experience of what has been considered sacred and transcendent (as has been advanced by Pargament, 2007), while parapsychological phenomena reflect expressions of consciousness that involve anomalous transfer of information and/or energy, and similar phenomena.

Unfortunately, such delineation does not find clear representation in, or support from, the literature. From a neurobiological vantage, some argue for a model wherein experiential states and possibly even beliefs associated with all three areas are linked to activation of specific regions of the brain (e.g., Persinger, 1983, 1984a, b; Neppe, 1984, 1990). Alternatively, others assert that all such experiences are the product of the fundamental transpersonal (and non-material) nature (or supernature)


of consciousness that itself is intrinsically disposed toward facilitating non-ordinary states as a function of an innate developmental potential toward self-realization and self-transcendence (e.g., Grof, 1988, 1992; Grof & Grof, 1990; Wilber, 1980). Others still discuss these areas as being comprised of complex experiential, cognitive, social, biological, and/or behavioral components (e.g., MacDonald, 2000; Tart, 1979; Walsh & Vaughan, 1993).

To further illustrate with a more concrete example, there is a startling array of definitions and assessment tools available to measure parapsychological, spiritual, and transpersonal constructs that not only demonstrate little congruence in conceptualization but also tend to have generally weak evidence supporting their validity. In several surveys of the available testing literature, we uncovered over 100 measures relevant to this area of inquiry (MacDonald, LeClair, Holland, Alter, & Friedman, 1995; MacDonald, Friedman, & Kuentzel, 1999; MacDonald, Kuentzel, & Friedman, 1999) and our ongoing literature reviews5 indicate many more have been developed since 1999.

By extension, the lack of conceptual consistency across instruments and studies has contributed to the appearance of a divergent, muddled, and even contradictory body of scientific knowledge concerning the relation of transpersonal and parapsychological beliefs and experiences to conventional areas of psychological functioning (MacDonald & Friedman, 2002). Moreover, the nebulousness of the constructs and their relations to one another have contributed to a tendency of many mainstream researchers and practitioners to selectively look at spirituality/transpersonality as distinct from parapsychology and to exclude the latter from the domain of study (e.g., Miller, 1999; Paloutzian & Parks, 2005; Pargament, 2007; Plante & Sherman, 2001; Richards & Bergin, 1997). However, since almost all religious and spiritual traditions acknowledge the existence of parapsychological phenomena (e.g., siddhis and miracles), the possibility of such phenomena, even outside of a strictly religious and spiritual context, stirs a sense of awe that can only be seen as germane to religious, spiritual/transpersonal studies.

The second and perhaps more insidious trend that we have noticed, one that is essentially the product of the growing interest of contemporary science focused on these phenomena, concerns the manner in which mainstream psychology has been applying the

presumptions of scientific naturalism to the explanation of spirituality and parapsychological phenomena. There are two manifestations of this trend. In its extreme and traditional form, naturalism is reified and treated as the only basis for which phenomena of any sort can be defined as knowable by science (see Friedman & Pappas, 2006). As applied to any and all aspects of human experience, this expresses itself as a form of reductionism (e.g., the cause of any human experience is attributed wholly and completely to a neurobiological structure, mechanism, or process and/or its significance is linked to its functional adaptive and survival value). An example of this as it relates to spiritual and/or parapsychological experience comes from the work of Michael Persinger (e.g., 1983), who since the early 1980s has been generating evidence in support of a putatively reductionistic neurobiological model that explains such phenomena as a product of non-ordinary activity in the amygdaloid-hippocampal regions of the temporal lobe. For Persinger, spirituality, religion, and parapsychological experience can be totally understood as aberrant activities of the brain.

A more recent variation of naturalistic reductionism can be found in the area of evolutionary psychology where religion and spirituality, but not so much parapsychological phenomena, are viewed in terms of their functional adaptive and survival value, rather than as being non-normal and, by implication, pathological (e.g., Kirkpatrick, 2005). Regardless, such theories still assume that such experiences and their sequelae/outcomes serve wholly biological, rather than perhaps transpersonal, purposes. The second manifestation, one that upon first glance seems to skirt the problems with reductionism, relates to arguments maintaining that spiritual and parapsychological experience is ontologically real if a link can be found between subjective reports of experiential states and identifiable neurobiological activity occurring at the time of the self-report. Andrew Newberg and colleagues (Newberg, D’Aquili, & Rause, 2002) are perhaps the best-known proponents of this form of naturalism (though certainly not the only examples—see the work of Beauregard & O’Leary, 2007). In their brain imaging research of meditators and religious practitioners engaged in prayer, Newberg et al. found evidence of differential brain activity at the time when the research participants were reporting a sense of expanded or transcendent sense of self. They concluded, based upon their data, that “mystical


experience is biologically, observably, and scientifically real” (p. 7). To their credit, and unlike those who engage in more extreme reductionism, Newberg and others have not used their findings to argue that spirituality or anomalous experience should be understood in terms of neurobiology alone. Rather, they appear to have left open the possibility that such experience may reflect legitimate transcendent realities. That is congruent with the position of one of us, who has argued that transpersonal psychology should limit itself to naturalistic methods but not discount the possibility of the importance of that which may legitimately be beyond the limits of naturalistic science (Friedman, 2002). While we are more comfortable with the latter expression of naturalism, since it permits a view of the experience-brain relationship as being correlative rather than causal, both the extreme and moderate versions (of which we will refer to as simple naturalism) do not provide satisfying accounts of spiritual/transpersonal and parapsychological experiences. In particular, and despite efforts on the part of investigators like Newberg et al. (2002) to accommodate the esoteric spiritual literature (e.g., they make reference to the concept of neti neti or “not this not that”), they are as guilty as the extremists in engaging in representationalism or in confusing expres-sions of anomalous experience with the experience itself.

Coming at this from another angle and following the argumentation of Ken Wilber (1990), a preeminent transpersonal theorist (although he now disavows con-nection to the transpersonal movement), these researchers are engaging in category errors: they confuse methods, levels of knowing, and levels of being—and end up reducing the inherent complexity of experience to only one level. Finally, it seems premature to advance either causal or correlative neurobiological models of spiritual/transpersonal or parapsychological experience when psychological and medical sciences are still grappling with basic issues about how the brain relates to mind and experience (e.g., it is becoming increasingly apparent that simple structural models of the brain do not explain any psychological function adequately and that the brain is as much shaped by experience as it causes experience; Shapiro & Walsh, 2003). This approach of using neurobiology in a reductive way seems to us to run the risk of preempting alternative formulations about the nature and meaning of spiritual and parapsychological experience in a manner that will discourage creative and possibly more fruitful theoretical and empirical developments.

Delineating the Relationship betweenthe Transpersonal and the Paranormal5

As we hope the reader can appreciate, there are many reasons to view conventional scientific approaches

to spirituality/transpersonality and parapsychological phenomena with some reservation, if not outright skepti-cism. The problems with simple naturalism, reification, reductionism, and poor delineation and description of the phenomena of interest appear to us to be very real limitations of the available research. If these are not dutifully and diligently addressed and addressed soon, they will likely result in much of the current work having little impact or lasting influence within science—outside of encouraging future scientists to make the same errors in thinking.

The history of psychology is replete with cul-de-sacs of theory and research wherein the well-intentioned efforts of bright and capable people were usurped and ultimately wasted by the groupthink mentality and ostensible hard-science envy characteristic of much of the scientific, psychological establishment (see Krippner & Friedman, 2010a). We believe that transpersonal and parapsychological phenomena are too important to risk any further marginalization; as such, we need to find solutions to these problems. Though we are of the mindset that the paradigmatic assumptions of science will ultimately need to be revised to accommodate the study of transpersonal and parapsychological phenomena (especially those assumptions concerning naturalism and the relationship of language/symbol to experience), this will require extensive discussion, which goes beyond the scope of this paper. Alternatively, the definitional issues appear to be fairly straightforward to address and seem to us to hold the greatest promise of furthering the goals of legitimate inquiry, mostly through the use of the burgeoning work on spirituality as a means of generating meaningful hypotheses for exploring possible parapsychological-neurobiological connections. While there has been a tendency of researchers (at least within the mainstream) to differentiate and compartmentalize spiritual/transpersonal and parapsychological data, there is growing theoretical and empirical literature to support the integration of the two with parapsychological data being subsumed as an emergent part of spiritual development (e.g., Beauregard & O’Leary, 2007; Braud, 2004; Griffin, 1997; Levin, 2001). One of the earliest and most systematic expositions supporting this position comes from the work of


Patanjali, one of the founders of yoga, who referred to siddhis, or paranormal powers, as something often seen as aspiring practitioners proceed along the spiritual path (Feuerstein, 1989; Taimni, 1961). It is also important to note that the development of such powers is generally seen as distractions (and perhaps even impediments) from a transpersonal perspective, such as pursuit of so-called spiritual enlightenment. Yogic systems are also by no means the only religious/spiritual ones to recognize the existence of parapsychological phenomena as an integral part of spirituality. In his impressive and highly influential spectrum model of development, Wilber (1980) contended that all spiritual and religious systems, both Eastern and Western, acknowledge such potentials. Within his model, Wilber placed the emergence of parapsychological capabilities (ESP, psychokinesis, and other forms of psi) at the level of the low subtle self, a stage of development that is witnessed as adepts move past integrated mindbody self to higher causal levels of consciousness and awareness. Other seminal transpersonalists, most notably Grof (1992) and Tart (1969), have also advanced models of human consciousness that accommodate parapsychological capa-bilities as a natural part of humanity’s developmental potential. Last in this regard, indigenous healing systems have always posited such capabilities, but have tended to emphasize they be used to help others rather than for personal aggrandizement (Krippner, Johnson, & Friedman, 2009). Turning to more empirically-based research, there is evidence supporting (a) an association between paranormal beliefs and other more conventional compo-nents of spirituality/transpersonality, (b) increased eleva-tions in belief in parapsychological phenomena concurrent to increases in other recognized areas of spirituality/transpersonality and, perhaps most importantly, (c) inclusion of paranormal beliefs and experiences proper in measurement models of spirituality/transpersonality. For instance, Mathew, Mathew, Wilson, and Georgi (1995) developed a measure of spirituality for use in substance abuse research that defined spirituality in terms of six facets, including the following: belief in God, religious practices, mystical experiences, existence of the soul after death, the value of altruism and unselfishness, and belief in paranormal phenomena. When using their tool in a study of 12-step programs such as Alcoholics Anonymous, they found that scores for all six facets increased in people demonstrating more positive outcomes in reducing addictive behaviors.

More substantively, MacDonald (2000) devel-oped a factor-analytically derived measurement model wherein he defined spirituality as a construct domain relatively independent of conventional personality that is comprised of five broad order dimensions labeled Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality (i.e., belief in the existence of spirituality and its relevance to daily living), Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension (i.e., spiritual, mystical, transcendent experiences), Existential Well-Being (i.e., perception of self as having meaning and purpose in life and as having the resources to cope with adversity), Religiousness (i.e., religious practices and general beliefs of a relationship to a higher power), and Paranormal Beliefs (i.e., belief in the reality of parapsychological phenomena). When he completed a second order factor analysis of these five dimensions, MacDonald found that Paranormal Beliefs and the Experiential/Phenomenological Dimension loaded appreciably on the same factor while Cognitive Orientation toward Spirituality and Religiousness loaded on a separate factor. He ended up identifying the former factor as a dimension reflecting non-ordinary beliefs and experiences.

MacDonald and Friedman (2002) subsequently summarized the findings of the initial research using MacDonald’s (2000) model and an associated measurement tool, the Expressions of Spirituality Inventory (ESI). The ESI data revealed that the dimensions concerning spiritual experience and paranormal beliefs produce somewhat similar patterns of associations to a variety of psychological and personality variables (e.g., they are both positively correlated to measures of openness to experience, self-transcendence, and epileptic-like signs; both are unrelated to boredom proneness and social desirability). Interestingly, more so than the other ESI dimensions, the Paranormal Beliefs dimension has been the most likely to show significant relations to measures of psychopathology (e.g., paranoid ideation; MacDonald & Friedman).

In addition, Friedman (e.g., Friedman, 1983; Pappas & Friedman, 2007) has developed a naturalistic, materialistic model of transpersonal self-expansiveness, one that explicitly allows for non-material or paranormal implications to be considered. These are also discussed in terms of the traditional philosophical duality of immanence in relation to transcendence with the argument that there is no inherent superiority to either a materialistic or naturalistic model as compared to a supernatural model (Friedman & Pappas, 2006).


Neurobiological Correlates of Spirituality

Having hopefully established that the domains of spiritual/transpersonal and parapsychological data

are strongly related, we now present an overview of what some of the more salient research has shown with regard to neurobiological correlates of spirituality.7 As we stated previously, our intention is to help identify potential brain structures/regions for which more focused prospective parapsychological research may be attempted. It is important to note up front that much of the extant research examining neurobiological correlates has tended to center on spiritual experiences and non-ordinary states of consciousness associated with spiritual practices (e.g., meditation, prayer). Less research has involved beliefs, attitudes, and self-appraisal of function-ing (all of which seem to be associated with the Existential Well-Being dimension of the ESI). With that in mind, most of the existing research can be classified into one of three categories: (a) clinical neurology and neurobiological research involving known brain path-ologies, most notably temporal lobe epilepsy and/or stimulation of the brain, (b) examination of brain activity using electroencephalography (EEG) during or immediately following a self-reported spiritual/transpersonal experience and (c) examination of brain activity during or immediately following a self-reported non-ordinary state of consciousness using brain imaging technologies such as Single Positron Emission Computed Tomography (SPECT) and Functional Magnetic Reso-nance Imaging (fMRI). We will look at each of these in turn.Brain Pathologies and Manipulation of Brain Operations

Research and clinical cases involving dysfunctional or damaged brain structures has led to a number of hypotheses regarding the relation of brain regions to spiritual/transpersonal and paranormal experiences and beliefs including, most generally, right hemi-spheric activity and, more specifically, aberrant temporal lobe activation (Fenwick, 2001). As noted earlier, one of the more widely known psychological investigators of this area is Persinger. He has not only built his temporal lobe continuum model (e.g., Persinger, 1983; Persinger, 1984b; Persinger & Makarec, 1993) on the work done with temporal lobe epileptics (e.g., see Bear & Fedio, 1977; Geschwind, 1983) and on direct stimulation of structures within the temporal lobes (amygdala and

hippocampus specifically; Persinger & Makarec, 1993) but has even developed a magnetic helmet (known as “the God helmet”). This device has been used to purportedly induce non-ordinary states (such as a felt sense of presence and mystical experiences) by changing the magnetic fields around the temporal lobes (Persinger & Healey, 2002).8 As it stands, the temporal lobes and the associated limbic system structures are viewed as one of the most common brain regions implicated in spiritual and paranormal experiences (Neppe, 1984, 1990; Saver & Rabin, 1997).

EEG studies. In general, EEG studies have shown brain wave changes in people engaged in meditation (Hood, Spilka, Hunsberger, & Gorsuch, 1996; Paloutzian & Park, 2005; Tart, 1969). More specifically, in their review of the meditation research, Shapiro and Walsh (2003) summarized the findings of several studies that show “enhanced alpha and theta EEG power and coherence in frontal and central regions of the brain” (p. 98) during meditation. One study of particular interest that they discuss was reported by Travis (2001) who found that varying EEG and autonomic nervous system patterns are found with different types of self-reported experiential states during Transcendental Meditation with self-reported “transcending” experiences showing elevated EEG alpha amplitude and greater levels of alpha coherence relative to other self-reported experiences. A second interesting project was reported by Dunn, Hartigan, and Mikulas (1999) who found EEG differences between meditators and people engaged in closed eye relaxation and between different forms of meditation (i.e., concentrative versus mindfulness).

Beauregard and O’Leary (2007) described a quantitative EEG study of Carmelite nuns encouraged to self-induce a mystical experience while in an isolation chamber. They reported that increased theta activity was found in several brain regions including the insula, the right inferior parietal lobe, the superior parietal lobe, the right inferior and medial temporal lobe, the anterior cingulated cortex, and the medial prefrontal cortex. Finally, Persinger and colleagues have published findings indicating that a variety of non-ordinary states, including mystical experience and glossolalia (i.e., speaking in tongues), are associated with unique EEG profiles for the temporal lobes, but not for other regions of the brain (Persinger, 1984c; Persinger & Makarec, 1993).


Brain imaging studies. Turning next to the work utilizing complex imaging technology, Newberg et al. (2001) and Newberg, d’Aquili, and Rause (2002) examined changes in blood flow in cerebral regions using SPECT in samples of seasoned meditators and nuns engaged in prayer both before and immediately after a meditative/prayer session. They found significant increases in blood flow in several areas including the cingulate gyrus (implicated in executive functioning and involved with attentional processes), the frontal cortex (both inferior and orbital areas), the prefrontal cortex (dorsolateral areas), and decreased blood flow to the posterior superior parietal lobe (which they call the orientation association area). For the latter finding, Newberg and colleagues hypothesized that decreased activation of the association area seems to account for the dissolution of a separate self-sense leading to self-reported mystical and transcendent states of consciousness.

In another study, Lazar et al. (2000) used fMRI to examine brain activity during a session of kundalini meditation in a small sample of experienced meditators. Several specific brain structures were found to demonstrate increased activation including the midbrain, the putamen, the anterior cingulate cortex, and hippocampal structures. Additional analyses done during steady state meditation (as opposed to meditation induction) reported an increased activation in a number of brain organs in the prefrontal, parietal, and temporal lobes (Shapiro & Walsh, 2003). Last, Beauregard and O’Leary (2007) reported the results of fMRI studies of Carmelite nuns asked to recall and relive (in essence self-inducing) a significant past mystical experience. Findings indicated that several brain regions are implicated in mystical experience, including, but not limited to, the temporal lobes, the inferior parietal lobe, the visual cortex, and the caudate nucleus. They concluded that such experiences “are complex and multidimensional and mediated by a number of brain regions normally implicated in perception, cognition, emotion, body representation, and self-consciousness” (p. 272).

Conclusion

Despite the fact that there is still considerable debate about whether or not parapsychological phenomena are veridical (see end note 6 and

especially the description of the recently published study by Moulton & Kosslyn, 2008), in so far as they are seen to be associated with spirituality/transpersonality,

the research presented here provides several excellent leads on neurobiological, especially anatomical, struc-tures that may be implicated in psi phenomena and experiences involving the appearance of anomalous information transfer. Brain regions involved in executive functions (e.g., prefrontal and frontal cortices), sensory-motor and self-boundary maintenance (parietal lobes), and emotions (e.g., limbic system and temporal lobes with particular emphasis on amygdaloid-hippocampal structures, especially in the right cerebral hemisphere) seem particularly worthy of further investigation. With that stated, recent neuroimaging research suggests that efforts to identify a specific brain organelle (or a limited number of brain areas) associated with spirituality in general or parapsychological events in particular might not be the most fruitful avenue for research. Instead, it may be better to approach the study of neurobiological connections with both parapsychology and spirituality/transpersonality in terms of complex interactions between multiple neurobiological structures and phenomenolo-gical experience, as well as possible psychic events. Nevertheless, and in closing, we are very pleased that mainstream science has started to direct its attention toward exploring anomalous experiences (see Cardena, Lynn, & Krippner, 2004) from a neurobiological vantage that includes the topic of spirituality/transpersonality. We hope that an interest in this area will flourish and be increasingly productive in future years, including facilitating an increasing rapprochement between the psychological subdisciplines of transpersonal psychology and parapsychology.

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Notes

1. This is based on MacDonald, D. A., & Friedman, H. L. (2008, August). Correspondence regarding this paper should be send to the first author at University of Detroit Mercy, Department of Psychology, 4001 West McNichols Road, Detroit, Michigan, 48221-3038, USA. Phone (313) 578-0388; email [email protected]

2. By psychic phenomena, we are referring to transpersonal states and modes of consciousness and experience that indicate that consciousness may operate in a non-local fashion (i.e., is not limited to the location and sensory parameters of the physical body or the brain) and/or involve anomalous information or influence transfer (i.e., transfer of information or influence that does not follow typical sensory and neurological avenues). This includes such phenomena as out-of-body experiences, near-death-experiences, mystical/spiritual experiences, as well as possible events, such as ESP (i.e., precognition [including precognitive dreams], psychokinesis, telepathy, clairvoyance] past-life reports, and spiritualist phenomena (e.g., apparitions, hauntings, ghosts). The term “psi” only includes ESP, psychokinesis, and putative life-after-death phenomena, such as past-life reports and spiritualist phenomena.

3. For example, many of the important figures in the history of psychology, including G. T. Fechner (generally considered the founder of psychophysics, a discipline that arguably represents the beginning of psychology as an experimental science, and author of the Little Book of Life after Death published in 1836), F. W. H. Myers (who published the impressive text Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death in 1903, one of the first formal efforts to provide a comprehensive study of anomalous psychological events), William James (considered to be the founder of American psychology who served as president of the American Society for Psychical Research founded in the late 19th century), and Carl Jung (an associate of Freud who broke from him and developed his own comprehensive theory of the human psyche, one that addressed psychic events as legitimate expressions of human psychology)


invested considerable energy toward the description and elucidation of what are now generally called parapsychological or psi-related phenomena.

4. These subdisciplines include parapsychology (i.e., the study of psi including organism-organism and organism-environment interactions that appear to transcend contemporary science’s understanding of time, space, and energy), transpersonal psychology (i.e., the study of consciousness, experience, and behaviors that appear to transcend conventional notions of self and identity), and, most recently, neurotheology (i.e., the study of religious and spiritual constructs in terms of their neurobiological functions and correlates; see Newberg, D’Aquili, & Rause, [2002]; Ratcliffe [2006]; Shapiro & Walsh [2003] ). Humanistic psychology and the psychology of religion are two other psychological subdisciplines that have actively embraced studies of spirituality and associated phenomena, though with much less emphasis than the other areas described.

5. At the time of writing this paper, we along with a third collaborator are continuing our literature survey updates intended to provide information on new instrumentation as well as summaries of the findings of empirical research using tests described in our already published articles.

6. While there is still considerable debate regarding research supporting the ontological validity of parapsychological phenomena (e.g., Bem 1994; Bem & Honorton, 1994; Bierman, Broughton, & Berger, 1998; Hyman, 1994; Storm, 2000; Storm & Ertel, 2001, 2002; Wiseman, Smith, & Kornbrot, 1996), for the sake of this paper, we simply assume that the reality of such phenomena is potentially veridical. With that stated, a study by Moulton and Kosslyn (2008) is worth mentioning. Their investigation involved the use of fMRI to investigate whether or not psi phenomena are linked to any specific neurobiological changes. This study is noteworthy because of their efforts to make their design highly sensitive to the presence of psi by utilizing emotionally charged stimuli (presumably conducive to the elicitation of psi) and biologically and emotionally related research participants (e.g., twins), but they found no differences in neuronal responses to psi-conducive stimuli compared to non-psi conducive stimuli and concluded that their findings provide compelling evidence that psi phenomena are not

veridical because they did not show any identifiable neurobiological basis. However, Moulton and Kosslyn’s data was characterized by non-significant results, bringing into question whether or not this is any sort of definitive test, as they claimed. Thus, the debate over the veridicality of purported psi phenomena continues.

7. While research has examined a variety of genetic, physiological, and neurobiological functions and systems in relation to different aspects and forms of spirituality (e.g., see Comings, Gonzales, Saucier, Johnson, & MacMurray, 2000; Shapiro & Walsh, 2003), we have elected to only cover work examining the relation of spirituality to specific brain structures.

8. As discussed at length by Beauregard and O’Leary (2007), efforts to replicate Persinger’s findings with the God helmet have not been always successful. In particular, they cite a study by Pehr Granqvist and colleagues who attempted to repeat Persinger’s findings using a double blind study and concluded that personality factors, most notably suggestibility, and not the God helmet itself, seem to best account for Persinger’s results.

About the Authors

Harris L. Friedman, PhD, supervises dissertation research at Walden Univeristy, and is Research Professor of Psychology (Retired) at University of Florida and Professor Emeritus at Saybrook University, as well as a Florida licensed psychologist. He received his PhD in Clinical Psychology at Georgia State University, holds the Diploma in Clinical Psychology, as well as in Organizational and Business Consulting Psychology, from the American Board of Professional Psychology, and is a Fellow of the American Psychological Association. He is past President of the International Transpersonal Association, and serves as the Senior Editor of the International Journal of Transpersonal Studies and the Associate Editor of The Humanistic Psychologist. He chairs the Transpersonal Psychology Interest Group and co-chairs the Positive Psychology Interest Group of the American Psychological Association’s Society for Humanistic Psychology (Division 32). He has published over 200 professional books, book chapters, and articles. Currently he is co-editing The Wiley-Blackwell Handbook of Transpersonal Psychology, The Praeger Handbook of Applied Transpersonal Psychology (2 vols.), The Praeger


Handbook on Social Justice and Psychology (2 vols.), and Advances in Parapsychological Research (Volumes 9 & 10).

Douglas A. MacDonald, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Psychology at the University of Detroit Mercy, in Detroit, Michigan, USA and a licensed psychologist in Ontario, Canada. He has been doing research in the area of spirituality for the past 20 years and is involved in an editorial capacity with a number of scholarly journals. Email [email protected] or [email protected]. Phone: (313) 578-0388, Address: 4001 West McNichols Road, Detroit, MI 48221-3038 USA.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 61Mental Health and the Paranormal

Mental Health and the Paranormal

Simon Dein University College London and Durham University

London and Durham, UK

To date, there has been a dearth of work examining the relationships between paranormal experiences and mental health. After defining paranormal experience and its prevalence, I examine a number of areas related to paranormal experience and psychopathology: psi and the unconscious, dissociation and fantasy proneness, schizotypy, transliminality and reality monitoring, child abuse, reasoning and information processing, and transpersonal psychology. Finally, I discuss the clinical implications of these findings.


Annette, a woman in her sixties, reported an experience that typically would be referred to as telepathic. She had been separated from husband

Alan for many years and had no contact with him. When the couple separated, she continued to live in the family home in London while he had immigrated to Melbourne. She suddenly awoke from her sleep one night with the distinct feeling that something was seriously wrong with Alan. Rather concerned, she phoned Alan at home to find that he had been admitted to a hospital with a heart attack. A few days later when she contacted the hospital, she was able to speak to Alan who told her that he had been thinking of her before his heart attack. This was by no means the first time that Annette had such experiences. She claimed that she would generally sense that one of her friends or relatives was experiencing a difficult problem in their lives even though, she emphasized, they had not physically contacted her, and, in some instances, she had not communicated with them for some time. Her mental health did not suffer as a result of these experiences.

Mark, a 25-year-old man, had recently been admitted to a hospital in a very agitated state. For several months, he had neglected himself and become convinced that neighbors were interfering with his thoughts. He maintained that strangers could read his thoughts. His neighbors were able to replace his thoughts with theirs, an experience that he found very traumatic. In addition, he claimed that he could hear his neighbors’ voices coming in through the walls of his house. The psychiatrist looking after him made a diagnosis of schizophrenia based upon classical, Schneiderian, first rank symptoms

including thought insertion, thought broadcasting, and third person auditory hallucinations. He was started on antipsychotic medication, and after several weeks, his “psychotic” symptoms largely disappeared.

How might both these experiences be understood? In the first instance there are several possible explanations: coincidence, a vivid dream, ESP, fabrication, and/or unresolved attachment issues. In the second instance, it is likely that most people would consider Mark mad, in the lay sense, in view of his bizarre experiences. Whereas Annette was able to function, this was not the case for Mark. There are, however, similarities between the two cases. Both individuals claimed to have experiences that are not readily accounted for in terms of folk psychology, that is, the information that lay people have about the mind. In both instances, they were convinced that thoughts could travel though space from one person to another breaching the boundaries between the self and the outside world. Both experiences could be defined as anomalous. What makes people cross the psychotic threshold is not necessarily the content but the consequences of their beliefs. As Peters (2001) rightly pointed out, it is not what you believe, it is how you believe it.

Anomalous Experiences in the General Population

Anomalous experience is an umbrella term for types of strange experiences, which science does not

yet fully understand or cannot yet explain. They are assumed to deviate from ordinary experiences or from the usually accepted explanations of reality and are often

Keywords: mental health , paranormal, anomalous , schizophrenia, transpersonal, clinical applications

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 62 Dein

seen as bizarre. Experiences are anomalous on account of the fact that they are not explicable by “normal,” folk psychology or conventional scientific processes including folk physics. Both psychiatry and parapsychology focus on anomalous phenomena such as visions, voices, and thought processes, and there is obvious overlap between them. In this paper, I will outline the relationship between the two disciplines. Psychiatrists have a longstanding interest in anomalous phenomena (Murray, 2012).

In contrast to the traditional categorical approach to psychosis adopted in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), there is emerging interest in a more dimensional view, which proposes that psychosis-like beliefs, perceptual distortions, and idiosyncrasies of thought and communication, considered characteristic diagnostic criteria for psychosis, are distributed (albeit to varying degrees) throughout the general population (for a recent systematic review of this topic, see van Os, Linscott, Myin-Germeys, Delespaul, & Krabbendam, 2009, and Nuevo et al., 2010). Alexander Moreira-Almeida and Etzel Cardeña (2011) noted that evidence of a high prevalence of psychotic experiences in the general, non-clinical population and several other recent research findings have fueled sophisticated criticisms of the current concepts of schizophrenia and the diagnostic criteria used by the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems (ICD-10) and the DSM-IV. This approach views florid psychosis as comprising the most extreme pole of the population spectrum. Phenomena that psychiatrists regard as truly pathological have been found to be prevalent in the general population. One question, which arises from this dimensional view, is how such anomalous experiences become clinically significant.

Reports of paranormal experiences are prevalent in the general population with over half of the population reporting at least one such experience (Ross & Joshi, 1992). According to Targ, Schlitz, and Irwin (2000), in most countries where surveys have been conducted, psi related experiences have been reported by over half the population. A prevalence of over 50% has been found in surveys undertaken in North America, Great Britain, other countries in Europe, especially Iceland, the Middle East, Brazil, South Africa, Asia, and Australasia (Cardeña, Lynn, & Krippner, 2000). The most commonly reported paranormal experiences involve apparent telepathy (acknowledged by about a third, and sometimes as

much as half, of the population) or clairvoyance (in about a fifth of the population). The systematic study of spontaneous paranormal experiences has developed also through the study of numerous collections of individual case reports beginning in the late 1800s and continuing until the present. The large volume of these case studies reinforces the view of paranormal experiences as widespread in the general population (adapted from Targ et al., 2000, pp. 222-223). In the USA, a poll of belief in paranormal phenomena based upon 1,236 adults (Gallup & Newport, 1991) reported that one out of every four Americans believes in ghosts and one in six Americans has felt that they have been in touch with someone who has died. In the UK, an opinion poll of 1000 British adults (Daily Mail, 2/2/98) found that 64% maintained that some people have powers that cannot be explained by science, 47% believe in thought reading, and 34% believe in psychokinesis. Moore (2005) found that three in four Americans continue to believe in the paranormal. A substantial minority of the population claim to have had a direct personal experience of the paranormal (Blackmore, 1984; Clarke, 1995; Palmer, 1979).

The reported prevalence, however, varies in different cultural groups. Culture determines the types of experiences reported, the ways in which they are reported, and their impact on subsequent behavior. Generally, however, the experiences appear compelling, meaningful, and personally significant and occur in waking consciousness, sleep, and in dreams. They can relate to an event taking place at the time (i.e., are contemporaneous) or refer to the future (i.e., are precognitive). It is important to note, however, that just because an experience is widely reported, it does not mean that this experience is genuine and reported correctly. I will not attempt to add to the already controversial scientific discourse on the ontology of paranormal phenomena. Rather in this paper, I will discuss the mental health implications of these phenomena.

First, a brief note on terminology. Here I deploy the term paranormal rather than spiritual or religious with its implications of attribution to a higher power. As Tobacyk and Milford (1983) noted, religious and paranormal belief systems share overlapping constructs and notions, for example, belief in a spiritual world and belief in experiential metaphysics, which is the belief that some individuals are able to experience aspects of a spiritual world. However, religion and spirituality are generally considered to be separate from paranormal


beliefs (Sobal & Emmons, 1982) and separate from each other (Emmons & Paloutzian, 2003).

Thalbourne (2003), a psychologist and a prominent researcher in the field, defined paranormal:

A phenomenon is paranormal if it refers to hypothesized processes that in principle are physically impossible and outside the realm of human or animal capabilities as presently conceived by conventional scientists . . . often used as a synonym for “psychic,” “parapsychological,” “attributable to psi,” or even “miraculous” (though shorn of religious overtones). (pp. 83-84)

Measures of paranormal belief deployed in research range from extremely narrow with some assessing belief only in ESP, to very broad measures that cover belief in magic, religious phenomena, extraordinary life forms, ghosts, superstition, and so on (Irwin, 1993). Here I focus upon a number of diverse phenomena ranging from typical psi experiences such as telepathy, clairvoyance, and precognition to more complex phenomena such as sense of presence, out-of-body experiences, and near death experiences.

Paranormal Experience and Mental Health

There has been surprisingly little research examining the associations between anomalous experience

and psychopathology1. The extant literature focuses upon two areas: the immediate emotional impact of anomalous experiences and the relationship between such experiences and various measures of psychopathology. In a study of psychological impact of telepathic experiences, Stevenson (1970) found the most common emotional responses were anxiety and depression. More generally, the most commonly reported emotions are anxiety and happiness (Irwin, 1999; Milton, 1992). There is, however, limited evidence that having a psi related experience per se induces long-term psychological or physical after effects (Stokes, 1997), but their interpretation is highly culture dependent. In the USA, for example, there is evidence that some members of the general population are fearful of psi related experiences.

There is currently controversy concerning whether unusual experiences are symptoms of a mental disorder, if mental disorders are a consequence of such experiences, or if people with mental disorders are especially susceptible to or even looking for these experiences. Although some literature deals with psi

psychopathology, particularly the writings of Ehrenwald (1948), Ullman (1949, 1973), Greyson (1977), and Eisenbud (1970), there is very little recent literature discussing specifically the prevalence of paranormal beliefs and experiences in psychiatric patients and the psychiatric interpretation of subjective paranormal experience. Those who report paranormal phenomena have been found to experience higher levels than normal of psychological symptoms (McCreery & Claridge, 1995), and those with mental disorders report unusually strong convictions about supernatural phenomena (Ekblad & Chapman, 1983; Thalbourne, 1994). Stronger beliefs in the paranormal have been associated with higher scores on schizophrenia relevant measures in the general population (Thalbourne & French, 1995; Tobacyk & Wilkinson, 1990; Windholz & Diamant, 1974). People who have been diagnosed with psychotic disorders (bipolar, brief reactive psychosis, and schizophrenia) demonstrate a high phenomenological overlap with psi related experiences. Such individuals frequently report receiving telepathic messages (American Psychiatric Association, 1994) and are frequently distressed by the experience. Schizophrenia itself is associated with unusual beliefs of a paranormal nature such as thought broadcasting and mind reading.

Thalbourne’s (1994) study of university students found that those whose scores indicated higher belief in the paranormal tended to score significantly higher on the Magical Ideation Scale (which measures proneness to psychosis), the Perceptual Aberration Scale (which assesses a variety of nonpsychotic body image and perceptual distortions), and the combined Perceptual Aberration-Magical Ideation (Per-Mag) Scale. However, the correlation with the MMPI’s Schizophrenia Scale reached significance for males only. In a survey of the correlates of belief in (and alleged experience of) the paranormal, Thalbourne and Delin (1994) examined, among other variables, the clinical status of their subjects. In addition to a comparison group of 241 university students, the sample included 86 persons with manic-depression and 38 with schizophrenia. The correlations between the Australian Sheep-Goat Scale (Thalbourne & Delin, 1993) and the Manic-Depressiveness Scale (Thalbourne & Delin, 1994 as well as the Magical Ideation Scale (Eckblad & Chapman, 1983) were positive and, for the most, significant in all three groups. Thalbourne and French (1995) in an English sample of 114 university students, using as measures of belief in the


paranormal the Australian Sheep-Goat Scale, reported that paranormal belief was significantly correlated with measures of manic-depressive and manic-depressive experience, as well as magical ideation. It was noted, moreover, that manic-depressive experience was moderately correlated with magical ideation, suggesting some overlap between the relevant conditions groups. Mischo (1996) reported that while half of the people with belief in unusual experiences investigated did not show any psychologically striking behavior, the other half had significant scores on different schizotypal scales. Thus, although the data suggest that belief in the paranormal is associated with some measures of psychopathology, there is a need for additional research to further assess and understand these relationships.

The belief in unusual experiences alone, however, does not indicate psychological disorder. Neppe (1984) proposed a category termed subjective paranormal experience psychosis to describe individuals with a long history of psi related experiences that deteriorate into frank psychosis. There is little known about the factors that drive individuals from paranormal experiences to psychotic states. Targ and colleagues (2000) proposed that the healthy experient of psi may be at risk of developing a delusional or paranoid explanation in the context of lack of support or education concerning the nature of these experiences. I propose that this education could consist in pointing out (a) that there is a genuine ontological basis for paranormal phenomena, and (b) that there is a genuine danger of being mislead by such experiences or of jumping to wrong or premature conclusions.

There is, however, some evidence that paranormal experiences reported by clinical groups are more negative, bizarre, detailed, and disturbing (Bentall, 2000; Targ et al., 2000). Emotional reactions to paranormal experiences, content, and locus of control appear to be different among clinical and non-clinical subjects. Also, individuals diagnosed with psychosis appear less likely to have insight into the strangeness of their paranormal experiences compared to healthy experients (Targ et al., 2000). In contrast, other studies have found no link between paranormal experiences and mental health disorders (Goulding, 2004), and one study suggested that such experiences could actually improve mental wellbeing, reduce fear of death, contribute to optimism about the future, and bring meaning in life (Kennedy & Kanthamani, 1995). While psychotic

people may well be inclined to endorse paranormal beliefs (Greyson, 1977; Persinger, 1987), the converse is not always the case. Psi and the Unconscious When the (British) Society for Psychical Research was founded in 1882, there was great interest in hypnosis focusing not only on its use for investigating the unconscious and latent aspects of human personality but also in its relationship to paranormal perception (Ullman, 1977). Early researchers, including T. Weir Mitchell (1922), W. F. Prince (1916), and Pierre Janet (1886), focused on the relationships between psi and altered states of consciousness and investigated this relationship through a number of phenomena: hypnosis (Janet, 1886), hysteria (Mitchell, 1922), multiple personality (Mitchell, 1922; Prince, 1916), and paranoia (Prince, 1927). Myers’ classic two-volume study, Human Personality (1903), explored the evidence for survival and provided a comprehensive survey of the relationship between disordered internal states, including hysteria and insanity, and man’s supraliminal (the term used to connote psi ability) capacities. Psychoanalytic writings on psi and psychiatry have focused upon the dynamics of psi events as they arise in a clinical context. Only a few have gone so far as to theorize about the role psi may play in the evolution and symptomatology of the major psychoses. Throughout his professional life, Freud (1921) had an interest in various paranormal phenomena including prophetic dreams, telepathy, and superstition (although not typically labelled as paranormal). He described what he felt might be telepathic and clairvoyant perceptions by patients that appeared to be related to important repressed material. However, his biographers are undecided whether or not he accepted these phenomena; it appears that he, for the most part, explained paranormal phenomena rationally in terms of unconscious conflicts. There is evidence, nonetheless, that he was open to their scientific validation. At the age of 65, he mentioned:

I do not belong with those who reject in advance the study of so-called occult phenomena as being unscientific, unworthy, or harmful. If I were at the beginning of my scientific career, instead of at the end of it, as I am now, I might perhaps choose no other field of study—in spite of its difficulties. (Mitchell, 1989, p. 25)


If there is some uncertainty about Freud’s level of belief, there is no doubt that his followers particularly Carl Jung and Sandor Ferenzi devoted much time to the study of the occult (Jung, 1953). Jung is well known for his writings on synchronicity or meaningful coincidences (Jung, 1952/1973). In addition, he described his own personal anomalous experiences, which he took to be real: mystical union, telepathy, spirit mediums, and near death experiences (Jung, 1963/1989). Main (1997) wrote:

Paranormal events accompanied his decision to make a career in psychiatry, his conflict and eventual breach with Freud, his relationship with his ghostly guru Philemon, the writing of Septem Sermones and Mortuos in which he adumbrated much of his later psychology, his formulation of the concept of the self as the centre of psychic totality, and his heart attack and transformative near death experience of 1944. (p. 7)

Ehrenwald (1948) was the first in the modern era to examine the significance of telepathy for an understanding of paranoia and the schizophrenic psychoses. He considered psi as an archaic, regressive, or primitive faculty and considered telepathy or heteropsychic input, as he called it, as evidence of some impairment of a filtering mechanism designed to ward off such influence. He proposed that heteropsychic stimuli operating in adult life posed a potential threat to one’s sense of intactness and definition as a discrete entity. For him, telepathic awareness emerged as a compensatory mechanism. Telepathic sensitivity, according to Ehrenwald, played its most significant role at the onset of a psychotic process and during the later, more deteriorated phases of the disorder. In the early stage of illness, telepathically perceived content may appear in the emerging delusional material, in which case the delusion cannot be completely understood on the basis of projection. At a more advanced stage, Ehrenwald interpreted the picture of deterioration as resulting from the disorganizing effect of the intrusive flooding by both autopsychic and heteropsychic stimuli. Similarly Ullman (1949, 1952), in a clinical context, noted that patients who functioned close enough to a psychotic breakdown to be aware of its possible imminence, manifested psi ability in the therapeutic context more frequently and more consistently than do other patients.

In his review of parapsychology and psychopath-ology, Alberti (1974) re-examined the longstanding belief

in the close relationship of psi to dissociative states such as occur in hypnosis, hysteria, and psychosis (see, for example, Bender, 1935; Ehrenwald, 1948; Janet, 1886; Moser, 1935; Myers, 1903). Although he accepted the association between the tendency to dissociative states and the occurrence of various automatisms and psi phenomena, he is critical of the nature of the correlation. He noted, for example, that in cases of multiple personality, genuine psi effects are rare and interpreted the relationship as a contingent one rather than a causal one. Furthermore, he proposed that proneness to dissociative states and guessing ability (e.g., ESP) are two distinct entities. Having discussed relationships between paranormal experiences and psychopathology, I shall move on to examine factors that might underlie these associations. Dissociation and Fantasy Proneness

Two constructs have been linked to paranormal beliefs: dissociation and fantasy proneness. Dissociation has been defined by the DSM-IV as: “A disruption in the usually integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity, or perception of the environment. The disturbance may be sudden or gradual, transient or chronic” (American Psychiatric Association, 1994, p. 766). In clinical practice, the term dissociation is applied to a wide range of altered states of conscious.

Ross and Joshi (1992) argued for a relationship between paranormal experience and dissociation, putting forward a model in which paranormal experiences are conceptualized as an aspect of normal dissociation. Like dissociation generally, paranormal experiences can be triggered by trauma, especially childhood physical or sexual abuse. Such experiences discriminate individuals with childhood trauma histories from those without at high levels of significance. Dissociativity has been correlated with paranormal belief in a number of studies (e.g., Irwin, 1994; Pekala, Kumar, & Marcano, 1995; Wolfradt, 1997; Ross & Joshi, 1992; Richards, 1991), although a few studies have not demonstrated such a relationship (e.g., Groth-Marnat, Roberts, & Ollier, 1998-99). Makasovski & Irwin (1999) suggested that pathological dissociation predicts belief in parapsychological and spiritual concepts, but that non-pathological dissociative tendencies (absorption) do not correlate with paranormal belief. Rattet and Bursik (2001) reported that dissociative tendencies were related to paranormal belief, but not to self-reported precognitive experiences.


High levels of dissociation are found in those with other types of anomalous experiences. Powers (1994) has shown that a group of alleged alien abductees demonstrated higher levels of dissociativity than a matched sample of non-abductees. Similarly, French, Santomauro, Hamilton, Fox, and Thalbourne (2008) found higher levels of dissociativity in a group of people claiming alien contact compared to a matched control group. Children reporting past-life memories have been shown to have higher levels of dissociative tendencies in both Sri Lanka (Haraldsson, Fowler, & Periyannanpillai, 2000) and Lebanon (Haraldsson, 2002). Greyson (2000) has reported that although people reporting near-death experiences (NDEs) are generally psychologically healthy, some do manifest non-pathological signs of dissociation. Gow (2006) found that those reporting out-of-body experiences were more fantasy prone, higher in their belief in the paranormal and displayed greater somatoform dissociation.

A fantasy prone person is reported to spend a large portion of his or her time fantasizing, has vividly intense fantasies, paranormal experiences, and intense religious experiences (Merckelbach, Horselenberg, & Muris, 2001). Fantasy proneness was first identified by Wilson and Barber (1983) as being a characteristic of highly hypnotically susceptible individuals and is highly correlated with absorption (Lynn & Rhue, 1988). From the early 1990s, psychologists and parapsychologists were aware that fantasy proneness correlates with both paranormal belief and a tendency to report paranormal experiences (e.g., Irwin, 1990, 1991). As Berenbaum, Kerns, and Raghavan (2000) asserted:

Individuals with high levels of absorption are at increased risk of having anomalous experiences because they may intentionally be trying to have them or may be more likely to explore aspects of their phenomenological worlds that other people would not explore. Potentially these explorations might develop into full blown anomalous experiences. (p. 39)

Glickson and Barrett (2003) found that the trait of absorption underlies hallucinatory experience, dissociation and anomalies of belief and experience including paranormal belief. Schizotypy

Much of the work on paranormal beliefs and mental illness has deployed the concept of schizotypy,

a multidimensional construct that appears to be on a continuum with psychosis (Claridge, 1997). Of the nine diagnostic criteria for schizotypal personality disorder specified in the DSM–IV (American Psychiatric Association, 1994), several resemble possible forms of psi related experiences. High scores on the schizotypy scales indicate an increased risk of developing schizophrenia. There is a large amount of research indicating a link between schizotypy and paranormal beliefs and experience (Chequers, Joseph, & Diduca, 1997; Goulding, 2004, 2005; Schofield & Claridge, 2007; Thalbourne & French, 1995; Wolfradt & Watzke, 1999).

There is some evidence that the biological correlates of schizotypy and paranormal experiences are similar. Schizotypy (Buschbaum et al., 2002; Cannon, van Erp, & Glahn, 2002) and paranormal beliefs and experiences (Persinger, 1984; Persinger & Valliant, 1985) are associated with temporal lobe dysfunction. Right hemisphere dysfunction has been posited to play a role in schizophrenia (Cutting, 1992) and has also been posited to play a role in anomalous experience. Neppe (1984) pointed out the similarities of many psi-related experiences to symptoms of temporal lobe epilepsy. Child Abuse and Trauma

Paranormal beliefs and experiences have also been associated with childhood trauma (Irwin, 1992; Wilson & Barber, 1983), abuse (Lawrence, Edwards, Barraclough, Church, & Hetherington, 1995; Perkins & Allen, 2006; Ross & Joshi, 1992), need for interpersonal control (Irwin, 1994), and a perceived lack of childhood control (Watt, Watson, & Wilson, 2007). Relatively few studies have addressed specifically the links between paranormal experiences and trauma. Paranormal experiences have also been associated with negative affect and negative experiences (Lindeman & Aarnio, 2006). Perkins (2006) compared paranormal belief systems in individuals with and without childhood physical abuse histories. Psi, precognition, and spiritualism, which are thought to provide a sense of personal efficacy and control, were among the most strongly held beliefs in abused subjects and were significantly more prevalent in abused versus non-abused subjects. The results suggest that by providing a sense of control, certain paranormal beliefs may offer coping strategies to individuals who endured the stress of physical abuse in childhood. Negative life events have been associated with paranormal experiences. Rabeyron (2006) found in a qualitative


study that paranormal experiences occur after negative life events. Rabeyron and Watt (2010) found significant correlations between paranormal experiences and mental boundaries, traumas, and negative life events. This finding requires further empirical validation. Transliminality and Reality Monitoring

Thalbourne and Delin (1994) presented evidence that paranormal belief and experience correlated with traits such as creativity and mystical experience. They postulated a single common factor underlying these experiences: transliminality, the extent to which the contents of some preconscious (or unconscious or subliminal) region of the mind are able to cross the threshold into consciousness. Thalbourne and Maltby (2008) defined transliminality as a hypersensitivity to psychological material originating in (a) the unconscious, and/or (b) the external environment. Using subliminal stimuli, Crawley, French, and Yesson (2002) provided evidence supporting the idea that non-conscious processing may sometimes create the illusion of paranormal powers. Another useful framework for understanding paranormal experience is that of reality monitoring—referring to the ability to distinguish between mental events that are internally generated and those reflecting external reality. In the perceptual domain this would result in a tendency to hallucinate while in the memory domain it would reflect a susceptibility to false memories (Johnson & Raye, 1981; Johnson, Hashtroudi, & Lindsay, 1993). Reasoning and Information Processing Bias in Delusions and Hallucinations and in Paranormal Experiences Bentall (2000) presented an excellent overview of how reasoning and information biases are involved in delusions and hallucinations in schizophrenia. The following discussion derives from his work (see also French and Wilson, 2007, for a useful discussion). He asserted that sufferers from delusions demonstrate preferential recall or information related to their delusions and attributional biases in which negative events are attributed to the actions of others. In hallucinations there is misattributed inner speech. In a similar way, those believing in the paranormal exhibit such biases including poor probability reasoning and the belief that they have control over random events (Blackmore & Trosianco, 1985; Brugger, Regard, Landis, Krebs, & Niederberger, 1994). Probability mismanagement is a cognitive bias that might result in the formation of paranormal beliefs. Those who misjudge the probability

of mundane coincidences are more likely to misinterpret normal events as paranormal.

Paranormal beliefs may provide a framework that facilitates a sense of meaning and control. Believers in the paranormal are more inclined to attribute personal involvement in randomly determined processes than non-believers (Brugger et al., 1994). Brugger and Taylor (2003) reviewed studies suggesting that believers perceive more meaningful patterns in random stimuli and perceive more meaningful relationships between distant associated events and objects compared to non-believers. Notions of causality associated with the paranormal beliefs of patients with schizophrenia differ from the causality thinking non-clinical believers. Whereas the former demonstrated a reliance on the role of chance in everyday life, the latter framed their causal concepts in terms of personal responsibility and in seeking meaningful connections (Williams & Irwin, 1991).

Others have associated lack of critical evaluation of hypotheses and the suspension of reality testing with the development of paranormal beliefs. Langdon and Coltheart (2000) asserted that pathological beliefs or delusions arise in part through a failure of the person to subject a hypothetical explanation of sensory experience to critical testing. Relatedly, some commentators (e.g., Alcock, 1981, 1995; Goode, 2000; Vyse, 1997; Zusne & Jones, 1982) have argued that this is also the case for paranormal beliefs. In other words, when a person proposes a paranormal explanation for an experience, this hypothesis might not then be subject to the usual processes of rigorous critical evaluation either at the time of its formulation or when further relevant information later becomes available. In this way, an observed event may become the basis for a paranormal belief by the individual. Irwin (2003, 2004) found that paranormal believers have a pattern of reality testing deficits that is characteristic of the formation of psychotic beliefs—some people interpret an anomalous event as paranormal without critical testing of the logical plausibility of this belief. On such a basis, people who endorse paranormal beliefs would therefore be predicted to show some deficit in reality testing.

A recent study by Irwin and Young (2002) suggested that, when an anomalous experience gives rise to an attribution involving paranormal processes, people with a habitual intuitive-experiential information processing style (Epstein, Pacini, Denes-Raj, & Heier, 1996) will be satisfied with the attribution’s intuitive


appeal and, therefore, will not subject it to reality testing. Thus, the suspension of reality testing may be integral to a broader cognitive style of the person. Irwin (2004), using a questionnaire survey of 161 adults from the general Australian population, found that two fundamental facets of paranormal belief were predicted by reality testing deficits. Some people, when faced with anomalous experience, may jump to a paranormal interpretation without due critical testing of the logical plausibility of this belief. Thus, the suspension of reality testing may be integral to a broader cognitive style of the person. Motivational factors, such as a need for a sense of control over life events (Irwin, 2004), may also be important here. Thus, if a paranormal belief provides a sense of reassurance in this respect, reality testing of the belief might be suspended and the belief thereby protected against revision in the face of contrary information (Bader, 1999; Wiseman & Smith, 2002).

In another study (Lawrence & Peters, 2004), individuals who reported a strong belief in the paranormal made more errors on a deductive reasoning task and displayed more delusional ideation than skeptical individuals. Another form of reasoning bias common to both paranormal beliefs and delusions is confirmation bias—the tendency to attend to, interpret, and store information that confirms one’s existing beliefs and disregard information that is contradictory to these beliefs. There is some evidence that believers in the paranormal and non-believers experienced increased emotional arousal when they read counter attitudinal information but only the former showed a selective bias in recalling information congruent with their beliefs (Russell & Jones, 1980).

Transpersonal Psychology and the Paranormal

Finally it is possible to examine the relationship between transpersonal and paranormal experience.

Daniels (1998) noted that the paranormal is an aspect of human experience that has the potential for promoting transpersonal development. Paranormal experiences can lead to such transformation by encouraging the individual to consider the significance of the wider or deeper reality beyond the world of the ordinary self and its concerns.

A problem in transpersonal psychology is how to distinguish between what is pre-rational and what is trans-rational. Both states are “irrational,” but pre-rational relates to superstition, voodoo, magical thinking,

ego-inflation, and so on, whereas trans-rational has to do with truly mystical states of consciousness. Ken Wilber (1996) discussed the pre-trans fallacy, the difference between the prepersonal and transpersonal. Prepersonal states occur when an individual has not yet fully achieved a stable sense of selfhood and personal identity or has regressed to more primitive, childlike states. In contrast, transpersonal states represent a genuine progressive evolution beyond the personal level. One important way of recognizing the difference is that in prepersonal states the individual has no clearly defined sense of self to draw on and, therefore, is fragile and unintegrated in experience. In transpersonal states, on the other hand, the sense of self is transcended but not destroyed. Practically, this means that the person who has developed transpersonal awareness can (and most of the time does) operate from the position of a stable, integrated self. The transpersonal, therefore, transcends and includes the personal, whereas the prepersonal is a primitive anticipation or reversion that excludes the personal. Wilber maintained that many claims about non-rational states make a mistake he calls the pre-trans fallacy. According to him, the non-rational stages of consciousness (what Wilber called pre-rational and trans-rational stages) can be easily confused with one another.

Paranormal phenomena occur commonly during a spiritual crisis (also called a spiritual emergency), a form of identity crisis where an individual experiences drastic changes to their meaning system (i.e., their unique purposes, goals, values, attitude and beliefs, identity, and focus) typically because of a spontaneous spiritual experience. Transpersonal psychologists assert that these crises are a kind of non-pathological developmental crisis that can have powerfully transformative effects on a person’s life when supported and allowed to run their course to completion (Grof & Grof, 1989). In some instances, however the influx of information from non-ordinary sources, such as astral projection, precognition, telepathy, or clairvoyance, becomes so overwhelming and confusing that it dominates the picture and constitutes a major problem, in and of itself.

Clinical Implications of Paranormal Experience

There is some evidence that overreliance on reported psi related events to diagnose schizotypal personality

disorder or schizophrenia carries the substantial risk of stigmatizing, alienating, or erroneously medicating patients. It is more essential to assess how an individual


interprets and responds to an apparent psi experience than to engage in efforts to evaluate whether or not the experience entailed some paranormal process such as psi. It is important to ensure that patients know that they are not alone in these experiences and that patients are provided education and are given the opportunity to discuss and assimilate the experience.

Recent work on early onset psychosis highlights the importance and benefits of early and phase-specific intervention in the development of psychosis, in terms of both the overall duration and severity of psychotic episodes (McGorry, Nordentoft, & Simonsen, 2005). Building upon this work, Coelho, Tierney, and Lamont (2008) reinforced the need for more formal links between parapsychology units and mental health professionals. The ability to refer distressed individuals (who meet certain criteria) to an appropriate mental health professional would result in more effective interactions and increase the chances of early detection of potential psychotic illness. This would also transfer the responsibility of responding to these contacts to a fully qualified and insured clinician. The clinician’s role would be to help the affected individual decide how to deal with their experience in the light of information supplied by the contact.

Conclusion

There is no evidence that paranormal beliefs and experiences are pathological per se, and they

appear to be common in the general population. Like symptoms of psychosis such as hallucinations and thought insertion, they occur in non-clinically ill individuals. Although such experiences correlate with various measures of psychopathology, there is a need for further work to understand these associations. In some instances, paranormal experiences may precipitate psychopathology; future work should examine what factors drive individuals from these experiences to develop frank mental illness.

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Notes

1. I am extremely grateful to Professor Chris French who provided comments on an earlier draft of this paper. His talk You don’t have to be crazy to believe in the paranormal but does it help? has provided an excellent overview of this area which I develop here. (See www.videojug.com/interview/belief-in-the-paranormal-2)


About the Author

Simon Dein, PhD, is a consultant psychiatrist in Essex UK specializing in rehabilitation and liaison psychiatry. He holds a doctorate in social anthropology from University College London where he currently teaches. He is an honorary professor at Durham University where he runs an MSc in Spirituality, Theology, and Health. He has written widely on religion and health among Hasidic Jews, Evangelical Christians and Sunni Muslims in the UK. He is founding editor of the journal Mental Health, Religion and Culture. He is Chair of the spirituality section of the World Association of Cultural Psychiatry.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 75Therapist Response to Client-Reported OBEs

How Should Therapists Respond to Client Accounts of Out-of-Body Experience?

Alexander De FoeMonash University

Melbourne, Australia

During an out-of-body experience (OBE) a person experiences their center of consciousness from a spatial location that is distinctly different to their physical body. Prior research has suggested that psychologists and psychotherapists may be reluctant to discuss the content of their clients OBE accounts due to a lack of understanding about the nature of these experiences. Yet, other research has highlighted the substantial value of discussing OBEs in the therapeutic process. This paper examines the literature in order to assess the value of utilizing person-centered dialogue and guided visualisation as counselling approaches for working with clients who have had OBEs.


Many counsellors and psychotherapists, whether working within a transpersonal or mainstream framework, appreciate the value

of exploring experiences of transcendence with their clients. However, it is only recently that research has considered the value of working with clients who report a particular type of transcendence experience, namely, the out-of-body experience (OBE). OBEs have been studied within the discipline of parapsychology at depth (Irwin & Watt, 2007) and are among the most commonly reported types of altered states of consciousness. Ellison (1988) and Irwin (1985) estimated that approximately 10% of the general population have had an OBE at least once in their lifetime. During an OBE, a person experiences his or her consciousness shifting from the physical body to a distinctly different spatial location. Irwin and Watt provided an example of one OBE account in which the experient stated: “I was sitting in the bath when I became aware that I was in the ceiling corner of the room looking down at myself in the bath” (p. 175). Those who experience OBEs often report a vivid sensation of leaving the physical body and either finding themselves in an environment that resembles their physical surroundings or an imaginary dream-like environment (Levitan & LaBerge, 1991). Previous research has found a correlation between dream absorption and OBE likelihood, which suggests that those who are prone to daydreaming and intense absorption in

dreams may be more likely to also have had OBEs in the past (Parra, 2009). It has also been suggested that, due to their vivid nature, OBEs can offer clients more psychological insight than dream accounts in some instances (see Levitan & LaBerge, 1991). Anecdotal evidence from experients further suggests that OBEs can be quite vivid, meaningful, and memorable. In some cases, these experiences can have a transformative impact on one’s life, bearing significant psychological value and symbolism for the experient (Tobacyk & Mitchell, 1987).

Autoscopic hallucination (AH) and near death experiences (NDEs) merit a brief mention here, as research in related literature has used these terms interchangeably with the term OBE. Blanke and Mohr (2005) noted that during AH:

[A] person experiences seeing his double in extracorporeal space without leaving his own body (no disembodiment). As compared with OBEs, individuals with AH experience seeing the world from their habitual visuo-spatial perspective and experience their “self,” or center of awareness, inside their physical bodies. (p. 189)

OBEs differ from AH experiences in that the experient often reports a distinct sensation of separation from the body during an OBE (Ellison, 1988). OBEs occur in a wide range of contexts (Irwin & Watt, 2007),

Keywords: out-of-body experience (OBE), altered states of consciousness, near-death experience (NDE)

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 76 De Foe

while NDEs tend to occur in near-death circumstances specifically. Aside from these differences, a substantial number of overlaps can be noted between NDEs and OBEs based on the reported content and the impact of the experience found in anecdotal case studies of both phenomena. It may be that OBE can be adopted as an umbrella term to encompass both AH and NDE as there is a substantial overlap in content reported among experients.

In considering the psychological impact of NDEs related to suicide, Greyson (1981) found that NDEs can reduce future suicidal tendencies. Greyson stated that those who attempt suicide and experience an NDE in some cases report that their concept of death becomes reconceptualized after their experience. These individuals find that their perspective about life and death alters as they experience their consciousness momentarily existing beyond the physical death of the body. Often, during their experience, these individuals come to find a new sense of inner peace and encounter “ego-death experienced during a NDE . . . to escape from painful emotions and sensations” (p. 13). Greyson suggested that this commonly reported experience of transcending one’s self-concept during an NDE can be therapeutically beneficial for helping one to deal with difficult and painful emotions.

Monroe (1992) noted that encounters with spiritual entities, deceased family members, and even manifestations of God are quite common during OBEs (and NDEs), all of which can have significant implications for the experient and can impact upon their belief system. Apart from containing meaningful visual content, OBEs have been associated with intense emotions reported among experients. Gabbard, Jones, and Twemlow (1982) noted that profound sensations of “joy, freedom . . . and peace” (p. 454) often arise during OBEs. Further, due to the impact that OBEs can have on one’s belief system and emotions, counsellors and psychotherapists might consider giving more attention to their clients’ OBEs, as these experiences offer significant opportunities for personal growth and expanding spiritual awareness.

In the recent two decades, transpersonal therapists have turned their attention to exploring client experiences of dreams, connection to intuition, and the spiritual dimension of the self. However, the current literature suggests that few practitioners have considered the value of exploring the nature of OBEs

with clients in the counselling session. Exploring OBEs during the therapeutic process could help shed light on how a client’s prior OBEs have impacted on their point of view about life, their key relationships, and even their awareness of existential questions about life and death.

OBEs and Psychopathology

The current literature examining OBEs has consi-dered factors that may cause or contribute to OBEs,

with little research exploring the therapeutic benefit of exploring OBEs and their content. Few researchers have pondered the question: How can we come to understand OBEs in order to gain a glimpse into the rich and complex world of clients? Parra (2009) and Twemlow (1989) suggested that a lack of research into clinical approaches for working with clients who have had OBEs has left a number of psychologists and psychotherapists uncertain about how to approach the topic. Parra suggested that clients often feel uncomfortable speaking to their therapist about their OBEs for fear of ridicule or judgement. This is consistent with Twemlow’s claims, which stated that a number of practitioners, especially psychiatrists, tend to misattribute OBEs as a form of psychopathology. Twemlow noted that OBEs are normal experiences reported across a broad population and that it is a misconception to term these experiences as abnormal or pathological.

Research has found that OBEs are common across the general population and are not indicative of psychopathology (Blackmore, 1986; Ellison, 1988). However, in some cases an overlap between OBEs and hallucinations associated with certain mental health disorders or neurological factors can be noted. Blackmore reported that those who have been diagnosed with schizophrenia experience hallucinations and body distortions that overlap with phenomena reported in OBE accounts, such as a sense of body displacement. Further, Blanke, Landis, Seeck, and Spinelli (2003) found that some OBEs may have a neurological basis: “Both disintegrations (personal; personal-extrapersonal) are necessary for the occurrence of OBE and AS [autoscopy], and that they are due to a paroxysmal cerebral dysfunction of the TPJ [temporo-parietal junction] in a state of partially and briefly impaired consciousness” (p. 223). Therefore, it is suggested that a link exists between neurological factors, mental health disorders, and OBEs in some cases (see also De Foe, Van Doorn, & Symmons, 2012).


Even though some overlap between OBE phenomena and other related phenomena (such as hallucinations associated with mental health factors) can be noted, research questions related to OBEs should not only be grounded in examining abnormal factors. Transpersonal therapists have long recognized OBEs as experiences of spiritual transcendence and have noted them to bear much personal, emotional, and spiritual value for the experient (Twemlow, 1989). It might be beneficial for therapists, whether working within mainstream clinical approaches or not, to educate themselves about the nature of OBEs and the potential benefits of exploring their clients OBE accounts in greater depth. Although it is the duty of care of any mental health practitioner to rule out potential factors that may have contributed to a client’s OBEs (such as mental health issues), it is also important for practitioners to approach OBEs from an open person-centered perspective of non-judgement, rather than anticipating that all OBE accounts are somehow indicative of abnormal functioning.

Transpersonal Perspectives

Over the course of the previous two decades psychotherapy practice has become increasingly

influenced by ideas and concepts found in Eastern philosophy. Teachings from traditional Buddhism and meditation practice, for example, have become increasingly adopted by psychotherapists practicing within mainstream approaches such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT; Rubin, 1996). Rubin stated that “the physical and conceptual walls dividing East and West are crumbling. Opportunities for intercultural dialogue are enormous” (p. 6). Yet, despite the acceptance and integration of techniques such as meditation and mindfulness into mainstream therapies, other approaches, such as discussion about transcendence experiences, working with the intuition, and connecting with spirit guides, are still considered by many psychotherapists to be outside the sphere of mainstream therapy practice.

Ongoing research continues to highlight the benefits of incorporating approaches such as the ancient practices of shamanic healing into modern counselling practice. In Melbourne, Australia, for example, training organizations such as the Phoenix Institute facilitate an associate degree in holistic counselling, as well as an advanced diploma in transpersonal counselling—both of which integrate a broad range of transpersonal healing techniques that are grounded in Eastern healing traditions. However, the divide between Eastern

and Western therapeutic practice still appears to be crumbling quite slowly, and a number of clients may be too conservative to consider the potential benefits of approaches such as meditation or spiritual work. Yet, some changes are occurring and this can be noted within the mainstream practice of counselling. Harris (2009) pointed out that mindfulness and meditation techniques have greatly enriched clinical practice in the West and that clients often embrace these approaches as helpful additions to mainstream therapies such as CBT. Ongoing research into other mainstream counselling approaches, such as gestalt counselling, has also started to recognize the value of working with the spiritual dimension of the self within formal counselling sessions (Joyce & Sills, 2010).

The rise of transpersonal practice has seen more therapists acknowledge the role of dream experiences, spiritual awakenings, and encounters with spirit guides in the healing process. However, one area of inquiry that has not been explored at length in the literature is the potential value of discussing OBEs and the content of client accounts of these experiences in a therapeutic framework. Apart from research dialogue about OBEs, the idea of leaving the body and travelling to another dimension of experience has long fascinated humankind. This curiosity has given rise to a range of occult and New Age literature about OBEs (see Bruce, 2009). However, aside from scientific dialogue and popular discourse about OBEs, the literature focusing on the potential therapeutic benefits of working with clients who have had OBEs is limited. Literature on transpersonal practice has delved into related areas such as dreamwork. However, again, although a broad range of literature suggests effective counselling approaches for working with client accounts of dreams, the literature related to approaches for working with OBE content is far less prominent.

The reasons for a lack of research into the potential therapeutic benefits of considering OBE accounts may be twofold. First, as mentioned earlier, related approaches such as mindfulness and meditation have only recently appeared as focal points of discussion in mainstream literature on clinical practice (Kabat-Zinn, 2006; Miller, Fletcher, & Kabat-Zinn, 1995). Second, although prior literature has considered the potential value of discussing OBEs in a therapeutic context, clinicians are still left with the question of: How does one begin? After all, the approaches and methods for working with OBE accounts in the context of a counselling framework have not been


researched at depth, unlike therapeutic strategies for dream-work or mindfulness practice, for instance, which are underpinned by a much broader literature base.

How can therapists work with clients who have reported an OBE or NDE? In this paper, I have formulated two approaches that could be utilized by counsellors: person-centered dialogue and guided visualization. The first, person-centered dialogue, highlights the importance of creating an open therapeutic space in order for clients to feel comfortable and accepted when talking about the content of their prior OBEs. The second approach is therapist-directed and involves the practitioner utilizing one of a number of guided visualization techniques to assist clients in recalling prior OBEs. The approach of guided visualization can also be utilized in some cases to cultivate a similar consciousness state to that experienced during an OBE in order to induce (or replicate) some of the aspects of OBEs, such as body dissociation.Person-Centered Dialogue

The discussion of OBE accounts within a therapeutic context may be especially relevant when utilized with clients who hold a strong religious or spiritual belief system, with those who are prone to fantasy and vivid imagination/daydreaming (see Parra, 2009), or with clients interested in connecting with the spiritual dimension of themselves. Clients in these groups could have had a prior transcendental experience or spiritual experience that might prompt an interested in exploring OBEs during a counselling session. A person-centered approach in line with the Rogerian counselling model is advised, where the client takes the lead during the therapeutic intervention and decides how much (or how little) he or she is comfortable about discussing his or her prior OBEs. Groth-Marnat (1994) noted that those who discuss their NDEs often speak about experiences that reflect their own belief system or religious inclination. Those who hold Christian beliefs may report encountering angels or manifestations of God, while those from a Hindu background may instead report encounters with Hindu gods or gurus from Hindu texts. This indicates that NDEs can have significant religious or spiritual connotations for the experient. For instance, many who experience NDEs (and OBEs) find that their belief in the afterlife is challenged (or in some cases confirmed) as a result of their experience (see Monroe, 1992). Greyson (1997) suggested that NDEs can have profound impact on beliefs and behaviors, which are

well worth exploring in the therapeutic context. Here I suggest that clinicians adopt a similar attitude to therapeutic interventions focused around OBEs. Both NDEs and OBEs can be transformative experiences that often impact on a person’s inner world in an intimate and profound manner. Thus, it is beneficial to encourage clients to discuss their experiences within the counselling environment.

Most transpersonal therapists might be quite comfortable about asking their clients to discuss the content of their dreams, but how should therapists raise the topic of OBEs with their clients? The following example prompt could be utilized when asking a client whether he or she has ever had an OBE:

Therapist: I would like to ask you a question that might seem a little strange at first, but I think that your response may be relevant to what we have been discussing about your dream experiences. I wonder, in the past, have you ever experienced yourself separate from your physical body, as though for a moment your sense of consciousness departed from your body and travelled somewhere else? If yes, what was that experience like for you?

Such a question should not be asked unless a therapist feels it is appropriate during the session and relevant to a specific client. Therapists who specialize in working with dreams might find it particularly seamless to ease into a discussion of OBEs. Conversely, clients who have no interest in exploring consciousness states such as OBEs would benefit little from this question. Thus, therapists should assess this consideration first. Notably, client responses to such a question might involve recounting an experience of dissociation, rather than an OBE per se. Dissociation experiences can still be useful discussion points in the therapeutic environment, as it has been well documented in psychotherapy practice that dissociation from the body can be indicative of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or other symptomology (such as side-effects of certain SSRIs, or other medication, for instance). As a side-note, even though some clients might not be interested in discussing the content of their OBE, their experience might have impacted on other factors in their life, which could be relevant to the therapeutic process.

If a client responds to the above question by talking about an experience of travelling away from the physical body, with a distinct sense of consciousness separation, then he or she may indeed be describing


an OBE. Clients who go on to discuss the impact of the experience (as well as any symbolic imagery noted) may introduce content that could be particularly rich in therapeutic value and important for subsequent counselling sessions. Depending on one’s orientation, therapists could also consider a client’s experiences based on how the OBE impacted on the client’s relationships, perception about life and death (from an existential therapy framework, for instance), or how the experience affected the client’s connection with the spiritual dimension of life.

The sample question supplied above exemplifies just one approach, which might prompt clients to speak about their prior OBEs. Other approaches could include asking a client whether he or she has ever had a near-death encounter, and inquiring about whether their experience has been reminiscent of traditional NDEs (which, as mentioned earlier, often include vivid imagery and strong emotional responses). Alternatively, some clients might be interested in discussing the topic of OBEs on their own accord. In these cases, it is the role of the therapist to adopt a receptive and open attitude of non-judgement while listening to the OBE accounts that clients introduce.Guided Visualization

Some therapists take a more active approach and utilize guided visualization techniques to help clients recall the details of their prior OBEs, while other practitioners attempt to assist their clients to induce an OBE as part of the therapeutic process. Twemlow (1989) noted that psychoeducation has an important role in the process of working with clients who have had OBEs. Often, those who have an OBE do not know what to make of the experience or how to contextualize it. Twemlow suggested that teaching clients about the current literature relevant to OBEs in order to normalize their experience is important. Though Twemlow stated that OBEs have been determined as normal phenomena that do not indicate psychopathology, these experiences can, and often do, impact significantly on the beliefs and emotional states of experients. Twemlow advised that many who have had an OBE find themselves drawn to explore the existential and spiritual dimensions of life further as a result.

Thus, Twemlow (1989) highlighted the importance of the therapist viewing the OBE as a (potentially) spiritually transformative experience. He further suggested that the therapist should take on the role of a teacher, encouraging clients to learn

more about the nature of OBEs and come to a greater understanding of what their OBE might mean in the grand scheme of their life. Twemlow proposed three techniques that therapists could utilize when working with clients who have had a significant or life-changing OBE. These include: 1) meditation, 2) biofeedback, and 3) self-suggestion relaxation techniques. Transpersonal therapists might utilize similar techniques based on their own therapeutic background. For instance, techniques such as dream-work, visualization, work with the archetypes, or work with intuition could be applied to further assist clients in reflecting upon their prior OBEs.

One approach involves helping clients to induce an OBE during a therapeutic intervention. This approach could be useful for clients who have not experienced an OBE in the past but wish to explore the possibilities that an OBE might offer in terms of personal or spiritual development. However, little research has been conducted into the area of therapeutically inducing OBEs. Thus, further research would be required in order to draw accurate conclusions about the efficacy of inducing OBEs for therapeutic purposes. Although research into this area has been limited, some researchers have introduced techniques for inducing an OBE-like state during a counselling session. Schenk (2006) developed a process where a therapist applies a suggestive induction technique in order to encourage the client to experience waking dreams; these waking dreams bear much resemblance to the degree of depth perception experienced in some OBEs and NDEs. Schenk argued that this process can be facilitated with the aid of visualization techniques and intuitive imagination techniques. The process is intended to produce a similar consciousness state to that of an OBE.

Gelkopf and Meyerson (2004) examined the therapeutic benefits of inducing an OBE during a formal hypnotherapy session. In Gelkopf and Meyerson’s study, a practitioner considered three sessions with three separate clients, in which each client was asked to imagine their consciousness travelling to a different space and leaving the spatial proximity of their physical body (a hypnotic induction script was used in order to facilitate this process1). Gelkopf and Meyerson reported efficacious results with the technique in all three cases examined. The first case involved a client who sought to disconnect from the prior emotional pain her family members had caused her. The second case involved a client who was suffering physical pain and immobility. The final case


discussed a client who was involved in a motor vehicle accident that shook her confidence in driving. Each client gained a degree of new insight and self-awareness by temporarily disconnecting from their physical body, which allowed each client to perceive their life situation from an objective frame of reference. In light of these findings, Gelkopf and Meyerson suggested that the process of inducing an OBE in a safe and comfortable environment, facilitated by a skilled practitioner such as a hypnotherapist, could be utilized as an effective therapeutic intervention.

It should be noted that the degree to which clients experience an authentic OBE, as compared with a guided, dissociative experience, is not clear in most studies that attempt to induce OBEs within the therapeutic environment. Some researchers suggest that it is not sufficient to merely imagine floating out of one’s physical body in order to replicate an OBE; in fact, authentic OBEs have been deemed much more visceral and immersive than dissociative experiences elicited during guided visualization sessions (Monroe, 1992). This brings into question whether clients who are guided to imagine leaving the body do, in fact, experience an authentic OBE, or whether some clients report a vividly imagined separation from the body instead.

Blanke, Sanchez-Vives, Slater, and Spanlang (2010) attempted to replicate OBEs with the use of the body-swap illusion in order to produce the experience of consciousness transfer. For this purpose, Blanke et al. utilized an external video camera feed connected to goggles that participants were instructed to wear in order to attempt to replicate the sensation of consciousness transfer. The researchers noted that the series of experiments were able to produce an experience quite similar to a realistic OBE. However, these authors suggested that the body-swap illusion could only be considered a proxy for replicating some of the features of an OBE (such as a sense of leaving the body), rather than a means of inducing an actual or authentic OBE. Nonetheless, Blanke and colleagues suggested that the experience of leaving the body during the body-swap illusion is quite similar to that of an actual OBE—therefore their approach could be considered as a reliable proxy for an OBE. Further, some participants, such as those who are fantasy prone (Parra, 2009) reported that the prompt of the body-swap illusion or a hypnotherapy induction can be sufficient in order to trigger an OBE.

In light of these considerations, questions arise regarding the effectiveness of guided visualization as a proxy for OBEs. For example, a sensation of separating from the physical body could still be beneficial in the therapeutic process, even where clients might not be experiencing an actual authentic OBE. In this manner, therapists can draw upon the literature related to OBEs in order to utilize the concept of body separation as a foundation for therapeutic interventions where a visualisation component is involved. The concept of separating from the physical body may be appealing to clients who present with issues such as negative self-image (Murray & Fox, 2005), cognitive fusion (Harris, 2009), or past traumatic experiences (Gelkopf & Meyerson, 2004). Gelkopf and Meyerson’s results indicated that incorporating the notion of separating from one’s body into the therapeutic process could be beneficial in addressing a broad range of client issues.

Conclusion: How Should TherapistsApproach OBE Accounts?

In this paper, I have reviewed current literature in order to propose two potential approaches for

working with clients who wish to discuss prior OBEs during counselling sessions: person-centered dialogue and guided visualization. A person-centered approach empowers clients to decide how much or how little they would prefer to discuss their experiences. This approach also affords therapists the chance to note meaningful and symbolic aspects of client OBEs. As mentioned earlier, the content of OBEs differs quite broadly across clients, much like the content of dreams. Therefore, therapists might find a person-centered approach most beneficial for eliciting specific details from clients, for example, in terms of how prior OBEs have impacted most significantly on their lives.

Therapists who specialize in the area of dreamwork may find it beneficial to build upon the person-centered approach by incorporating dream-work techniques when exploring the content of OBEs. Monroe (1992) noted that OBEs often contain a similar type of symbolism and imagery of that reported in dreams. Thus, the actual content discussed during OBE accounts could be approached with the aid of dream interpretation methods, for example, such as those based on Gestalt dream-work strategies (see Pesant & Zadra, 2004). However, further research is required in order to assess the potential value of utilizing dream-work techniques with those who have had OBEs.


The second proposed approach suggested that guided visualization techniques can be applied to explore the nature of OBEs further. Guided visualization approaches are in particular beneficial for therapists seeking to formulate therapeutic interventions that involve a guided process of assisting a client to experience an OBE, or for the purposes of inducing a consciousness state similar to the OBE-state. Prior studies, which have applied guided visualization approaches, seem to infer that the therapist must have some level of expertise, either in terms of their understanding of OBEs, or skillset related to clinical hypnotherapy practice in order to utilize these techniques. Therefore, a person-centered approach could be more beneficial for therapists who prefer not to utilize more advanced guided visualization approaches when working with clients who have had OBEs. Further, unless a client has requested counselling focused on issues around their OBE in particular, more advanced interventions involving a guided visualization component might not be as useful or applicable.

In conclusion, I suggest that a more formalized framework should be devised for therapists who are interested in incorporating OBE-related techniques when working with their clients. No widely accepted and validated model has thus far been devised for approaching OBE accounts in a formal manner in counselling interventions. For the most part, this leaves, open-ended, the question: How should therapists respond to client accounts of out-of-body experience? Based on considerations made throughout this paper, I have argued that it is clear OBEs can offer extensive opportunities for spiritual and emotional dialogue in the counselling session. However, in light of the considerations made here, future research must investigate how we can best approach OBE accounts in a formal counselling context in terms of a standardized and recognized clinical framework.

Future research should also address how one might arrive at a clearer definition of OBE for therapeutic purposes. Can OBEs be replicated in a hypnotherapy session, and if so, should particular criteria exist for evaluating the authenticity of OBEs? Or, rather, perhaps criteria should be devised to examine the therapeutic impact, rather than the defining characteristics of OBEs that are induced within the therapeutic environment. Another research question that arises is: Can therapists treat certain emotional issues or mental health disorders with the aid of an induced OBE as part of a counselling intervention? Prior studies have produced promising results and additional research could

help highlight the broader benefits of working with clients who have had OBEs.

References

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Blanke, O., & Mohr, C. (2005). The demystification of autoscopic phenomena: Experimental propositions. Current Psychiatry Reports, 7(3), 189-195. doi:10.1007/ s11920-005-0052-1

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De Foe, A., Van Doorn, G., & Symmons, M. (2012). Auditory hallucinations predict likelihood of out-of-body experience. Australian Journal of Parapsychology, 12(1), 59-68.

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Groth-Marnat, G. (1994). Cross-cultural perspectives on the near-death experience. Australian Parapsych-ological Review, 19, 7-11.


Harris, R. (2009). ACT made simple: An easy-to-read primer on acceptance and commitment therapy. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger.

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Joyce, P., & Sills, C. (2010). Skills in gestalt counselling & psychotherapy. (2nd ed.). London, UK: Sage.

Kabat-Zinn, J. (2006). Mindfulness-based interventions in context: Past, present, and future. Clinical Psychology: Science and Practice, 10(2), 144-156.doi:10.1093/clipsy.bpg016

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Miller, J. J., Fletcher, K., & Kabat-Zinn, J. (1995). Three-year follow-up and clinical implications of a mindfulness meditation-based stress reduction intervention in the treatment of anxiety disorders. General Hospital Psychiatry, 17(3), 192-200. doi:10.1016/0163-8343(95)00025-M

Monroe, R. (1992). Journeys out of the body. New York, NY: Broadway Books.

Murray, C. D., & Fox, J. (2005). The out-of-body experience and body image: Differences between experients and non-experients. Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease, 193(1),70-72.doi:10.1097/01.nmd.0000149223.77469.da

Parra, A. (2009). Out-of-body experiences and hallucinatory experiences: A psychological approach. Imagination, Cognition and Personality, 29(3), 211-223. doi:10.2190/IC.29.3.d

Pesant, N., & Zadra, A. (2004). Working with dreams in therapy: What do we know and what should we do? Clinical Psychology Review, 24, 489-512. doi:10.1016/j.cpr.2004.05.002

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Schenk, P.W. (2006). The hypnotic use of waking dreams: Exploring near-death experiences without the flatlines. Carmarthen, UK: Crown House.

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Notes

1. Refer to the Appendix of Gelkopf and Meyerson’s (2004) study for a full transcript of the hypnotherapy script that these authors utilized.

About the Author

Alexander De Foe is a PhD Candidate at Monash Univer-sity in Melbourne, Australia. Alexander’s doctoral research is based in the discipline of parapsychology, specializing in the study of out-of-body experiences (OBEs). Alexander has undertaken qualitative and quantitative research into OBEs, and he has facilitated experiments with participants in a formal lab setting. Aside from publishing in peer-reviewed academic journals such as the Australian Journal of Parapsychology, Alexander also disseminates his research in the popular media; he has recently appeared to discuss OBEs and altered states of consciousness on Melbourne’s Triple R Radio and at a local postgraduate research conference. Alexander also completed a Master’s degree in Counselling at Monash University and he has clinical experience as well as teaching experience in the field of psychology. Alongside his doctoral research, Alexander’s present academic involvements include lecturing and tutoring in two disciplines at Monash University: psychological studies and transition and pathways education.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 83Reincarnation and Past-Life Phenomena

Is the Reincarnation Hypothesis Advanced by Stevenson for Spontaneous Past-life Experiences Relevant for the Understanding

of the Ontology of Past-life Phenomena?Sergei Slavoutski

Sofia UniversityPalo Alto, CA, USA

A significant volume of scientific evidence, uncovered by reincarnation research in the last 50 years, supports the reincarnation hypothesis advanced by Ian Stevenson for spontaneous past-life experiences (PLEs). However, at this time this evidence cannot provide an unquestionable proof of the existence of past-life phenomena, nor can it assert that reincarnation is not possible. This paper suggests that the reincarnation hypothesis, being reasonably parsimonious and relatively exhaustive, may provide a plausible explanation for spontaneous PLEs. Also, based on the probability of the same ontology of spontaneous and hypnotic PLEs, it may be argued that this hypothesis might also be relevant for the hypnotic PLEs, as well as for the understanding of the ontology of past-life phenomena in general.


In recent years, the belief in reincarnation has drawn significant attention and continues to gain recognition among researchers and medical professionals, as well

as the general public (Kuhlmann-Wilsdorf, 2008; Mills, 2008). The concept of reincarnation is based on the “the notion that a nonphysical element of human existence not only survives but subsequently is reborn in another body” (Irwin, 1989, p. 240). Stevenson (1960a, 1960b) introduced the reincarnation hypothesis in his early studies of children who claimed to remember previous lives and continued to advance this theory in his later works (e.g., 1977, 1983, 1997b, 2000a). He proposed the following explanation of the reincarnation phenomenon:

Reincarnation, briefly defined, includes the idea that men [and women] consist of physical bodies and minds. At a person’s death, his [her] physical body perishes, but his [her] mind may persist and later become associated with another physical body in the process called reincarnation. Some persons find the word “mind” in this definition unclear or otherwise unattractive. They may certainly substitute another word such as “soul” or “individuality.” I intend only to indicate a component of human beings not comprised in our present understanding of their physical bodies, which component may persist after physical death. (1977, footnote 2, p. 305)

As a primary hypothesis used for the scientific investigation of cases suggestive of reincarnation, the reincarnation hypothesis for Stevenson was “not a matter of belief, but an empirical issue, based on very specific experiences and observations” (Grof, 2000, p. 235). Considering the significance of this hypothesis for reincarnation research, scientifically acquired evidence and careful examination of the facts are critical for accepting or rejecting the reincarnation hypothesis.

The reincarnation phenomenon is usually associated with the ability of people to recall what they believe represents their past lives, “reported experiences or impressions of oneself as a particular person (other than one’s current life identity) in a previous time or life” (Mills & Lynn, 2001, p. 285). These past-life experiences (PLEs), which represent individual recollections, are expressly significant for the problem of postmortem survival of human consciousness; they involve recalling and engaging in previous historical life events happening at different geographical locations and “experiential sequences of this kind constitute the empirical basis for the widespread belief in reincarnation” (Grof, 2000, p. 235). Various in-depth investigations of PLE phenomena in the last 50 years have resulted in the accumulation of a vast body of evidence that supports possible plausibility of the reincarnation hypothesis (e.g., Haraldsson, 1991, 1997, 2000a, 2000b, 2003, 2008; Mills, 1988, 1990,

Keywords: reincarnation hypothesis, past life, past-life experience, spontaneous past life, hypnotic past life, Stevenson, rebirth, karma, previous personality

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 84 Slavoutski

1994, 2003; Pasricha, 1990, 1996, 1998, 2008a, 2008b; Stevenson, 1960a, 1960b, 1974, 1977, 1983, 1987, 1997a, 1997b, 2000a, 2003). For that matter, there is a possibility that the reincarnation hypothesis advanced by Stevenson may be relevant to and offer conceptual support for the understanding of the ontology (i.e., a theory about the nature of reality or existence) of PLE phenomena. The exploration of the importance of this hypothesis and its implications for PLE phenomena may also provide better understanding of the evidence gathered as a result of reincarnation studies and improve the methodology of the future reincarnation research.

Past-life recall occurs in several forms, two of which, spontaneous and hypnotic, represent the corresponding types of reincarnation cases that have been the subject of scientific investigation (Edelman & Bernet, 2007). Spontaneous past-life recalls are documented in the reports of young children who remember the facts, circumstances, and specific details of the life of deceased people and in some instances demonstrate the behavioral patterns and emotional longings inherent in the personalities of these deceased individuals (e.g., Brody, 1979; Matlock, 1990; Mills & Lynn, 2001; Tucker, 2005). Hypnotic past-life memories (PLMs) occur when alleged PLEs are retrieved under hypnosis either in a therapeutic environment during past-life regression therapy or in PLE-related controlled studies. In some cases, hypnotic induction may not be necessary for evoking PLMs (Cranston & Williams, 1999; Head & Cranston, 2000), and the recalls may happen regardless of the participant’s belief in past lives (Fiore, 2005).

Evidence of hypnotic PLMs and even spontaneous PLEs still remains controversial based on the skepticism and criticism from the scientific community and failure of some investigations to fully verify the accuracy of the information retrieved from these experiences (Angel, 1994; Edwards, 1987, 1997; Hales, 2001a, 2001b; Sagan, 1996; Swinburne, 1986; Webster, 2009; Wilson, 1981, 1982, 1988). In general, PLEs have received a mixture of interpretations and have been associated with a variety of phenomena that range from paranormal encounters (Braude, 2003; Chari, 1978; Grof, 1994, Hales, 2001a, 2001b; Luke, 2011; Stevenson, 1977) and altered states of consciousness (Luke, 2011; Simöes, 2002; Tart, 1974, 1992; Woolger, 1999) to fantasy constructions (Baker, 1982; Dwairy, 2006; Kampman, 1976; Mariott, 1984; Robertson & Gow, 1999; Spanos, 1988, 1996; Spanos, Menary, Gabora, DuBreuil, & Dewhirst, 1991; Venn,

1986; Wickramasekera, 2009), repressed memories (Loftus, 1997, 2000; Pasricha, 2011) or genetic memories (Almeder, 1992; Pasricha, 2006; Stevenson, 1987; Tarazi, 1990), and some others.

Besides spontaneous and hypnotic forms of past-life recall, some voluntary and involuntary manifestations of PLEs have been reported to happen in various therapeutic as well as in non-therapeutic environments (Grof, 1994; Stevenson & Pasricha, 1980): during psychedelic and psycholytic therapies using LSD with psychiatric patient and non-patient populations (Chandler, Holden, & Kolander, 1992; Grof, 1975, 1976, 1980); experiential therapeutic modalities (e.g., Gestalt, primal, rebirthing, holotropic breathing; Grof, 1985; Grof & Bennet, 1993); and various forms of bodywork (e.g., existential holistic therapy, Reichian therapies, Rolfing, psychodrama; Ventegodt et al., 2004; Woolger, 1996, 2000; Grof, 1994). PLEs are also reported to appear under specific psycho-emotional and psychosomatic conditions, such as: sensory isolation (Grof, 1994; Tart, 1996); spontaneous episodes of nonordinary states of consciousness (e.g., spiritual emergencies; Grof & Grof, 1986, 1989); some forms of deep meditative visualization (e.g., yogic concentrated meditation samadhi; Bilimoria & Stansell, 2010), which could be accompanied by psychosomatic reactions (Pagis, 2009); and dreaming in sleep states (Krippner & Faith, 2001).

The recall of PLMs can also occur independently, in parallel or may alternate with regular memories, which an individual retains from different periods of his or her life, including prenatal and perinatal stages of personal development (Grof, 1988, 1992). Spontaneous PLEs reported in adults are less frequent than in children and for the most part are initiated by some memory cues (Mills & Lynn, 2001). They can be compared to very vivid déjà vu experiences when an individual is able to provide descriptions of environments and circumstances related to the observed events without any prior knowledge of them (Brown, 2003; Neppe, 2010). Such experiences have been explained as “the residues of experiences from another life,” and they are influenced by socio-cultural factors (Mills & Lynn, 2001, p. 289). A variety of manifestations of PLEs have been reported across geographically, historically, and culturally diverse populations, and PLEs have been known to occur in ordinary, as well as in non-ordinary states of consciousness (Grof, 1985, 1994, 2000; Luke,


2011; Mills & Lynn, 2001; Stevenson, 1977). These manifestations may be qualified as transpersonal since they represent “experiences in which the sense of identity or self extends beyond (trans) the individual or personal to encompass wider aspects of humankind, life, psyche, and cosmos” (Walsh & Vaughn, 1993, p. 3). PLE phenomena demonstrate the multidimensional nature of human consciousness, show human abilities that are inherent to each individual and which are believed to be part of a human species’ heritage, and define how the potential of a human soul manifests in life (Tart, 1997). The body of research related to PLEs is dependent upon the theory of rebirth in general and reincarnation in particular, offering a profound insight into the intricate nature of the reincarnation phenomenon (Head & Cranston, 1977, 2000; McClelland, 2010; Rosen, 1997). The term reincarnation, as it is used in this paper, means “re-infleshment and refers to surviving soul or some other spiritually significant aspect of a deceased being assuming a (new) ‘un-souled body’ and, hence, having another life” (McClelland, 2010, p. 231), whereas, rebirth is “the most general and most inclusive term for what is also called reincarnation” (p. 218).

The concept of past lives goes back to the times of ancient Egypt, India, Greece, and Rome (Head & Cranston, 2000; McClelland, 2010). It is closely con-nected with the theory of reincarnation or rebirth that is part of a number of Eastern religious and philosophical doctrines, such as Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism, and Taoism (Knapp, 2005; Obeyeskere, 2002; Sharma, 1990, 2001; Vincanne, 2001). Some indications of this belief can be found in early Christianity and Judaism (Almeder, 1992; Head & Cranston, 2000; Smith, 2003) and later has also been supported by Western and Middle Eastern systems of philosophical thought, such as Kabbalistic Judaism (Head & Cranston, 2000), Rosicrucian and Cathar Christian traditions (Head & Cranston, 2000; Heindel, 1985), the Alawi and Druze traditions in Islam (Abd-Allah, 1983; Stevenson, 1983), anthroposophical and theosophical European doctrines (Morrisson, 2008; Steiner, 1977, 1992, 2011; Querido, 1997), Zoroastrianism (Luhrmann, 2002) and others.

The first notion of karmic (based on the cause and effect of a person’s actions) rebirth is found in the Brahmana writings (e.g., Satapatha Brahmana), and subsequently the concept of cyclical rebirth (reincarnation) appears in the Brihadaranyaka and Chandogya Upanishads (Geen, 2007); these are considered among the oldest

philosophical texts and dated circa 6th-5th centuries BCE. Also, the earliest existing Jain texts, such as Acaranga and Uttaradhyayana Sutras, described the multiple cycles of birth and rebirth as a result of one’s karma, where karma is referred to as the concept of “the inevitable and moral consequences of action (karman)” (p. 74). The theory of karma is directly interconnected with the concepts of reincarnation and rebirth (Tart, 2010). According to Vedic texts, it was believed that the law of karma directly influences a person’s good or evil rebirth (positive or negative causes for one’s birth; O’Flaherty, 2007); the concept of karma as a law of retribution developed out of earlier (pre-Vedic) philosophy and later took on the meaning of the law of cause and effect (Yevtic, 1927). The possibility of accessing the information related to past lives through a contemplative trance, a state of consciousness reached in a concentrated meditation, was noted in Patanjali’s Yoga-Sutras (circa 5th-6th century CE) of India (Whicher, 2005).

The most recent scientific research on reincarnation and past lives has been done by Ian Stevenson, who dedicated almost a half of a century of his professional life to the investigation of cases of the reincarnation type (Kuhlmann-Wilsdorf, 2008). Since the early 1960s, Stevenson started to construct a novel area of research focusing on the investigations of the spontaneous cases involving children. These children reported memories of previous lives mostly between two and four years of age and usually stopped speaking about such memories between five and seven (Stevenson, 2000a; Haraldsson, 2003; Tucker, 2007). In many cases, children described the circumstances of death of the previously-lived person, which they recalled were sudden and violent (Stevenson, 1977, 2000a; Haraldsson, 2003). Others recalled circumstances of previous lives, such as claimed relations to their current or to a totally different family, as well as their emotional longings towards their previous family, which may have varied among different cases (Tucker, 2008).

Stevenson (1997b) and other researchers (Mills, 1988; Pasricha, Keil, Tucker, & Stevenson, 2005; Tucker, 2000) identified research parameters that could be found in cases regardless of country and culture. Common characteristics include birthmarks and birth defects matching the wounds of a deceased person; recognitions and remarks explicable from the point of view of a such person; similarities of personality characteristics, such as temper, habits, and talents; and some psycho-emotional


manifestations, such as philias and phobias, which could not be reasoned from the standpoint of the current life, but rather on the basis of the past life (Stevenson, 1990; Mills, 2008).

The other area of interest for Stevenson was the analysis of the children’s behavioral patterns observed when they were engaged in play. Those behaviors apparently represented some elements of previous life-styles that were unusual and could not be attributed to their current family environments (Stevenson, 2000c; Stevenson & Keil, 2005). In his studies, Stevenson analyzed the impact of past lives on the development of personality in addition to genetic and environmental factors. He believed that genetic and/or environmental influences could not be the only explanations of children’s atypical behaviors. (Stevenson, 1977)

He also suggested a possibility that some personality traits inherent to the deceased individuals could be carried over to the children in ways that may not have any conventional explanation (Stevenson, 1977; 2000b). These transfers of some aspects of personality Stevenson identified with what he called a “developmental karma.” Stevenson (1977) proposed that the cases he studied provided some evidence that these carry-overs may contain structures of specific cognitive data, as well as behavioral elements including talents and morals. He further argued that, based on the concept of reincarnation, people are directly responsible for their own personality growth and for the outcomes of their deeds. He believed that the practical implications of such interpretation might help to explore and influence human behavior in a way that is principally different from the dominating beliefs of societal and familial liabilities for individual wrongdoings.

Stevenson always stayed focused on the evidence, not accepting any conjecture, in order to maintain the scientific veracity of his data. He never declared that his research provided any proof of reincarnation and always refrained from asserting that he himself believed in it (Kuhlmann-Wilsdorf, 2008). Once, when asked directly whether he believed in reincarnation, Stevenson answered: “The physical marks present strong evidence,” with no further comment (Westphal, 2008, p. 131). For that matter, he was persistent in opposing the use of the term “proof” even for the massive evidence that was accumulated as a result of his research (Tucker, 2008). He always referred to his case studies as “suggestive of reincarnation,” and “of the reincarnation type,” and

maintained that the data he uncovered were consistent with the reincarnation hypothesis.

In all his works, Stevenson adhered to the strictest standards of scientific exploration, including the collection and interpretation of data. He structured his investigations so that first he conducted a series of interviews with the subject, then with members of his or her family (parents, siblings, and grandparents), next he collected available firsthand testimonies of other people (relatives, teachers, neighbors) about subject’s statements and behavior related to the claims of remembering his or her past lives (1997b). In the investigations of birthmarks and birth defects, all evidence was examined and documented with detailed descriptions, drawings and photographs (1997a, 1997b). Dates were validated against existing records, such as birth certificates, identity cards, personal journals, and so forth. After that, using the same research protocols and procedures, Stevenson interviewed the family of the claimed previous person. He documented all facts and events related to the interaction between the two families (1977). In order to determine and verify the location of the wounds on the bodies of the deceased persons in cross-examination of the birthmarks and birth defects of the subjects, Stevenson, whenever it was possible, acquired and examined postmortem reports, death certificates, criminal records, and other documents related to the death of the previous person (Mills, 1989; Pasricha, 1998; Stevenson, 1997a, 1997b). Only after thoroughly conducted investigation, Stevenson could conclude that “the [irrefutable] correspondence between wounds and birthmarks and the child’s correct statements about the life of the deceased person usually leave no doubt that the correct previous personality has been identified” (Stevenson, 1997b, p. 11). In his references to the past-life identity of a deceased person, Stevenson (1977) preferred to use the term previous personality because

the term can be used whether or not an actual deceased person has been found whose life corresponded to the child’s statements; nor does its use imply any commitment to a particular explanation of how the child obtained any correct knowledge he [or she] showed about the person identified. (footnote 4, pp. 307-308)

In order for the obtained evidence to be accepted, Stevenson systematically evaluated and ruled out all alternative explanations, such as erroneous


identification of the deceased person; coincidence or random match of a birthmark and a wound; possible genetic origin of a birthmark or birth defect; possible communication between the families prior to the investigation; extrasensory perception, as a means to acquire information about the previous personality; inaccurate or inconsistent testimonies of the participants in the case. Stevenson (1983) strongly believed that in cases where the conventional explanation was obvious, the investigation procedures should be fully inclusive and cover all aspects of the case. Some of the cases were discarded and related documentation was not included in the investigation reports when Stevenson suspected or found any conflicting testimonies, witnesses’ biases, participants’ questionable motives or behavior, and other procedural or evidential discrepancies. He included only the strongest cases in his final reports (Grof, 2000).

Stevenson demonstrated in many of his documented investigations that the children’s claims of previous life memories were a cross-cultural phenomenon, which was not necessarily reliant on the belief in reincarnation common to a specific cultural environment (Tucker, 2008). At the same time, speaking about the cultural influences in cases of reincarnation type, Stevenson (1983) maintained that

the cases of the various cultures reflect, to some extent, the variations in the beliefs about reincarnation. We cannot yet explain these correlations. Two interpretations are obvious: first, the beliefs may influence the development of the cases; second, if reincarnation occurs, the beliefs may influence what actually happens from one life to another. But there may be other explanations also. (p. 743)

Therefore, the belief in reincarnation among certain cultures was a natural factor in identifying the primary geographical areas for the research: northern India, Sri Lanka, Burma, Thailand, Vietnam, south central Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, and northwest North America (the natives of that region). Cases with similar main features had also occurred “in areas of the world whose peoples find the idea of reincarnation uncongenial or even heretical” (Stevenson, 1977, p. 308), such as in Europe and North America, though the reports from these regions were not as frequent or as rich in details.

Stevenson (1983) researched 79 cases of American children who claimed to remember previous lives (43 males and 36 females). Analyzing the data about

the beliefs related to incarnation in the families of the children, 16% (n = 9) of families believed in reincarnation prior to the children’s claims; 37% (n = 21) showed a passing interest in the topic of reincarnation; 20% (n = 11) expressed interest in parapsychology in general, but not specifically in reincarnation; 27% (n = 15) had little or no knowledge about reincarnation; and 29% (n = 23) of reports were insufficient to make a conclusion about family beliefs. In many cases the children’s statements about their alleged previous lives were surrounded by mystery and disbelief even causing resentment and scolding by some parents because such claims represented a concept that was not taught at schools and “often conflicted seriously with the beliefs of their parents and other members of their families” (Stevenson, 1983, p. 744). In such cases, parents were resistant to acknowledge the children’s statements and dismissed them. Parents’ rejecting their children’s statements could explain why in 79 American cases only 20% (n = 16) were “solved,” meaning that the identity of the alleged deceased person was verified. The majority remained “unsolved” due to insufficient information to discover the children’s claimed previous personality.

There was a significant difference between American and Indian samples of solved cases regarding the relationship between the child and the alleged deceased person. In 94% (n = 15) of solved American cases, that person “was a member of the child’s family, such as an older sibling or a grandparent who had died before the subject’s birth” (Stevenson, 1983, p. 744), whereas in Indian cases (n = 266), children identified with persons outside their families with whom their family had never met and who lived in different, sometimes distant geographical areas. The similar feature of alleged past-life identities in both Indian and American samples was the high occurrence of violent deaths, found to be 56% and 80% respectively. Those numbers significantly exceeded the incidence of violent deaths in the general population of India (7.2%) and the United States (8%). The other similar characteristic in both samples was the average age when children started to talk about their presumed previous lives, which was three years. However, the average age when these children stopped their past-life recollection was nine and a half years for Indian children and eight years for American children. The reasons for this variation, as Stevenson suggested, could be due to the different degree of parental attention. “When adults lose interest in what the child says, or have


none to begin with, the child himself may stop talking about the memories and forget them earlier than he would if he received more attention” (p. 746).

Stevenson (1983) did not believe that in Ameri-can cases wish fulfillment was a relevant motivation for children to report their PLEs, since their present-life conditions were primarily better than their past-life ones, which were “usually commonplace ones, sometimes lived in less comfortable circumstances than those of the child’s family” (p. 747). At the same time, he did not exclude the likelihood of the child’s behavior associated with the previous personality as fantasy constructions. Although Stevenson, in his analysis of all possible explanations of spontaneous PLEs, considered the plausibility of other interpretations for a small number of his cases, he stated that he accepted reincarnation as the best explanation for the stronger cases (1997b).

Shweder (1986) supported Stevenson’s position regarding the credibility of the reincarnation hypothesis and pointed out some facts contributing to its explanatory value. Although he did not specifically concentrate on moving forward the reincarnation hypothesis, he suggested that various culturally influenced beliefs of religious or non-rational nature, “where reason and evidence are irrelevant to subjective experience” (p. 180), could support common sense based theories about human existence, which are coherent with a variety of observational experiences (Mills & Lynn, 2001). Shweder (1986) believed that the reincarnation hypothesis could provide a strong conceptual ground for people

who are willing to accept as evidence the pervasive intuitive experience of one’s own observing ego and for those who have already adopted a conceptual reference point from which soul exist, for whom reincarnation . . . is at least a theoretical possibility. (p. 181)

He argued that reincarnation could also explain such facts as noticeable personality differences that could be occasionally found in identical twins reared together; similarity between personalities of siblings from one family and people randomly selected from different families; some inborn outstanding abilities (e.g., in mathematics or music) of children that are unique in the family and that could not have been gained due to imitation or training (Shweder, 1986).

Although several of Shweder’s (1986) and Stevenson’s (1960a, 1977) examinations were consistent with the reincarnation hypothesis, some critics believed

that in many cases there were alternative interpretations of the results (Mills & Lynn, 2001). For example,

Many fears and phobias are determined by complex interaction of genetic and physiological vulnerabilities and subtle conditioning events and situational triggers. . . . Déjà vu experiences have been ascribed to temporal-lobe lability and deficits that are by no means readily apparent or easily detectable. . . . And contrary to some of Shweder’s earlier clams, research on identical twins has not confirmed that identical twins reared together generally exhibit marked differences in personality or that the personalities of siblings differ as much as those of a pair of people chosen randomly. (Mills & Lynn, 2001, p. 298)

Paul Edwards, an American moral philosopher and contemporary of Stevenson, was a strong opponent of Stevenson’s and his colleagues’ reincarnation research. Edwards (1987, 1997) in his works, which were (in his own words) “attacking reincarnation on both philosophical and empirical grounds” (1997, p. 318), summarized some of the most prevalent objections to Stevenson’s reincarnation hypothesis. These criticisms challenged a variety of areas of Stevenson’s research, implying such characteristic features as sloppy methodology, researchers’ biased approach, lack of real evidence, and ultimately questioning the principle scientific value of such studies. The first criticism of Stevenson’s research was expressed by British historian Ian Wilson, who blamed Stevenson for dismissing, as Edwards (1987) put it, “on the flimsiest grounds the possibility of fraud on the part of the children, their parents, and other interested parties” (p. 12). As a result, Wilson (1981) suggested that there were “serious grounds for believing that Steven-son may have let through rather more fraudulent cases than he would care to concede” (p. 88). Another of Wilson’s disparagements was about what he felt was an inadequately limited amount of information revealed in the studies about vital informants (e.g., children’s parents). He also pointed out the fact that in some of Stevenson’s investigations, the interviewers (including Stevenson himself) did not speak the language of the interviewees and therefore, there was a strong possibility of the investigators’ and interpreters’ personal biases.

Wilson’s critical position towards reincarnation was not unanimously shared. For example, Perry (1981), in his review of Wilson’s (1981) Mind Out of Time? Reincarnation Claims Investigated, remarked about


what in his view was Wilson’s biased stance towards the reincarnation phenomenon in general, and Stevenson’s research, in particular: “If this were all to Wilson’s hatchet job on the evidence for reincarnation, it might have damaged a few details, but it would not need to be taken very seriously” (Perry, 1981, p. 167).

In a later review of Stevenson’s Children Who Remember Previous Lives, Wilson (1988) continued to express his critique. He stated that although he

would be the first to concede that the idea of reincarnation seems at face value far more fair and reasonable than its Christian alternative, . . . [he was] saddened at the number of “general readers” likely to be beguiled by him [Stevenson] into believing that the popular fad for reincarnation as championed by Shirley MacLaine and her ilk really does have some serious scientific support. (p. 229)

Stevenson (1988) responded to Wilson’s earlier (i.e., 1981) and later (i.e., 1988) criticisms, making it clear that although he exhaustively addressed those criticisms, he believed that the future studies, conducted by him and other researchers, would be able to convincingly speak to Wilson’s objections. Stevenson (1988) stated:

Wilson cannot retard the study of the cases suggestive of reincarnation by raising his voice, and I cannot advance it by raising mine. The way ahead, for me at least, lies in studying cases with even stronger evidence of a paranormal process and in having other scientists study similar cases independently of me. (p. 233)

The second criticism was from Indian philosopher and parapsychologist, C. T. K. Chari. Edwards (1997) suggested that Chari, although not rejecting reincarnation, believed that “Stevenson is incredibly naïve and that his reports have no evidential value, [whereas,] in a number of articles Chari has given us some insight into the way Indian cases ‘suggestive of reincarnation’ are manufactured” (p. 12). In contrast with Stevenson, Chari (1978) was convinced that the reasons why the majority of Stevenson and his colleague’s cases occurred in the Middle East, Southern Asia, and the Far East were primarily due to the strong socio-cultural roots of the belief in reincarnation in these geographical areas. He also argued that past-life fantasies in Asian children arose in play or game-like situations, which were “promoted or retarded by conscious or unconscious beliefs, attitudes, and responses of parents, guardians, interested bystanders” (p. 319). Even

though Chari challenged some of the methods and con-clusions of Stevenson’s research, Edwards (1997) suggestion that Chari “proceeds to lament the ‘generally lax’ standards of evidence prevailing in India” (p. 12) seemed to reflect more of Edwards’ own attitude rather than Chari’s criticisms. The third and fourth examples of criticism of Stevenson’s reincarnation research came from a popular literature book by a writer and parapsychologist D. Scott Rogo (1985) The Search for Yesterday: A Critical Examination of the Evidence for Reincarnation. One of the stories in Rogo’s book provided critique of Stevenson’s alleged attitude towards criticisms of his research, which was expressed by David Reed Barker, an anthropologist who assisted Stevenson and his co-researcher, Satwant Pasricha in their investigations of Indian cases. According to Edwards (1997), Barker, who was involved with Pasricha in the investigation of 59 cases, “could not find a single case in which there was convincing evidence of the presence of paranormal process” (p. 13). Stevenson (1986), in his response to allegations, which Barker (1979) stated in his Letter to the Editor of the Journal of Parapsychology, refuted Barker’s claims:

For many of these cases Barker took few notes himself, and for some he took none whatever. Therefore, for him to write (in his Letter to the Editor of the Journal of Parapsychology) about 59 cases “thoroughly investigated” by himself was grossly misleading. (Stevenson, 1986, p. 237)

The other episode, described by Rogo (1985), suggested that Stevenson tried to prevent Champ Ransom, who assisted him with his research in the early 1970s, from publicizing a report containing critical views of Stevenson’s work. Stevenson (1986) dismissed Rogo’s account of Ransom’s report and asserted that “this account is wrong and once more shows Rogo’s imagination in play” (p. 237). Besides Stevenson’s criticism, Matlock (1986) in his review of Rogo’s (1985) book pointed out the author’s “casual documentation, uneven analysis and popular writing style” (p. 229). Disregarding Stevenson’s (1986) statements, which explained firsthand the situation with Ransom’s report, Edwards (1997) nevertheless, insisted that

although Rogo’s account of the details of Ransom’s report was mistaken, he was not at all wrong in suggesting that it undermines Stevenson’s pretense of having provided genuinely scientific evidence for reincarnation. (p. 14)


Edwards (1997) also believed that Stevenson had persistently neglected the major criticisms of his reincarnation studies and made an assertion, although rather questionable, that Stevenson “has never answered the more significant objections and . . . [has made] it a practice not even to mention their existence” (p. 11). Making this claim, Edwards disregarded the fact that various sources (e.g., Wilson, 1981; Stevenson, 1986) pointed to Stevenson’s unbiased but strong policy to discuss and respond to criticisms of his research “always, and only, in scientific journals” (Stevenson, 1986, p. 232).

Carl Sagan, a renowned astronomer, astro-physicist and proponent of scientific skepticism (a concept that scientific method is the most appropriate approach to the empirical investigation of reality in search for the truth; Morrison, 2007), was co-founder of a debunking organization, the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal (CSICOP) and a strong critic of many paranormal ideas, including reincarnation (Tucker, 2005). Even though Sagan (1996) personally did not believe in reincarnation, he considered that along with few other claims in the field of parapsychology, claims related to reincarnation research deserve serious attention; specifically those claims, where

young children sometimes report the details of a previous life, which upon checking turn out to be accurate and which they could not have known about in any other way than reincarnation [stronger cases in Stevenson’s studies]. I pick these claims not because I think they’re likely to be valid (I don’t), but as examples of contentions that might be true. (p. 302)

Stevenson had always been open to serious and substantiated criticisms about his work and responded to them in a scholarly manner. He believed that this type of discussion helped improve the methodology and rigor of the reincarnation research. At the same time, he refuted inaccurate allegations and unsubstantiated critical attacks on him, as he believed that for “numerous criticisms that are false and irresponsible, the best antidote is a wise remark attributed to Charles Darwin: ‘A scientist is ultimately judged by what he himself writes, not by what others write about him’” (Stevenson, 1986, p. 238).

Stevenson’s investigation of over 2,500 cases of the reincarnation type (Tucker, 2007) showed that

his vision of the future of the reincarnation research was correct when he anticipated “further accumulation of evidence that will make reincarnation seem to an increasing number of informed persons a more probable explanation than others for cases of the [reincarnation] type” (p. 325). Titus Rivas (2003, 2005), a Dutch philosopher and reincarnation researcher, argued that studies of children who claimed to remember previous lives, have presented the bulk of empirical evidence for the reincarnation hypothesis. Out of all other alternative hypotheses that Stevenson (1977, 1987, 1997b, 2000a, 2003) considered in each of his strong cases, the reincarnation hypothesis was adopted as reasonably parsimonious, and, at the same time, as necessarily comprehensive, the one that is supported by exhaustive evidence. Although, in some cases of reincarnation type (CORT), apart from the normal explanation (e.g., self-deception and fantasy), the other hypotheses might have been more parsimonious (e.g., ESP), they did not provide a comprehensive explanation for such cases, whereas, “in contrast, reincarnation [hypothesis] did fulfill both conditions” (Rivas, 1993, p. 1). Analyzing the studies of CORT that had been done by researchers around the world, Rivas asserted that these cases presented substantive evidence that subjects in these cases recalled their previous lives. Therefore, he considered the reincarnation hypothesis “the most parsimonious sufficient hypothesis that exhaustively explains all details of paranormal CORTs” (p. 8).

Contemporary American philosopher Robert Almeder (1996) elaborated on Rivas’ assertion about parsimony and exhaustiveness of the reincarnation hypothesis by providing strong arguments in support of its plausibility. Referring to Stevenson’s strong, or as he called them rich CORTs, in connection with “the ostensibly unusual behavior of the people in these richer cases,” he stated that “for Stevenson, the behaviors in question have no better, or as plausible, an explanation as the belief in reincarnation” (p. 513). Almeder stated that “the data in the richer reincarnation cases overwhelmingly suggests [sic] as the first plausible hypothesis that the subjects in these cases are indeed reincarnated persons” (p. 498). Almeder (2001) argued that it is not necessary for the reincarnation hypothesis to demonstrate how or why the phenomena of reincarnation produced the data in order to provide acceptable explanation for it in the rich cases.


So, there is a prima facie plausibility to the reincarnation hypothesis as an explanation of the data in the richer cases because the content of the richer cases is precisely what we would expect or predict if we thought there was any evidence at all that would confirm the hypothesis of reincarnation. (p. 497)

Almeder (1996) believed that the reincarnation hypothesis (in contrast to, for example, psi as a possible alternative hypothesis) “is considerably more plausible because [it is] quite empirically testable and falsifiable” (p. 503) with the only assumption being that human personality was not dependent on bodily continuity over time. He argued that the reincarnation hypothesis has to be accepted for cases of spontaneous PLEs because it is a truly experimental hypothesis that is grounded in continuously manifested people’s experiences and that accepts credible verification:

Reincarnation is indeed an experimental hypothesis that admits of conclusive verification and falsification. True, if we were to regress a large number of people and never get the sorts of memories or unlearned skills that only reincarnation could plausibly explain, or if . . . we were never to come across any more spontaneous cases like the ideal [i.e., very rich] cases, we would need to reject the hypothesis. (Almeder, 1992, p. 269)

Although the reincarnation hypothesis has been argued to provide a comparatively plausible explanation for spontaneous PLEs, there is still no consensus among the scientific community about the ontology of these PLEs. The evidence that has been produced in support of this hypothesis can neither by itself scientifically explain the nature of PLEs, nor explicate possible functional mechanisms of human consciousness that could be involved in and responsible for these phenomena. Among all possible explanations for spontaneous PLEs, the reincarnation hypothesis is argued to be the most reasonably parsimonious, relatively exhaustive, and evidence-supported hypothesis. At the same time, in cases of hypnotic PLEs, there is even less understanding about their ontology, along with a relatively small amount of evidence that could support the reincarnation hypothesis as an explanation of them. The variety of psycho-emotional features exhibited in cases of spontaneous PLEs, as described in Stevenson’s research,

in many ways seemed to be similar to some of those that manifest in hypnotic PLEs. For these reasons, it is not improbable that the reincarnation hypothesis advanced by Stevenson for spontaneous PLEs may also provide a plausible explanation for some hypnotic PLEs. Therefore, future research could be important for the investigation of the ontology of spontaneous and hypnotic PLEs and also for exploring the possibility of them having the same ontology.

Regardless that the scientific explanation for the full range of PLEs is not available at this time, the concept of reincarnation may offer a comprehensive, logically sound, and practically important theoretical framework, which could enable a better understanding of the interconnections and interdependencies between cognitive processes, behavioral characteristics, and emotional manifestations inherent to personality and attempt to explain the perceived meaning of events and circumstances happening in a person’s life. The scientific approach to the examination and evaluation of the evidence for spontaneous, hypnotic, and other forms of PLEs should be seen as a necessary and required methodology for reincarnation research, which could enhance its relevance and its practical implications. This research may significantly contribute to the exploration of the nature of human consciousness, including the investigation of the possibility of its postmortem survival, and to the development of theoretical and applied disciplines, such as psychology, cognitive neuroscience, neurophenomenology, psychiatry, and psychotherapy.

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About the Author

Sergei Slavoutski is a doctoral student in transpersonal psychology at Sofia University (formerly the Institute of Transpersonal Psychology) in Palo Alto, California, USA. Since 1992, he has been developing and practicing his own healing method combining energy medicine with other-life therapy, which utilizes an integral transpersonal approach for resolving a variety of psycho-emotional, somatic, and spiritual issues originated through alleged interconnected life spans. He holds an

MS in Civil Engineering and an MBA, obtained from various universities in Moscow, Russia.

About the Journal


International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 97Psychoactive Substances and Paranormal

Psychoactive Substances and Paranormal Phenomena: A Comprehensive Review

This paper investigates the relationship between psychoactive substances and so-called paranormal phenomena falling within the study of parapsychology. It is primarily concerned with extrasensory perception (ESP)—telepathy, precognition, and clairvoyance—as well as out-of-body experiences (OBEs) and near-death experiences (NDEs). Psychokinesis (PK), aura vision, encounter experiences, and sleep paralysis only make a very limited contribution to this review as they are seldom related to psychoactive drugs within the parapsychological literature. The paper borrows widely, but by no means exhaustively, from parapsychology as well as transpersonal studies, anthropology, ethnobotany, phytochemistry, psychiatry, psychotherapy, psychopharmacology, and neurobiology, particularly neurochemistry. It is organized into neurochemical models of paranormal experience (section 1), field reports of intentional and spontaneous phenomena incorporating anthropological, historical and clinical cases, and personal accounts (section 2), surveys of paranormal belief and experience (section 3), experimental research (section 4), and a methodological critique of the experimental research with recommendations for further work (section 5).


Ever since the beginning of the 20th century when Western scientists and academics began earnestly turning their attention to psychedelics

there has been a clear association between the use of these substances and the transpersonal or paranormal experience. Indeed, those people most readily associated with the discovery and popularization of psychedelics also witnessed and explored both the transpersonal and the parapsychological dimensions that these substances induced, such as Albert Hofmann, Humphrey Osmond, John Smythies, Aldous Huxley, Gordon Wasson, Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey, Duncan Blewett, Walter Pahnke, James Fadiman, and Stanislav Grof, to name but a few (Luke, 2006; Stevens, 1988). The overlap between transpersonal and paranormal experiences is apparent (e.g., Daniels, 2005), but while a great deal has been written in recent years about psychedelic experiences from the transpersonal perspective, a comprehensive review of the parapsychological literature relating to psychedelic experiences is long overdue.

This review focuses primarily on the class of psychoactive substances that largely induce visionary and trance-like experiences. For the purposes of the present review this includes drugs and sacramentals such as mescaline, lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD), psilocybin,

ayahuasca, N,N-dimethyltryptamine (DMT), marijuana (which is treated as a psychedelic in the current review), and ketamine, but not opiates or cocaine. This class of visionary substances has been termed differently by different authors, usually dependent upon the connotation they wish to convey about the psychoactive effects or how the substance is used. Within the literature of the present review, they have been termed “mind-expanding” (e.g., Palmer, 1979), “psychotropic” (e.g., Irwin, 1994), “psychodysleptic” (Cavanna & Servadio, 1964), “hallucinogenic” (e.g., Blackmore, 1992), and even “entheogenic” (Ruck, Bigwood, Staples, Wasson, & Ott , 1979), meaning bringing forth the divine within, which is a useful term to convey the apparent divinatory and visionary nature of these substances (for discussions see Letcher, 2004; Ott, 1996; Smith, 2000), although they might be more correctly termed “potential entheogens” as they do not automatically produce such experiences (Krippner, 2006b, p. 1). Finally, there is the most frequently used term, “psychedelic”, which was created in 1956 by Humphry Osmond and means “mind manifesting” (Osmond, 1961a, p. 76). Where specified, the original term used by the authors will be preserved to reflect their orientation to the issue. However, elsewhere, where appropriate, the more widely used term “psychedelic” will be used.

Keywords: psychedelic, hallucinogen, entheogen, neurochemistry, para-psychology, psi, ESP, clairvoyance, telepathy, precognition, OBE, NDE

David LukeUniversity of Greenwich

London, UK

International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 98 Luke

For the purpose of the present paper, a psychedelic drug is:

one which, without causing physical addiction, craving, major physiological disturbances, delirium, disorientation, or amnesia, more or less reliably produces thought, mood, and perceptual changes otherwise rarely experienced except in dreams, contemplative and religious exaltation, flashes of vivid involuntary memory, and acute psychoses. (Grinspoon & Bakalar, 1998, p. 9)

The earliest parapsychology experiments with psycho-active substances were conducted with simple stimulants and depressants, such as caffeine, amphetamine, alcohol, amytal, and quinal-barbitone (e.g., Averill & Rhine, 1945; Cadoret, 1953; Huby & Wilson, 1961; Murphy, 1961; Rhine, 1934; Rhine, Humphrey, & Averill 1945; Soal & Bateman, 1954; Wilson, 1961, 1962; Woodruff, 1943). This work is not included here (for reviews see Palmer, 1978; Ramakrishna Rao, 1966) as this review is instead focused on the visionary substances, which are seemingly more favorable to the production of psi, that Braud (2002) has suggested primarily cause qualitative, rather than just quantitative alterations to the user’s state of consciousness, although Rock and Krippner (e.g., 2012) argued that (altered) states of consciousness may be more accurately described as (altered) states of phenomenology. Some earlier reviews of psychedelics in parapsychology are available and have been incorporated into the present investigation (Blewett, 1963; Gowan, 1975; Krippner & Davidson, 1970, 1974; Luke, 2008b; Luke & Friedman, 2010; Parker, 1975; Rogo, 1976; Wilson, 1949).

There are good theoretical reasons for investigating psychedelics as a means of inducing ESP and other paranormal phenomena. Given that an altered state of consciousness (ASC) is assumed to be (for a discussion see Storm & Rock, 2009) a common feature in the occurrence of subjective paranormal experiences (Alvarado, 1998; Barušs, 2003; Honorton, 1977; Parker, 1975) and has often been incorporated into experimental attempts to induce ESP (see Luke, 2011a; Palmer, 1978, 1982; Schmeidler, 1994), then visionary drugs are, potentially, a reliable means of accessing such a state. Several researchers have documented some of the mind-altering features of the visionary-drug experience that are considered conducive to the production of parapsychological experiences and phenomena (see also Braud, 2002). These have been categorized thus:

1. Increase in mental imagery, in both vividness and quality, and the dreamlike state (Blackmore, 1992; Osis, 1961a, 1961b; Progoff, 1961; Tart, 1968, 1994)

2. Altered perception of self-identity, such as unity consciousness: The mystical experience of becoming one with everything in the universe (Krippner & Fersh, 1970; Nicol & Nicol, 1961; Osis, 1961a; Pahnke, 1968; Tart, 1994)

3. Altered body perceptions and dissociation (Blackmore, 1992; Tart, 1994). This is of particular interest with respect to the out-of-body experience (OBE)

4. Distorted sensory input (Blackmore, 1992)5. Increased absorption and focused attention

(Millay, 2001; Tart, 1968, 1994)6. Increased empathy (Blewett, 1963; Nicol &

Nicol, 1961; Tart, 1994). This is of interest to telepathy, and indeed, elevated empathy is associated with use of psychedelics generally (DeGracia, 1995; Lerner & Lyvers, 2006)

7. Emotional flexibility (Blewett, 1963), which may also assist in negotiating the fear of psi (Tart, 1994)

8. Increased alertness and awareness (Huxley, 1961a; Nicol & Nicol, 1961; Osis, 1961b; Tart, 1994)

9. Increased inwardly focused attention and awareness, and decreased external and bodily awareness (Dobkin de Rios, 1978)

10. Increased spontaneity (Osis, 1961a)11. Sensitivity to subtle changes (Parker, 1975) and

intensity of feeling (Osis, 1961a)12. Physical relaxation (Blackmore, 1992), although

Tart (1968) questions its occurrence13. Increased suggestibility (Huxley, 1961a; Tart, 1968)14. Increase in intuitive thought processes (Tart, 1994)15. Reduced critical conscious faculty and increased

optimism towards impossible realities (Nicol & Nicol, 1961; Osis, 1961b; Tart, 1968, 1994)

16. Increased openness and extroversion (Rogo, 1976)

17. Release of repressed and unconscious material into the conscious mind (Rogo, 1976)

18. Complex distortions, and transcendence, of space and time (Garrett 1961b; Nicol & Nicol, 1961; Tart, 1994; see also Dawson, 2005; Mayhew, 1956; Shanon, 2001; Whiteman, 1995)


This last feature of the psychedelic experience is probably of paramount importance for the experience of ESP when it is considered that precognition, telepathy, clairvoyance, and possibly OBEs all represent radical departures from Newtonian concepts of time and space. Smythies (1983) has suggested that the psychedelic experience originates from the collective unconscious outside of space and time, and Jung agreed with Smythies’ idea. Millay (2001) offered that psilocybin and similar substances are important for studying psi because they allow us access to nonlocal space-time. Jansen (1999) also supposed that the same might be possible of ketamine, which became popularly used at the same time as Bell’s theorem of nonlocal space-time was becoming seriously considered, enabling some to report the experiential equivalence of the concept. Indeed, the Berkley-based Fundamental Fysiks Group that formed in the 1970s experimented with psychedelics to inspire their investigations of both psi and Bell’s theorem—neglected as it was by mainstream physics at that time —which eventually lead to the birth of what is now the multi-billion dollar research enterprise of quantum information science (Kaiser, 2011). More recently, something akin to this may also be evident with the psychedelic substance DMT, which sometimes provides users with the perception of many more than the usual four space-time dimensions, perhaps comparable to what physicists discuss in M-theory (Luke, 2010c). Keeping with the times ketamine is also now reported to induce such extra-dimensional percepts too (Newcombe, 2008), as is the semi-synthetic psychedelic salvinorin B ethoxymethyl ether (Mercury & Feelodd, 2008).

In addition to these temporary alterations that occur during the psychedelic experience, it is arguable that long-term ideological alterations may occur that might also be psi-conducive. For example, enduring changes in concepts of reality may occur with the use of psychedelics (Conway, 1989; Strassman, 2001), such that optimism about unseen realities, both during and after the experience, leads to a greater openness to, or belief in, psi and the paranormal. In a follow-up survey of 113 LSD-psychotherapy clients (with an 82% response rate) 78% reported an increased tendency to view telepathy and precognition as possibilities warranting investigation (International Foundation for Advanced Study, 1962). It has even been stated that the psychedelic experience is itself, by common consent, paranormal (Unger, 1963). Furthermore, the distinguished medium and psychical

researcher Eileen Garrett (1961b) asserted that the use of LSD had made her a better, more accurate sensitive and she related certain psychedelic states to the mediumistic pre-trance state of euphoria, although she specified that the LSD experience was not the same as the mediumistic trance (Garrett, 1961a). Huxley (1961a) proposed that LSD is invaluable in training participants to use their subjective faculties to enhance their psi ability.

Besides the subjective aspects of the psychedelic experience, there are other theoretical reasons for investigating paranormal phenomena with drugs: Because paranormal phenomena are brain-mind experiences, neurochemicals—and therefore psychoactive drugs—would be expected to be involved in the process. It is highly likely that all ASC, including potentially ESP-conducive states, involve alterations in brain chemistry. Indeed, several psychedelic-neurochemical models, discussed in the following sections (also see Luke & Friedman, 2010), have been proposed, primarily based upon subjective paranormal experiences occurring with certain substances and their specific neurochemical action. It is entirely feasible that genuine paranormal experiences are mediated in the brain through the action of specific endogenous (made within the body) molecules (Vayne, 2001). This does not simply imply that neurochemicals are the sole cause of paranormal phenomena, but they may rather just be a part of the process. As the novelist Aldous Huxley once said in relation to mystical experiences and the use of psychedelics—they are the occasion rather than the cause.

1. Psychedelic/Neurochemical Models of Paranormal Experience

1.1 Brain as filter Aldous Huxley (1954) also was prominent in promoting Henri Bergson’s (1896/1990) theory of the brain as a filter of memory and sensory experience, acting to reduce the wealth of information available to awareness lest people become overwhelmed by a mass of largely useless and irrelevant data not needed for the survival of the organism. It was Bergson who suggested that, if these filters were bypassed, humans would be capable of remembering everything that had ever been experienced and perceiving everything that has happened everywhere in the universe (e.g., as in clairvoyance). It was also Huxley who applied this theory to psychedelics by suggesting that these mind-


manifesting drugs override the “reducing valve” of the brain (Huxley, 1954, p. 12), allowing humans access to both psychic and mystical experiences. This was a notion that Huxley eruditely paraphrased for the title of his book from the quote by the English poet and mystic, William Blake (1906/1793), “If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite” (p. 26).

Huxley’s (1954) rather basic conception never received a more formal operationalization of the specific drug actions that may be involved, but research into the neurochemistry of psychedelics lends some support to his notion. For instance, Vollenweider and Geyer (2001) proposed that information processing in cortico-striato-thalamo-cortical (CSTC) feedback loops is disrupted by psychedelics via 5-HT (serotonin) receptor agonism (specifically 5-HT2A receptors), thereby inhibiting the “gating” of extraneous sensory stimuli and inhibiting the ability to attend selectively to salient environmental features. Furthermore, psychedelics are also thought to induce presynaptic release of glutamate from thalamic afferents, leading to a simultaneous overload of internal information in the cortex. It is thought that these combined information overload effects are at least partly responsible for the hallucinogenic experience with these drugs, which are known to induce greatly altered or amplified incoming sensory information, as is indicated by an increased startle effect (Vollenweider, 2001).

Research into the neurobiology of psychedelics in humans has only just resumed after decades of dormancy, so the current understanding of the action of these substances in the brain remains limited. One of the few studies to have been conducted, however, also offers some unexpected support for Huxley’s reducing valve theory. Looking at the blood flow around the brain following the ingestion of psilocybin, it was expected that certain regions of the brain would have more activity, given the overwhelming intenseness of strong psychedelic experiences, and yet, counter-intuitively, there was no single brain region that increased in activity, and the brain’s activity was reduced overall (Carhart-Harris, 2011; Carhart-Harris et al., 2012). The main areas demonstrating reduced cerebral blood flow were the cerebral hub regions of the thalamus, anterior and posterior cingulate cortex (ACC & PCC), and medial prefrontal cortex (mPFC). Significantly, the usual positive coupling between the mPFC and the PCC—which forms part of the default mode network

thought to be important in introspection and high level constructs such as self and ego—was reduced leading to “a state of unconstrained cognition” (Carhart-Harris et al., 2012, p. 2138).

This psychedelic disruption of the sensory gating function discussed by Vollenweider (2001), and the reduction of activity in the default mode network discussed by Carhart-Harris (2011) could also underpin the neurochemistry of ESP, whether elicited with any number of psychedelics or, indeed, without the intervention of such exogenous chemicals (though perhaps via endogenous chemicals such as DMT). Indeed like psychedelics, psi experiences and events have variously been conceptualized in relation to an inhibition of the ordinary sensory inhibition, often in conjunction with elevated psychosis and creativity, such as with the concepts of latent disinhibition (Holt, Simmonds-Moore, & Moore 2008), transliminality (Thalbourne, 2000; Thalbourne & Houran, 2005), boundary thinness and schizotypy (Simmonds & Roe, 2000), and self-expansiveness (Friedman, 1983; Pappas & Friedman, 2007). It may be noted that psychedelics have also been long associated with both creativity (e.g., Dobkin de Rios & Janiger, 2003; Krippner, 1985) and psychosis (Osmond & Smythies, 1952).

Despite the simplistic appeal of the anti-reducing valve action of psychedelics as a neurochemical model of psi, considerable gaps still remain in the current understanding of the neuropharmacological action of psychedelics in humans. Since the early 1970s, until relatively recently, practically all psychedelic research has been conducted with animals and there remain no definitive generalizations that can be made about the main neurotransmitter receptor sites involved, as psychedelics vary considerably in their chemical makeup and their ligand (i.e., a ligand is a molecule, such as a neurotransmitter, that triggers a response in a target protein) affinity (Ray, 2010). For instance, dissociative anesthetics such as ketamine are commonly N-methyl-D-aspartate (NMDA) receptor antagonists, whereas the simple tryptamines, such as psilocybin, are apparently 5-HT2A agonists. Speculations about the cause of the hallucinogenic effects of psychedelics generally include the activation of 5-HT1A, 5-HT2A, 5-HT2C, dopamine, and glutamate pathways, although it is generally believed that classic psychedelics primarily work by stimulating 5-HT2A receptors, particularly those expressed in the neocortical pyramidal cells (Lee


& Roth, 2012; Nichols, 2004), although this is certainly not the case for all psychedelics (e.g., mescaline; Ray, 2010). Electrophysiology and receptor studies have revealed that both NMDA antagonists (e.g., ketamine) and classic serotonergic psychedelics (e.g., LSD) may actually enhance glutamatergic transmission via non-NMDA receptors in the frontal cortex. This may indicate a common mode of chemical action in the brain responsible for such similar experiences with these divergent molecules (Vollenweider, 2004); this serotonin/glutamate receptor-complex model of drug action is receiving high-profile attention again for psychedelics as a possible comparative model of psychosis (e.g., González-Maeso et al., 2008).

Despite the lack of understanding of the neurobiology of psychedelic action, and lack of generalizability across so many diverse substances, recent advances would appear to support the Bergson-Huxley notion of brain as a filter capable of being deactivated by chemicals, and furthermore this notion, including the parts pertaining to ESP, is now gaining ground once more among theorists of consciousness (e.g., Kastrup, 2012). Indeed, recent theoretical developments (Smythies, 2011) suggest that NMDA antagonism, such as via ketamine, bypasses the reducing valve/filter action of the brain (see section 1.4 following below for a discussion).1.2 β-carbolines, tryptamines, and psi

Advancing on earlier suggestions about the pineal gland’s involvement in psi (e.g. Miller, 1978; Sinel, 1927), Roney-Dougal (1986, 1989, 1991, 2001) has developed an endogenous neurochemical-perspective of psi based on the action of the pineal and several hallucinogenic substances found in ayahuasca, the visionary Amazonian brew reported to induce a range of paranormal experiences. The common neurotransmitter serotonin is known to be most active in the pineal gland, where it follows a circadian rhythm and is converted at night into melatonin (5-methoxy tryptamine, or 5MT) and the β-carboline, pinoline (6-methoxy tetrahydro-β-carboline, or 6-MeO-THβC), which regulate sleep cycles. The pineal may also create other β-carbolines, such as 6-methoxyharmalan, a harmala alkaloid. These β-carbolines block the neuronal uptake of serotonin making it available for use, and inhibit the enzyme monoamine oxydase (MAO), which breaks down certain tryptamines such as N,N-dimethyl tryptamine (N,N-DMT, or simply DMT) and 5-methoxy tryptamine (5-MeO-DMT). MAO inhibiters, such as pinoline

or the harmala alkaloids, make serotonin available at the pineal where, with the aid of pineal enzymes (methyl transferases), it can also be converted into 5-MeO-DMT, DMT, and bufotenine (5-hydroxy-N,N-dimethyltyptamine, 5-HO-DMT), which are endogenous visionary substances also found in certain ingredients (such as Psychotria viridis) of ayahuasca brews and other shamanic visionary substances, even some of animal origin (e.g., the Sonoran desert toad, Rudgley, 2000). In vivo biosynthesis of DMT might also occur through the conversion of the common, nutritionally essential, amino acid tryptophan (Jacob & Presti, 2005; Shulgin & Shulgin, 1997).

However, these endogenous visionary tryptamines are not orally active, as they are denatured by the MAO enzymes present in the stomach, but ayahuasca brews also contains plant additives (such as Banisteriopsis caapi) containing a range of harmala alkaloids that inhibit MAO and allow the complementarily ingested visionary tryptamines to be active in the brain. It is this action of the β-carbolines (particularly harmine) in ayahuasca that is these days considered their primary purpose as admixtures in the brew (e.g., McKenna, 2004), though this may not always be the case as subjectively potent ayahuasca decoctions occasionally do not actually contain DMT when analyzed (Callaway, 2005). Nevertheless the harmala alkaloids are also known to induce visions themselves and Roney-Dougal (1986, 1989, 1991, 2001) originally implicated β-carbolines, such as the endogenous pinoline and the exogenous harmala alkaloids, as inducing psi-conducive states, either naturally during dreams (Callaway, 1988) or artificially by causing waking dream states. Roney-Dougal (2001) also later acknowledged that the β-carbolines may exert their visionary effects by potentiating the effects of ingested visionary tryptamines like DMT or 5-MeO-DMT when consumed in combination with them, as in ayahuasca. Further to Roney-Dougal’s proposals, it is my speculation that the β-carbolines may also induce visions by contributing to the endogenous manufacture of visionary tryptamine substances, either when taken alone or in combination with such tryptamines, perhaps even indicating endogenous DMT or related tryptamines as the primary or even sole cause of such visions. This may account for why harmala alkaloids are less effective and slower than DMT at inducing visions (see Shulgin & Shulgin, 1997). In essence, ayahuasca contains two types of visionary chemicals, one type (β-carbolines,


e.g., harmine) that helps to both create and potentiate the effects of the other type (tryptamines, e.g., DMT), potentially mimicking the nocturnal chemistry of the pineal and its supposed control over natural visionary states, such as dreams (Callaway, 1988), mystical experiences, and NDEs (Strassman, 2001).

Roney-Dougal (1989, 1991, 2001) suggested that the pineal gland and its neurochemistry is important in the occurrence of psi phenomena and points to the association made by yogis between the pineal gland and the ajna chakra, the yogic psychic center that controls psi-experiences in those with awakened kundalini (Miller, 1978; Satyananda, 1972). Further to this, Naranjo (1987) noted that both kundalini and ayahuasca experiences, being similar in many respects, also feature the same serpentine imagery, further speculating that they probably have the same neurochemistry and result in the same bioenergetic activation.

There is also some possibility that pineal gland activity or DMT production can be stimulated by certain esoteric yogic practices, such as kechari, which involves pressing the tongue into the far rear roof of the mouth to stimulate the production of amrit, a yogic nectar that reputedly causes DMT-like ecstasies, which is supposedly secreted in the brain following prolonged practice (Motoyama, 2001; Satyananda, 1996). Some support for this speculation comes from Strassman’s (2001) observation that the pineal gland is formed in utero from the tissue of the roof of the mouth rather than in the brain, and later migrates to its unique ventricle position just outside the blood-brain barrier, directly above a critical cerebrospinal fluid byway, and this tentatively suggests that pineal stimulation via the roof of the mouth may be possible. Furthermore, manifestation of very specific body vibrations said to be classic kundalini symptoms are supposedly quite reliably induced with substances such as DPT (N,N-dipropyl-tryptamine) and 4-Acetoxy-DIPT (N,N-diisopropyl-4-acetoxy-tryptamine), which are even more obscure psychedelic tryptamines than DMT, but close relatives of it (Toad, 1999a, 1999b). Similarly, Grof (2001) has reported spontaneous kundalini arousal occurring during psychedelic psychotherapy sessions and surveys (see section 3.2.3 & 3.2.4 to follow) of kundalini experiences have found them to be related to drug use (DeGracia, 1995; Thalbourne, 2001).

Roney-Dougal (1989, 1991, 2001) also indicated that the pineal gland is sensitive to—possibly changing

its chemical production—the same fluctuations in geomagnetic activity that appear to be associated with spontaneous psi-activity, possibly related to pineal melatonin (Persinger, 1988) or DMT fluctuations (Hill & Persinger, 2003)—for a review see Roney-Dougal, Ryan, and Luke (2012). That the pineal gland is central to psi is further supported by anthropological research, to follow—although experimental evidence is lacking—that suggests that DMT and the harmala alkaloids found in ayahuasca are psi-conducive, along with clinical research that suggests that pinoline and melatonin regulate sleep cycles and dreaming, during which spontaneous psi experiences most often occur (Roney-Dougal, 1986, 1989, 1991, 2001). Durwin (2001) has further suggested that the total isolation in the dark undergone for either the first 9 or 18 childhood years of the lives of trainee shamans of the Andean Kogi causes pineal gland deformation (presumably by melatonin/pinoline overproduction) that is responsible for their renowned divinatory skills.

Some tentative support for the notion that ESP performance is directly predicted by pineal gland activity is also evident with experimental research that demonstrated prepubescent children score better on ESP tests at 3 a.m., when the pineal’s nocturnal chemicals (melatonin, etc.) are supposedly at peak concentrations in the brain, rather than at 9 p.m. (Satyanarayana, Rao, & Vijaylakshmi, 1993). This effect was not evident with a comparable group of pubescent children, which the authors suggest might be expected because the pineal is less active after infancy. A more extensive follow-up investigated dream-ESP and circadian pineal rhythms among young adults finding a significant improvement in dream precognition scores at 3 a.m. compared to 8 a.m. (Luke, Zychowicz, Richterova, Tjurina, & Polonnikova, 2010, 2012) with scores in the same direction but non-significant in a replication study (Luke & Zychowicz, 2011), providing some tentative support for the notion that ESP may be linked to circadian pineal rhythms.

Roney-Dougal (2001) has also drawn parallels between the ostensibly psi-conducive nature of the shamanic trance state, psychotic states, psychedelic states, and the dream state, which she suggested all belong to the same continuum—perhaps somewhat akin to Thalbourne’s (1998) concept of transliminality, the proclivity for psychological material to cross thresholds in or out of consciousness—and that they all show suggestive evidence of being regulated by the


same neurochemical processes. Recently, the discovery of trace amine receptors in the brain for which DMT shows greater affinity than does serotonin—its more common neuro-amine cousin—has lead to a resurgence of interest in endogenous DMT in the mediation of mental health (Jacob & Presti, 2005). 1.3 DMT, near-death, and other anomalous experiences

After extensive research investigating the phenomenological effects of administering intravenous injections of DMT, Strassman (2001) has independently hypothesized a role for DMT similar to that suggested by Roney-Dougal (2001). Strassman echoed the same neurochemical action of the pineal as Roney-Dougal, and similarly proffered that psychotic, dream, meditation, and mystical states all occur through the overproduction of DMT, implicating DMT as a “reality thermostat” (Strassman, 2001, p. 327). However, Strassman indicated the action of DMT, not β-carbolines, as primary in producing these states and alternatively proposed that the pineal gland and endogenous DMT are central during extraordinary events, such as birth, death, and the near-death experience (NDE).

To support this view Strassman noted that the anatomy of the pineal, suspended in cerebrospinal fluid outside of the blood-bathed brain, is independent enough to resist activation by normal stresses and yet is optimally situated to deliver DMT directly to the middle brain regions where DMT-sensitive serotonin receptors are involved in mood, perception, and thought. Furthermore, access to the brain in this way eliminates the need for DMT transportation in the blood—where it would be broken down by MAO enzymes anyway—thereby negating the need for a pumping heart for delivery. Jacob and Presti (2005) also noted that DMT is virtually unique among endogenous neurotransmitters in that it is a molecule small enough to have blood-brain barrier permeability. That melatonin exerts its influence slowly over a period of a day or more, and so does not need the pineal’s unique location, further supports the supposed postmortem function of DMT. Strassman further speculated that the pineal might continue to produce postmortem DMT for a few hours. He also noted that the NDE has psychedelic and mystical qualities, and that the DMT experience often shares the same features as an NDE. Some of his DMT study participants reported NDEs and death-rebirth experiences, with many others reporting a newfound fearlessness of death. However,

that the participants may have been inadvertently primed for these experiences cannot be ruled out because they were told in the briefing to expect feelings of death or impending death. Nonetheless, independent survey research indicates that DMT users sometimes do report death-like and near-death-type experiences (Luke & Kittenis, 2005).

To Strassman’s (2001) surprise many of the participants in his DMT study reported contact with sentient beings during the experience, often described as elves, dwarves, imps, gremlins, clowns, reptilian beings, and aliens, but also as spirits, gods, or just as a presence, which was commonly supremely powerful, wise, and loving. Such prevalent encounter experiences with DMT use (for a review see Luke, 2011b) are seemingly so unique and reliable (e.g., Meyer, 1993) as to have had the impish characters popularly dubbed the “self-transforming machine elves” (McKenna, 1991, p. 16), and whose tangible reality has been hotly debated by other DMT-experience researchers (Carpenter, 2006; Kent, 2005, 2010; Luke, in press; Pickover, 2005). Strassman suggested that fluctuations in endogenous DMT levels were also responsible for the frequent reports elsewhere of alien abduction, which share the newfound fearlessness of death and visions of energy tunnels, or cylinders of light, in common with DMT experiences. Following personal experiences with ayahuasca, Severi (2003) likewise noted the similarity between NDEs, traditional psychedelic-induced shamanic initiations, alien abduction experiences, and heightened psychic sensitivity, as have previous researchers (e.g., Harvey-Wilson, 2001; McKenna, 1991; Ring, 1989, 1992). However, Barušs (2003) pointed out that, despite the similarities, DMT and alien abduction experiences lack specific similarities, such as the absence with DMT of the classic “grays” (small gray aliens). Nevertheless, Hancock (2005), also having experienced DMT and ayahuasca, argued that there are substantial similarities between aliens and elves, whether induced through DMT or else appearing in historic-folkloric legends and testimonies, speculating that the latter also have a DMT-induced etiology and, adopting the theory proposed by Vallee (1969), that these elves of folklore are the prototype encounter/abduction experiences. It should be noted that few experiencers ever doubt the reality of their encounters with either aliens (Mack, 1999) or DMT entities (Strassman, 2001), perhaps with the exception of Kent (2005, although see Kent, 2010) in this latter


category, and most actually consider them to be more real than most ordinary experiences. Additionally, like alien abduction reports, Strassman notes that his DMT study participants reported being probed and having things inserted into them by the beings, however, it should be noted that this might have been induced by the medical nature of his experiments and the use of intravenous injections and equipment for monitoring vital signs.

Incidentally, although neither Strassman nor other researchers originally pointed this out, it is apparent that some of the DMT experiences reported in his study, particularly the negative ones, share several features in common with sleep paralysis (e.g., see Cheyne, 2001), particularly the sense of presence, reports of one’s chest being crushed, strange whistling, whining, and whirring sounds, and the terrifying paralysis of both body and vocal chords (Strassman, 2001). Alien abduction experiences and NDEs are also associated with sleep paralysis (see Sherwood, 2002), and indeed Strassman (2008) later noted the apparent relationship between sleep paralysis and DMT experiences, although caution has been raised about claiming too many anomalous phenomena can be explained by DMT, as this ultimately explains nothing, and further phenomenological analysis is needed (Luke, 2008), such as that conducted by Cott & Rock (2008), although a direct comparison of such experiences is needed. Nevertheless, there certainly warrants something to research here regarding a DMT etiology for sleep paralysis.

Curiously, experiential reports from research programs in the 1950s and 1960s (outlined in Shulgin & Shulgin, 1997; Torres & Repke, 2006), indicate that the endogenous 5-hydroxy-DMT (bufotenine), a very close relative to DMT with similar neurochemistry, is seemingly able on occasion to cause feelings of constriction in the throat and the crushing of one’s chest, as well as anxiety and fear reactions, much like sleep paralysis, possibly implicating it as a co-chemical factor in such experiences, along with DMT. Additionally, in South America and the Caribbean the entheogenic cohoba snuff is made from one of the few traditionally-used plants in which bufotenine is active, Piptadenia peregrina, and is used specifically to contact spirits (Cohen, 1970; Torres & Repke, 2006), perhaps somewhat like the sensed presences of sleep paralysis and numerous DMT experiences. However, Ott (2001) pointed out that the circulatory crises in

the earlier bufotenine research were most likely due to psychological factors caused by the enforced nature of the experiments—conducted as they were on psychiatric patients and prisoners with limited consent—because such experiences were absent during Ott’s own extensive self-experimentation, and nor do indigenous users of plants containing bufotenine worry about or report respiratory arrest (Torres & Repke, 2006). In any case the breathing difficulties associated with sleep paralysis may be more to do with the paralysis of conscious bodily functions caused by being asleep, and the inability to inhale at will. Furthermore, sensed presence, as opposed to direct perception of an entity, as often occurs with sleep paralysis, may be more common with other substances, such as Salvia divinorum (Aardvark, 2002; Addy, 2010; Arthur, 2010) (meaning something like “diviner’s sage”), although systematic phenomenological research is needed.

In evaluation of the role of the pineal gland and endogenous psychedelics in the activation of psi and the NDE, it has yet to be shown that psi can be produced with these substances under controlled conditions. In addition, both psi experiences and NDEs might be induced with other psychoactive substances, as shown in the following sections, although this criticism has been countered by Strassman (2001) with the possibility that other psychedelic substances may also stimulate the pineal and endogenous DMT by their action. However, this proposal is little more than conjecture. Furthermore, although there is good reasoning for the hypothesis that DMT is made in the human pineal, this is yet to be proven and remains speculative, like many of Strassman’s and Roney-Dougal’s suppositions at the present time.

According to Strassman (2001), although the lungs, liver, blood, and eye all contain the enzymes necessary to convert tryptamine to DMT, the pineal gland is especially rich in them and also has high concentrations of serotonin ready to convert to tryptamine. So while the pineal-DMT hypothesis is currently unproven (Hanna, 2010), it is certainly feasible, especially when it is considered that the chemical conversion of tryptamine to DMT can be demonstrated en vitro. The only attempt thus far to support the hypothesis directly has been Strassman’s attempt to isolate DMT from 10 human pineal glands extracted from cadavers. No DMT was detected in the glands; however, neither the bodies nor the glands were freshly frozen and any chemicals present may have degraded before analysis (Strassman, 2001).


Thus far DMT has been found to be naturally occurring in the brains of rodents (Kärkkäinen et al., 2005), and in the highest concentrations in humans in the cerebrospinal fluid (for a review, see Barker, McIlhenny, & Strassman, 2012), but not the brain, let alone the pineal. Furthermore, although the pineal contains methyltransferase enzymes, as Strassman (2001) indicated, the particular one thought to be crucial for en vivo DMT production (indolethylamine N-methyltransferase, or simply INMT) has as yet not been found in the human brain or pineal gland although, curiously, DMT was found in rabbit brain tissue, despite the absence of INMT (Kärkkäinen et al., 2005), perhaps indicating that INMT is not necessary for the production of DMT. Furthermore, McIlhenny (2012) pointed out that most INMT mapping research only establishes where enzyme translation is occurring, as they are based solely on INMT mRNA studies. A recent study (Cozzi, Mavlyutov, Thompson, & Ruoho, 2011) using a florescent INMT antibody suggests the presence of INMT in three Rhesus macaque nervous tissues samples, including the pineal gland. Evidence of INMT in primate pineal glands indicates better potential for Strassman’s human pineal-DMT production hypothesis, nevertheless direct support is still lacking. However, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, and the pineal gland is difficult to research en vivo and DMT is an under-researched substance, particularly in humans. DMT is also difficult to detect (Barker et al., 2012) and belongs to the most controlled category of drugs in most countries, so, currently, the jury remains out on the pineal-DMT hypothesis.

Overall, despite their incompleteness, the pineal/β-carboline/DMT models of psi and NDE do offer unique neurochemical perspectives on paranormal experience around which further research can be framed. Additionally, although neither author has speculated on the others’ ideas, their models are not incompatible with each other; however, they may begin to answer the question of why such visionary molecules as DMT are made within humans at all. For a further discussion of DMT, brain action and anomalous phenomena, see Luke (2011b). 1.4 Ketamine and NDEs

A proliferation of reported cases of NDEs with the use of ketamine (Jansen, 1997a, 1999, 2001) and the similarity of aspects of the ketamine experience to that of the NDE (Morse, Venecia, & Milstein, 1989; Rogo,

1984)—despite Morse’s (1997) later contentions that the evidence for this is weak—has led to the development of a neurochemical model of NDE based upon the action of this psychoactive substance (Jansen, 1990, 1997a, 2001). A dissociative anesthetic—also reported to induce experiences of telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, communication with the dead, kundalini experiences and an increase in synchronicities (Case, 2003; Jansen, 2001; Luke & Kittenis, 2005; Wyllie, 1981)—ketamine acts by binding to the phencyclidine (PCP) site of the N-methyl-D-aspartate (NMDA) receptor, blocking the action of the neurotransmitter glutamate. Jansen indicated that potentially life-threatening circumstances (e.g., hypoxia, ischemia, hypoglycemia, temporal lobe epilepsy) can initiate a glutamate flood, which results in neurotoxicity through the over-activation of the NMDA receptors (for further details, see Smythies, 2011). This NDE trigger may be accompanied by a flood of neuroprotective agents that also bind to the NMDA receptors preventing damage, in much the same way as ketamine. Like Grinspoon and Bakalar’s (1979) speculation that the brain synthesizes a chemical similar to ketamine in times of stress, Jansen proposed that “endopsychosins,” which bind to the same receptor site as ketamine, would be discovered as the neuroprotective agents that cause an ASC, like that of ketamine, termed the NDE.

Although parsimonious, Jansen’s (1997a) ketamine model of NDE has been both duly criticized and well defended. It has been argued that unlike NDEs, ketamine trips frequently induce fear (Strassman, 1997) and are not considered “real” (Fenwick, 1997). However, as Jansen (1977b) likewise contested, it is becoming increasingly recognized now that NDEs are also commonly reported to be distressing or traumatic (Atwater, 1994; Montanelli & Parra, 2000) and, furthermore, ketamine experiences are also more often than not reported to induce a sense of peace and pleasantness (Corazza, 2008; Luke, 2007). In support of the perceived reality of the ketamine experience, there are documented accounts of people who have had an NDE and then later a ketamine experience, and who reported the experiences being the same (Jansen, 2001). In support of this, Grof (1994) found that several cancer patients had NDEs during psychedelic therapy (most likely with LSD) that were very similar to later spontaneous NDEs.

In further criticism of Jansen’s model, it has been argued (Fenwick, 1997; Greyson, 2000) that the


clarity and clear memory of the NDE experience is not consistent with cerebral dysfunction. However, it is arguable that Jansen’s model does not stipulate the necessity of cerebral dysfunction for a NDE, merely the threat, or even just the perceived threat of it, and Jansen (1997b, p. 87) pointed out “there is no reason to suspect that the NDE mechanism would never be activated spontaneously.” Furthermore, Jansen (1997b) regarded clarity of consciousness as a nebulous term in the discussion of altered states, as the term is loaded towards the ordinary state of consciousness. Some researchers (e.g., Greyson, 2000; Smythies, 2011) have further contested that, despite the possibility that the endogenous peptide alpha-endopsychosin is a candidate, no endopsychosins have yet been identified or proven to exist, and Jansen (2001) conceded that this may initially have been a false lead and has suggested a number of alternative endogenous NMDA antagonists as candidates: N-acetyl-aspartyl-glutamate, kynurenic acid and magnesium, all of which protect brain cells from excito-toxic damage (Jansen, 2004). Nevertheless, Thomas (2004), following Jansen in his search, has identified technical flaws with these speculated endogenous “NDE-ogens” and has instead proposed the neuromodulator agmatine as the most likely candidate. The debate continues.

In further criticism of the model, Parker (2001) noted that one-drug/one-experience theories were aban-doned in the 1970s and that, along with Greyson (2000), he further noted that ketamine appears to have multiple effects in the brain and multiple experiential features, some of which include those of the NDE. Jansen (1997b) earlier countered this latter criticism with the proposal that factors of set and setting are paramount in determining experience with all ASCs, be they NDEs or ketamine-induced states, so experiences are expected to vary. Parker (2001), like Siegel (1980), added that other drugs also produce features of the NDE, although Jansen (1997b) has asserted that these NDE-features are typical with ketamine but are not typical with other drugs, except for PCP and ibogaine (Bianchi, 1997; Jansen, 2001) which are NMDA antagonists (or more specifically called NMDA-PCP receptor blockers).

However, in support of Parker’s (2001) criticism, Roll and Montagno (1985) have noted the similarity between NDEs and LSD experiences, as reported by Grof (1994). Reports of NDE also occur with the use of other dissociatives, like dextromethorphan (DXM)(White, 1997), and carbogen (Meduna, 1950), as well

as with high doses of hashish (Siegel & Hirschman, 1984), and tryptamines like 5-MeO-DMT (Shulgin & Shulgin, 1997) and the ayahuasca (meaning “the vine of the dead”) derivative, DMT (Strassman, 2001). Yet, Strassman (2001) did not find Jansen’s model incompatible with his own DMT model of NDE, but rather asked why a neuroprotective agent like ketamine should also be psychedelic as there is no obvious benefit to the near-death visionary experience, other than enabling consciousness to have awareness of its departure from the body.

Recently, electrophysiology and receptor studies have revealed that both NMDA antagonists, such as ketamine, and classic hallucinogens, such as LSD, may actually enhance glutamatergic transmission via non-NMDA receptors in the frontal cortex. This may indicate a common mode of chemical action in the brain responsible for such similar experiences with these divergent molecules, though further investigation is required (Vollenweider, 2004). Given the similarities between NDEs, ketamine experiences, and other drug experiences, Rogo (1984) proposed that the NDE-like effects of ketamine are more often interpreted as NDEs because it has so often been used in a medical setting, further suggesting that ketamine-induced NDEs are less prevalent with recreational use than with anesthetic use, though this has not been systematically investigated to my knowledge.

To the author’s knowledge, the only systematic investigation of the ketamine hypothesis, besides Jansen (2001), is that of Corazza (2008), who compared 36 cases of apparent NDEs induced by ketamine with 36 cases of NDEs reportedly caused by a cardiac arrest or other life threatening circumstances. Both groups showed a high degree of similarity in certain experiential features, with a roughly equal prevalence among the groups of experiences involving altered perceptions of time, speeded up visions, and the occurrence of ESP (25%), but the ketamine group were more likely to report unity with the universe, and the cardiac groups were more likely to report dissociation from the body, visions of light, and encounters with deceased or religious beings. However, Corazza asserted that the evidence indicates that NDEs can be induced through ketamine, although they may not be identical to those occurring naturally.

The study is not without its limitations; however, as outlined by Luke (2009), as the ketamine participants were recruited on the premise that they felt


that they had had an NDE on ketamine, which Jansen (2001) reported only occur to about 12% of ketamine users. Furthermore, it is unclear if the respondents are describing a specific ketamine experience or an experience more generally, as most of the respondents had taken ketamine between 10 and 2000 times, though a similar number of cardiac arrest experiences is very unlikely for the comparison group. Nevertheless, Corazza and Schifano (2010) acknowledged the limitation that their findings are based on a self-selected, nonrandomized, limited size sample. Subsequently, ketamine can at best be thought of as an occasional NDE trigger or mimic, but is not a wholly repeatable or reliable source of NDEs (Luke, 2009). Nevertheless, cardiac arrest and the experience that ketamine invokes appear to be similar enough to genuine NDEs that leading consciousness researchers Hameroff and Chopra (2010) have called for its use in prolonging end of life brain activity (by delaying neurotoxicity) to allow terminally ill patients to have more conscious deaths.

More recently, having first researched the parapsychological potential of psychedelics in the 1940s, Smythies (2011) identified several apparent flaws with Jansen’s K-NDE model. First, an NMDA-antagonist model of NDE is too general because the glutamate receptors can be found in all regions of the brain and yet the NDE phenomena suggest the activation of only specific brain regions, and furthermore ketamine does not appear to produce global brain NMDA-antagonism (although this latter point may argue against the first). Second, ketamine, Smythies argued, cannot actually stimulate the action potential of the neurons it binds to, but rather affects the modulation of the strength and number of synapses (i.e., the neuroplasticity), so it cannot immediately affect the brain regions required to stimulate the NDE. This second argument, however, seems somewhat contradicted by the phenomenological evidence that suggests that ketamine can in fact stimulate NDE-like phenomena and so presumably does activate the appropriate brain regions, at least indirectly.

Finally, Smythies (2011), contested that if the NMDA-antagonism explanation for NDEs were true, one would expect to see a relationship between NDEs and grand mal epilepsy—during which massive cerebral glutamate overload occurs. However, according to Smythies, the relationship is only apparently reported by one study (Britton & Bootzin, 2004), and is in any case weaker than the relationship between epilepsy symptoms

and disturbed sleep patterns, although, in argument against Smythies, this weaker relationship may be accounted for by the infrequent occurrence of NDEs relative to sleep disturbances. Furthermore, counter to Smythies’ conjecture, several other researchers have speculated about the link between NDEs and temporal lobe epilepsy, drawing parallels (Blanke & Dieguez, 2009; Jansen, 2001; Morse, Venecia, & Milstein, 1989; Neppe, 1989; Persinger & Makarec, 1987; Saavedra-Aguilar & Gómez-Jeria, 1989), although admittedly the NDE-epilepsy link is incomplete (Neppe, 1989), and epilepsy might best be thought of as one of several possible NDE triggers, as Jansen (1997a) originally proposed, rather than an explanation for NDEs. Ultimately, Smythies (2011) proposed that the excitatory NMDA receptor system, which runs continuously even while asleep, actually is the Bergson brain filter mechanism (discussed earlier in section 1.1) that ordinarily prevents people from experiencing what Aldous Huxley (1954, p. 11) called “Mind at Large”: mystical and paranormal consciousness (i.e., an NDE). Consequently, Smythies asserted that NDMA antagonism, such as via ketamine or a natural NDE, bypasses the brain’s natural filter action, leading to all manner of paranormal and transpersonal experiences. Much as Smythies should be applauded for morphing the two theories together, the same might be said for psychedelically induced serotonergic action as for glutamatergic action, so in effect this says little more than what Huxley originally proposed and what is now known about psychedelic neurochemistry (see section 1.1).

Overall, despite over simplification and generalization, the ketamine model of NDE offers the most complete neurochemical explanation of the NDE so far and, as with the DMT model, does not necessarily assume a materialist reductionism to explain the data —unlike Siegel (1980) for example—although some commentators (e.g., Sakellarios, 2005) have erroneously assumed that it does. Furthermore, the model can be easily tested and refined. For instance, there is evidence to suggest that the non-competitive antagonism at the non-glycine site of the NMDA receptor in particular is linked to the event of dissociative anesthesia and altered sensory perceptions that are familiar to ketamine. This would indicate that relatively novel substances like HA-966 (1-hydroxy-3-amino-pyrrolidone-2), which acts in this particular neurochemical manner (Bonta, 2004), could induce NDEs in blind conditions comparable to those


occurring ordinarily, though this remains to be seen. In research with monkeys, HA-966 induced EEG patterns characteristic of sleep despite the animals remaining completely alert, which may be related to Jansen’s (2004) observation that the same 60% of the population that do not recall their dreams also do not recall their ketamine experiences during anesthesia, a proportion apparently equivalent to the number of people who do not report having had some kind of NDE. Alternatively, in order to test the K-NDE theory, it has been suggested to administer ketamine to those who have had a natural NDE and compare the two (Kolp et al., 2007). Assuming ketamine NDEs to be genuine, ultimately, however, the question remains of whether chemically induced NDEs utilize alternative pathways or the actual NDE pathway (Fracasso & Friedman, 2011).

Bringing personal observations (Luke, 2005) to the K-NDE debate, it seems apparent that the degree of general anesthesia induced by ketamine is relative to one’s motor control ability and what Grosso (1976) identified as the degree of being out-of-body: Factors that are more pronounced with the positive S-isomer of ketamine rather than the negative isomer (Domino & Warner, 2010), further indicating how entwined these effects are, specific as they are to just one ketamine molecule type. Such relationships between sensory and motor impairment and reported body image have elsewhere been found with local anesthesia (Paqueron et al., 2003), though obviously not full blown OBEs. Retuning to the personal observations, in repeated ketamine experiences I observed that the initial stages of anesthesia and out-of-body-ness are accompanied by increasing difficulty in controlling one’s body and a growing sense of body dysmorphia, in a non-clinical sense, in that part of one’s body may appear longer (macrosomatognosia) or shorter (microsomatognosia), as described by Frederiks (1963). For example, on one occasion I recall being unable to successfully maneuver out of the door because my legs appeared to be the approximate distance of an entire football pitch away. It is observed that the relatively changing gradation in increased anesthesia, body dysmorphia and motor control continues, with a sufficient dosage, as the trip intensifies towards a full-blown out-of-body experience, total anesthesia, and ultimately no motor control.

Indeed, while some K-OBEs are accompanied by autoscopy, even awareness of one’s body can disappear at the peak of a high dose ketamine experience, even to

the point of not realizing one actually has a body but instead just experiencing the present as a single point of consciousness and nothing more. On one such occasion I was seemingly privileged to a view of earth from space and yet I did not even know who or what I was, let alone that I was human and apparently had a body. This relatively changing relationship between anesthesia, motor control, out-of-body-ness, and even body-ownership-awareness is apparent on both entering and exiting the ketamine experience, although seemingly more so in exiting (although in reverse), as the entrance to a ketamine experience can often be abrupt, with a swift and intense onset, whereas the departure is more gradual. Such first-person psychonautics can report a good deal about both psychedelic states, especially ketamine states (Newcombe, 2008), and parapsychological phenomena (Luke, 2011c) and such methods are witnessing somewhat of a revival after a long hiatus since the era of William James’ (1902) classic experimentation with nitrous oxide, another NDMA antagonist. Survey research also shows that ketamine induces OBEs and autoscopy far more often than other (non-anesthetic) psychedelics (Wilkins, Girard, & Cheyne, 2011), as had been previously speculated (Luke & Kittenis, 2005), the question remains of why anesthesia should accompany an OBE/NDE: Does the anesthesia cause the perception of being out of one’s body, and therefore leads to a feeling of dying or of having died, or does the near-death experience provoke an OBE and subsequent anesthesia as a defense against likely pain? Observing the ketamine experience from the recipient’s perspective, it appears that the anesthesia occurs because one’s consciousness is no longer connected to one’s body, and certainly the OBE and anesthesia are intimately connected, but why and how deserve further investigation and may shed light on the neurobiological factors of OBEs and NDEs. 1.5 Dopamine and paranormal beliefs and experiences.

Taking a purely materialist reductionist view of paranormal experiences by attempting to account for them exclusively in terms of beliefs arising from faulty cognitions—what Irwin (2009) called the cognitive deficits hypothesis—a loose neurobiological model for the explanation of paranormal beliefs has arisen that posits the dopamine neurotransmitter system as the primary facilitator. Put forward by Krummenacher and colleagues (Krummenacher, Brugger, Fahti, & Mohr, 2002; Krummenacher, Mohr, Haker, &


Brugger, 2009) the theory suggests that, although activity of the endogenous neurotransmitter dopamine is classically implicated in enhancing cognitive and perceptual decisions by improving the signal to noise ratio of neuronal transmission, paradoxically, hyperdopaminergic activity is associated with psychotic symptoms, schizophrenia and even schizotypy (for a brief review, see Krummenacher et al., 2009), and so excess dopamine may be accountable for delusional thinking stemming from an increased tendency to find patterns in apparently random data—what the psychiatrist Klaus Conrad (1958) called apophenia. According to Brugger and colleagues (e.g., Pizzagalli, Lehmann, & Brugger, 2001) paranormal believers—and so most likely paranormal experiencers too—have been shown to be more inclined towards apophenia than skeptics, thereby accounting for the increased creativity apparently associated with paranormal thinking and its similarity to some psychotic symptoms: a combination of creative and delusional dimensions being indicative of the positive phenomenology of schizotypy (Eckblad & Chapman, 1983).

Direct research into what might be most accurately called the hyperdopaminergia-apophenia hypothesis is somewhat limited at this time, consisting of only two studies, with somewhat mixed results. The first study (Raz, Hines, Fossella, & Castro, 2008) attempted to relate paranormal belief as a phenotype to hyperdopaminergia as a genotype via what Raz et al. (2008) called the “COMT dopaminergic gene” (p. 1336), building on preliminary findings in behavioral apophenia dopamine research by Krummenacher et al. (2002) and studies associating schizotypy with dopaminergic genes (e.g., Avramopoulos et al., 2002). COMT (Catechol-O-methyltransferase) is an enzyme that degrades catecholamines such as dopamine, and the COMT protein is encoded by the COMT gene. Utilizing questionnaire measures of paranormal belief, 107 psychology students were genetically screened for three COMT allelic forms, successfully identifying approximately one quarter of the sample with high COMT activity, a quarter with low activity, and half with intermediate activity. However, failing to support the hyperdopaminergia-apophenia hypothesis those with decreased COMT activity, and hence greater hyperdopaminergia, reported no more paranormal beliefs, abilities or experiences than the higher COMT activity participants. Undeterred, Raz et al. (2008)

pointed to the observation that attempting to unravel links between single gene polymorphisms that influence neurochemical function, and consequently individual differences in cognitive function, may be difficult when using distal phenotypes such as questionnaire measures, and that more proximal measures like brain imaging might be more promising. Indeed behavioral genetics is in a state of epistemological crisis after the lack of hard findings from the recently completed Human Genome Project (e.g., see Maher, 2008), so it may well be too soon to expect good data relating paranormal beliefs to genes, particularly single genes, even if they are related.

The second study, by Krummenacher et al. (2009), sampled 20 paranormal believers and 20 paranormal non-believers and administered levodopa —an active precursor to dopamine in the brain—in a randomized placebo controlled between-subjects study. Participants were given two signal detection tasks, one with words (tapping left hemisphere processes) and one with faces (right hemisphere), that presented either word/non-word or face/non-face stimulus pairs tachistoscopically for just 140 milliseconds. Participant responses were assessed for both their tendency to make correct guesses relative to incorrect ones, their sensitivity index (d’), and their tendency to respond with a positive or negative bias, their response tendency (C), both measures being independent of each other. Findings indicate that skeptics had significantly greater sensitivity to signal detection than believers in the placebo condition but, contrary to expectations, increased dopamine lead to a significant decrease in sensitivity in skeptics and had no effect on believers. These findings challenge the view that dopamine generally assists in signal detection, and Krummenacher et al. (2009) suggested that the opposite may actually be true in some cases, especially with presumed hypodominergic individuals (i.e., skeptics). Additionally, the authors argued that the lack of change in sensitivity in believers administered levodopa may be due to a plateau effect caused by high cerebral dopamine baseline levels; however, such a suggestion is somewhat post hoc and, even if it were true, the authors do not comment on why the dopamine-enhanced skeptics had lower sensitivity (i.e., greater sensory apophenia) than either believer group.

Whereas the sensitivity measure findings are puzzling, the response bias measure results are somewhat more straightforward, in the control scenario at least. As was expected, in the placebo condition believers had a


greater tendency to respond in the affirmative (favoring a Type I error strategy), whereas skeptics had a greater tendency to respond in the negative (favoring a Type II error strategy), the difference between the groups being significant. However, against expectation, in the levodopa condition these tendencies in each group were diminished so that there was no significant difference between skeptics and believers, although the trend remained. Specifically, compared to their placebo controls, dopamine-enhanced believers were more cautious of making false positive decisions (i.e., more conservative), and skeptics were less prone to make false negative decisions (i.e., more liberal, so that in effect both believer groups were less polarized in their responses. Contrary to the linear dopamine-apophenia relationship originally proposed, these results may indicate differing baseline dopaminergic activity in skeptics and believers and the possibility that there is a non-linear relationship between task and dopamine levels, perhaps an inverted U-shape, possibly modulated by individual differences in belief. However, these findings should be replicated first and more direct measures of baseline dopamine (e.g., spinal dopamine metabolic marker assay) should be made before these findings and post hoc interpretations are given much weight. Furthermore, as the authors noted, use of a between- rather than within-subjects design is far from ideal, leaving too much faith in the randomization of the small groups and no certainty in equivalence of baselines in dopamine responsivity and behavioral performance, and so further studies would benefit from a cross-over design.

Aside from the current lack of research on the hyperdopaminergia-apophenia hypothesis and the somewhat confusing mixed results, this line of research seems worthwhile pursuing further, although it suffers from additional limitations. One is that it aims to boil down paranormal experiences to misperceptions and misjudgments of the pattern recognition type, which, even if one allows for the fact that the authors a priori preclude the possibility of genuine paranormal phenomena, this approach does not account for the swathe of other cognitive deficits that are also given to account for paranormal beliefs, such as poor judgments of probability and randomness, egocentric bias, selective remembering, confirmation bias, and more (Brugger & Mohr, 2008). Indeed a study investigating probability inferences in those under the influence of ketamine, versus matched controls and schizophrenic patients,

shows that the ketamine group were no different from the placebo group, whereas the patients were shown to exhibit a jump-to-conclusions response concerning probability inferences (Evans et al., 2012). Although ketamine is primarily an NMDA-antagonist, it also has direct effects on dopamine receptors (e.g., Kapur & Seeman, 2002), and so the lack of probability inference effect with ketamine does not complement a dopamine explanation for paranormal experiences within the cognitive deficits paradigm. Other psychological factors supposedly related to paranormal experiences, such as the propensity for false memories, also show no relationship with self-reported recreational drug use generally (Wilson & French, 2006).

So in this respect the dopaminergic approach does not currently incorporate many of the multitudinous psychological explanations for paranormal beliefs and experiences. Furthermore, the wealth of evidence, to follow, relating increased paranormal experience—and to some extent experimentally controlled production of ESP—to the ingestion of psychedelic substances does not particularly support a dopamine-based theory of paranormality either, as dopamine activation is neither primary nor ubiquitous with psychedelic substances. Typically, classic tryptamine psychedelics (such as LSD and psilocybin) are thought to exert their effects via serotonin activation, particularly via the 5-HT2A receptor subtype (Lee & Roth, 2012). Nevertheless, it is thought that 5-HT2A receptor stimulation can activate dopamine release (Diaz-Mataix et al., 2005), and Previc (2011) asserted that all the various psychedelic neurochemical pathways to “altered states of consciousness with distorted reality” (p. 43) ultimately lead to elevated levels of dopamine in the brain, although such reasoning rather ablates the intricate nuances of psychopharmacology and disregards primary neurochemical pathway activation as in any way important. Furthermore, although some psychedelic substances (e.g., LSD, psilocin, DMT) do have relatively high affinities for certain dopamine receptors (Ray, 2010), dopamine is rarely considered to be a primary neurotransmitter site for psychedelic effects. Indeed, the primarily dopaminergic recreational drugs, such as amphetamine and cocaine, have been found to be either unrelated or negatively related to paranormal experiences and beliefs (for a review see Luke, 2008b; and see section on survey data, to follow), contradicting the dopamine-paranormal belief/experience hypothesis. Indeed, if Previc were right about psychedelics exerting


their effects via the dopamine system, then one would expect amphetamine and cocaine to be psychedelic too, which they are not.

Furthermore there are numerous psychedelics strongly associated with paranormal experiences that do not have dopaminergic action, such as the k-opioid agonist salvinorin A (Ray, 2010) and anticholinergic agents like scopolamine and hyoscyamine—which are found in nightshade family plants like datura (Katzung, Masters & Trevor, 2012). Overall—with scant direct research, mixed and complex findings, and poor generalizability of the hypothesis to a) other psychological explanations and b) most of the psychedelic-parapsychology literature—at the present time, Krummenacher, Brugger, Mohr, and colleagues’ (Krummenacher et al., 2002; Krummenacher et al., 2009) dopamine-apophenia conjecture remains very much rudimentary and unsupported.1.6 Overview of psychedelic/neuro-chemical models of paranormal experience.

The preceding sections outline five neurochemical models germane to explaining psychic experiences, namely the brain as filter, β-carboline and tryptamine, DMT, ketamine and, finally, dopamine models. Aside from the latter, all of these models draw upon the action of psychedelic substances in particular and remain open to the possibility that psi and other so-called paranormal phenomena may be genuine. It should be noted, however, that no one psychedelic model may ultimately be the correct one, as psychedelics may work in many ways (e.g., dissociatives are both NMDA antagonists, as well as mu-opioid agonists); nevertheless these models provide important avenues for future research and begin to help develop more complete neurobiological models of apparent paranormal cognition or merely paranormal belief, and, indeed, more complete models of consciousness itself. The importance of understanding the apparent paranormal effects of psychedelics is clear and the evidence in support of this relationship is next reviewed and evaluated.

2. Field Reports of Paranormal Phenomena

2.1 Anthropological and Historical ReportsDespite apparent prejudices by anthropologists

against reporting such phenomena traditionally (Winkelman, 1983), the anthropological and ethno-botanical literature remains replete with examples of ostensibly paranormal phenomena occurring with the traditional use of psychoactive plants. Commonly these

plants are taken in ritual context for the express purpose of accessing altered states conducive to clairvoyance, precognition, telepathy, out-of-body travel, psychic diagnosis, psychic healing, and spirit communication, which provoked the mycologist Wasson (1964) to label them as the keys to extra-sensory perception. Archaeological evidence suggests such practices have existed the world over for millennia (see Devereux, 1997). However, the paranormal effects of particular plants are not necessarily arbitrary. Shamans who use the ayahuasca brew in Amazonia report having control over whichever particular paranormal function the brew elicits through the discerning use of psychoactive admixtures that may “make you travel, make you see” or “teach you to heal” (Andritsky, 1989, p. 78). Indeed, when the harmala alkaloid harmine, the first psychoactive compound isolated from the ayahuasca decoction, was discovered by Guillermo Fischer Cárdenas in 1923 it was named “telepathine” (Beyer, 2009) because of its apparent psychical properties, as reported by Zerda Bayon (1912). Zerda Bayon illustrated this with the case of Colonel Morales who, after ingesting ayahuasca, beheld a vision of his dead father and his sick sister. About one month later he received the same news by messenger. It seems unlikely that the news could have arrived first by non-paranormal means, as the group was deep in the jungle 15 days’ travel from the nearest communications outpost.

Clairvoyant states induced with the harmala alkaloid-containing Perganum harmala shrub in Morroco have also been reported (Rudgley, 2000). Additionally, there are many more accounts of such apparent ESP with ayahuasca reported in Luna and White’s (2000) anthology of classic ayahuasca experiences, as well as elsewhere (e.g., Beyer, 2009; Bianchi, 1994; Dobkin de Rios & Rumrrill, 2008; Gorman, 1992; Kensinger, 1978; McGovern, 1927; Shanon, 2002; Weil, Metzner, & Leary, 1965; Wilson, 1949). Typically, the earliest reports from explorers and anthropologists of the Upper Amazon were of either OBEs or experiences of someone discovering via visions that some distant person known to them, usually a relative, had just died (Luke, 2010a). In addition, Naranjo (1967, 1973) gave harmaline to 30 naïve urban elite Chilean participants who inexplicably reported the same images of snakes and jaguars, or big cats, as are commonly reported in traditional South American ayahuasca visions (Naranjo, 1987; Shanon, 2002). Visions of jaguars and snakes with harmaline have also been reported elsewhere (Shulgin


& Shulgin, 1997) and one second-hand story from late sixties Haight-Ashbury (the temporal-spatial epicenter of psychedelic counter culture) proffered that someone once experimented giving ayahuasca to Eskimos and, devoid of the cultural milieu typical of ayahuasca use, they still saw huge cats in their visions, although it is unlikely that this research ever took place (Weil, 1980). Furthermore some of the participants in Naranjo’s study were convinced they had seen these images by traveling out-of-body in time and space. Ott (1993) noted, however, that harmaline only occurs in minimal quantities in tested ayahuasca decoctions and so cannot be accountable for the psychoactive effects of the brew. Nevertheless, Strassman (2001) found that administering DMT (the most psychoactive constituent of ayahuasca) induced a similar certainty of space-time travel and resulted in the inordinately frequent occurrence of images of DNA, an image which Narby (1998) found commonly featured in the ayahuasca healing visions of Amazonian shamans, but was most often represented by snakes. It has recently been suggested, amid some controversy, that the geneticist Francis Crick was under the influence of LSD when he had a vision of the double helix structure of DNA in 1953, a discovery for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize (Rees, 2004).

Prior to this news report, which came after Crick’s death, the anthropologist Narby (2000) took three molecular biologists to the Peruvian Amazon for their first visit there and for their first encounter with ayahuasca. The two female biologists both had encounters with plant teachers whom they perceived as independent sentient entities, and all three scientists received valuable information from their visions that helped inform their research, and which ultimately changed their world view. For instance, “the American biologist, who normally worked on deciphering the human genome, said she saw a chromosome from the perspective of a protein flying above a long strand of DNA” (Narby, 2000, p. 302). Similarly, the biochemist, Kary Mullis, who received the Nobel Prize for inventing the polymerase chain reaction (PCR) that significantly advanced DNA research, said that taking LSD had been invaluable in helping him experience the mental imagery that allowed him to visualize sitting on a DNA molecule to watch the polymerase go by (Mullis, 1998).

Further reports of the ritual use of psychoactive plants for the induction of paranormal abilities are commonplace among indigenous peoples from every

inhabited continent. These range from the use of pituri (Duboisia hopwoodii) in Australia (Australian Institute of Parapsychological Research, 2004) to the use of San Pedro cacti (Trichocereus pachanoi) in Peru (Luke, 2012a; Sharon, 1990) and peyote cacti (Lophophora Williamsii) in Mexico (Slotkin, 1956), Amanita muscaria mushrooms by the Ojibwa in Canada (Wasson, 1979) as well as suburban Muscovites and Siberian tribes-people in Russia (Ostrander & Schroeder, 1997; Wasson & Wasson, 1957), the use of datura among the Chumash of California (Driver, 1969), and the use of Psilocybe mushrooms (Stamets, 1996; Wasson, 1962) and Salvia divinorum by Mazatecs in Mexico (Soutar, 2001) to name but a few. Indeed, anthropologist Dobkin de Rios (1984, p. 60) has suggested that “the single most important function of plant hallucinogens in the Amazon area is to divine the future.” Efforts to document the diversity of these traditional “shamanic” plants indicate there are about 100 distinct genera, let alone species, of such traditional plants that are reported to induce visionary states and are used ethnomedically (Schultes & Hofmann, 1992), with new ethnobotanical discoveries continually being made. However, few parapsychologists have conducted research with these plants or their users in their traditional environment, although with Wasson, Puharich (1959) attempted a remote viewing experiment with the Psilocybe-using Mazatecs in Mexico in 1955, but the experiment was aborted when instead Wasson and his co-expeditioner, Richardson, became the first researchers to be initiated into the mushroom cult. Nevertheless, Richardson (1990) reported personally having had an apparently precognitive vision, during what is documented as the first non-indigenous Psilocybe genus (i.e., “magic”) mushroom trip.

A cross-cultural taxonomical study of shamans, shaman-healers, healers, and mediums, posits that, although these groups share many of the same characteristics, there is a clear division between those who do, and those who do not, use psychoactive plants and the differing paranormal activities they perform (Winkelman, 1989). Levine (1968) credited the botanist Schultes with the suggestion that the prevalence of vision-inducing plants among the herbarium of “primitive” societies is based upon a differing concept of illness, which has spiritual rather than physical causes. Contrary to Schultes, Winkelman suggested that the difference in the use of hallucinogens was due to cultural and developmental variances. Shamans from


hunting and gathering societies and shaman-healers from agricultural subsistence societies both frequently use hallucinogens for the purposes of healing, divination, hunting-magic, and malevolent acts, whereas healers and mediums from sedentary and politically integrated societies as well as agricultural subsistence societies, do not use hallucinogens to access their altered states, which they use for healing and divination only.

Yet it appears that these cultural differences have occurred only recently in the developed world, as it has been suggested that the ancient Greek oracles, including the Pythia of Delphi—the seeresses that anteceded the divinatory Goddess Python—also used the solanaceae family of psychedelic plants (henbane, belladonna, mandrake, and datura) for divination (Masters & Houston, 1966; Parker, 1975; von Bibra, 1855/1994). Indeed the ancient Greek name for henbane was “pythonian” (Rudgley, 2000). It is also well documented historically that Northern European witches also utilized these plants for psychic purposes (see Andrews, 1997; Rudgley, 2000). Indeed, similarly to the Greeks, the Northern Europeans gave the name “alruna” to their visionary seeresses, in common with the German name for mandrake, “alraune,” both of which stem from “rune,” the Germanic divinatory letter system (Müller-Ebeling, Rätsch, & Storl, 2003). No doubt, the traditional Northern European practice of pharmacologically accessing visionary states all but died out with the witches during the Inquisition, between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries (Grob & Harman, 1995). It is probable that a combination of changing concepts of illness, the development of a sedentary, politically integrated society, and the influence of the Inquisition or colonization were responsible for the virtual disappearance of the traditional indigenous use of psychoactive plants for paranormal purposes in Europe and North America.

At the end of the 19th century, pioneering psychological explorers in the West rediscovered the vision-inducing qualities of novel plant substances, such as mescaline (Ellis, 1898), whereas others explored new synthetic visionary chemicals like nitrous oxide (James, 1902), with some early psychical researchers dabbling in both (Dunbar, 1905). By the middle of the 20th century the Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann had discovered LSD—experiencing its OBE-inducing properties—and isolated, named, and synthesized psilocybin and psilocin, the psychoactive derivatives of the visionary

Psilocybe mushroom genus (Hofmann, 1983; Luke, 2006). The ascribing of the word psi to psychic phenomena during this period, however, may only be a coincidence. By the turn of this millennium there were around 200 psychedelic compounds known to science, a figure estimated to likely rise to 2000 compounds by the year 2050 at the current rate of discovery, increasing exponentially by a factor of ten every fifty years, starting with the two that were known in 1900 (Shulgin, 2004, 2010). Despite the rapidly upwards bending curve of Shulgin’s formula, current quantities may even exceed it, as a good guestimate puts the number of potentially psychedelic compounds now known to man at about 2000 (J. Hanna, personal communication, August 12, 2012), given that there are something like 1300 documented phenethylamine compounds alone (including substances like mescaline, MDMA, & 2CB) known at the current time (Shulgin, Manning, & Daley, 2011), though they may not all be effectively psychoactive and have not been sufficiently tested as yet. However, a conservative estimate would put the number of known, tried, and tested psychedelics at between 250 (J. Hanna, personal communication, August 12, 2012) and 300 to 400 (Shulgin, 2010). Furthermore, a more recent projection puts the total number of undiscovered drugs (not necessarily psychedelic) at 1 x1060 (Reymond & Awale, 2012), more than visible stars in the sky, and so Brown (2012b) anticipated a near limitless number of psychedelic compounds to arise, especially when factors of nanotechnology, neurostructural engineering, and other technological advances are additionally considered. Nevertheless, Brown’s projection is purely speculative, but it is safe to say that humans have not yet discovered all the psychedelic substances that will ultimately be available, and that there may be many more to come, and, with each one offering a different type of ASC, there remain many states yet to be discovered. Brown (2012b) even fancied that specific psi-inducing psychedelics may be intentionally engineered in the future. 2.2 Personal Views and Experiences Since the discovery of psychedelic compounds by the academic community and their popularization among the intelligentsia by the novelist Aldous Huxley (Smythies, 1960), there has been a steadily growing number of reports of paranormal experiences occurring with the use of these compounds. Several parapsychologists and psychical researchers, primarily from the 1950s and 1960s when psychedelic research


was at its peak, have endorsed the research of psi with psychedelics (e.g., Assailly, 1961; Broad, 1962; Hoffer, 1961a, 1961b; Johnson, 1955; Kern, 1964; Laidlaw, 1961; Paterson, 1961b; Price, 1948; Thouless, 1960; Tibbs, 1963; West, 1965). Even J. B. Rhine, the father of modern parapsychology, ran some informal psychedelic sessions in 1961 at the Rhine Research Centre in Durham with the then Harvard psychologists Timothy Leary and Richard Alpert (Black, 2001; Horn, 2009; Stevens, 1988), although there was apparently too much spontaneous laughter erupting for anyone to credibly test for anything (S. Abrams, personal communication, August 14, 2006; S. Krippner, personal communication, January 19, 2006).

Notably, many other parapsychologists have reported personal ESP experiences with the use of LSD (Cavanna, 1961; Garrett, 1961b; Millay, 2001; Osmond, 1961a; Servadio, in Alvarado, 1995), peyote/mescaline (Langdon-Davies, 1961; Millay, 2001; Osmond, 1961a), psilocybin (Cavanna, 1961; Krippner, 1967; Millay, 2001) Amanita muscaria (Puharich, 1962), and ayahuasca (Severi, 1996, 1999). Krippner’s apparent precognitive vision of President Kennedy’s assassination while on psilocybin serves as a good example (Krippner, 1967, 2006a). Though, of course, merely consuming a psychedelic is no guarantee that an experience of ESP will follow, as Price (1964) aptly demonstrated self-experimenting with mescaline. However, other psychical researchers, sometimes following their own experiences, have noted the apparent tendency for ESP production with the use of psychedelics, including no less than four Parapsychological Association presidential addresses (Dean, 1967; Heywood, 1978; Hastings, 1973; Luke, 2010b; Radin, 1989; Servadio, 1961; Stevenson, 1981). Furthermore, some have recommended that other psi researchers personally explore psychedelic states of consciousness to aid in their understanding of the concept of psi (Cavanna, 1961; Heywood, 1961). The most highly experienced LSD psychotherapist, Stanislav Grof (1980), also advised that an intimate knowledge of the transpersonal realms created by psychedelics is essential for parapsychologists. Personal accounts of ESP have also been reported by leading psychedelic mycologists (Stamets, 1996; Wasson & Wasson, 1957).

Beloff (1968) asserted that greater reporting of ESP on college campuses would have been evident if drugs induced psi particularly, to which Tart (in Beloff, 1968) replied that many students took paranormal

events in conjunction with psychedelics very matter-of-factly, due to their prevalence. This point was further echoed by the suggestion that users of psychedelic drugs frequently report vivid ESP experiences but that they remain largely unpublished (Stafford & Golightly, 1967). Yet, Heywood (1961) found several incidences of psi with LSD within the “well-evidenced” SPR spontaneous-case collection. However, more recently, Vayne (2001), echoing Tart, has suggested that among practiced users of psychedelics, dubbed psychonauts, the telepathic experience is so common that it is hardly remarked upon. Luke (2004c) agreed with Vayne but further offered that, even so, many (less well-evidenced) anecdotal reports could be found on contemporary resources on the internet. Psychedelic drug information sites (such as www.lycaeum.org and www.erowid.org) have amassed a large online archive of experiential psychedelic reports, among which are accounts of ESP experiences with substances as diverse as ketamine, Salvia divinorum, Psilocybe mushrooms, ayahuasca analogues, and 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA, or ecstasy) mixed with baby Hawaiian woodrose seeds, a natural source of lysergic acid (Anonymous, 2004a, 2004b, 2004c, 2004d, 2004e, 2005).

Similar reports of frequent ESP experiences with such substances from within the psychedelic community are also available elsewhere in the literature (e.g., Eisner, 1989; Gaskin, 1990; Krippner, 2006a; Krippner & Fersh, 1970; Lilly, 1967, 1978; McKenna, 1991; McKenna & McKenna, 1994; Millay, 1999, 2004a, 2004b, 2005, 2006, 2010; Osmond, 1968; Saunders, 1993; Scully, 2010; Stevens, 1989; Turner, 1994; Wyllie, 1999; Zelnick, 2005). Indeed, the notion of experiencing a telepathic group mind, or “tribal telepathic understanding” (Nuttal, 1970, p. 249) through “tripping” became so prevalent among the psychedelic culture of the 1960s that prospective psychedelic users were told they might expect such an experience (Leary, Metzner, & Alpert, 1964) and commonly it became known as “grokking” (Stevens, 1989; Wolfe, 1971). Currently, the same notion is still apparent among psychedelic users (e.g., MoDu, 2003) and the largest public-edited internet encyclopedia indicates that ESP-type phenomena are a common fourth-level experience on a five-level spectrum of psychedelic experience intensity (Wikipedia, 2005), though clearly this is not academically evidential but rather an indication of commonly held notions, among Wikipedia editors at least. Although notably,


PK is seldom reported in the literature, save for the odd exceptional report (e.g., Shulgin, 2004), and it has been suggested among occultists that chemical agents are only useful for “receptive” magic/psychic purposes, such as traveling clairvoyance, divination, and spirit evocation or invocation (e.g., Carroll, 1987; Vayne, 2001; Xeper, 2005). The use of psychedelics for such magical purposes now appears to be growing in popularity among occultists and is seemingly far more prevalent within the literature than it used to be (e.g., see Louv, 2005; Kent, 2010). 2.3 Clinical A review of the literature from the clinical setting reveals surprisingly few published psychiatric inpatient reports, although there are some epidemiological studies (see section 3.2.1) relating to psychedelics and paranormal experience. This may be due to any number of factors, such as the lack of any such spontaneous phenomena within the psychiatric population, or the medicalization within psychiatry of paranormal experiences as delusion or hallucination. Indeed, Mogar (1965) noted that early psychoanalytic and behaviorist researchers using LSD were prejudiced against ESP phenomena. Yet, there is one study, a psychiatric-interview survey with users of LSD (Abraham, 1983), that reports precognitive experiences as one of the symptoms of the LSD flashback phenomena, now called hallucinogen persisting perception disorder (American Psychiatric Association, 2000).

On the other hand, there are many accounts of paranormal experiences with psychoactive drugs from within psychedelic psychotherapy, particularly that involving LSD (Grof, 1975, 1980, 1990, 2001; Harman, 1963; Holzinger, 1964; Levine, 1968; Masters & Houston, 1966; Pahnke, 1968) and psychedelics in general (Eisner, 1995; Laidlaw, 1961; Stolaroff, 2004). Tart (in Levine, 1968), quoted the International Foundation for Advanced Study, which in the course of between 300 and 400 psychedelic therapy sessions has reported the incidence of ESP with strong evidence seven times, which is a considerably higher incidence of psi than that reported to have occurred in non-psychedelic psychotherapy (Tornatore, 1977a, 1977b). As one specific example of this line of research, the percentage of clients reporting telepathic communication during LSD-assisted therapy changed from 49% in the first psychotherapy session to 80% in the second session (Blewett & Chwelos, 1959).

The psychiatrist Stanislav Grof, generally credited with the most expertise in this field having conducted

more than four thousand psychedelic therapy sessions over a two decade period, reported observing patients experiencing OBEs, ESP (particularly precognition), accurate remote viewing, and space-time travel on a daily basis (Grof, 1975, 1980, 2001). Despite acknowledging that there was a danger of data contamination and a difficulty of verification, Grof (1980) contended that the occurrence of ESP was relatively frequent and that LSD could induce states conducive to an unusually high incidence of ESP (Grof, 1975). Often the reports of telepathy could have been merely self-deception, but other times there was apparently objective verifiable communication at work (Grof, 1980). Grof further found the common occurrence of OBEs, both within and independent of this physical plane, often with traveling clairvoyance and clairaudience. There were also occasional NDE experiences reported (Grof, 1994). Most frequent was the occurrence of extraordinary coincidences or synchronicities, yet only among those clients who experienced transpersonal breakthroughs within the psychedelic session (Grof, 1980). Finally, Grof (1990) also reported two events, rare in the literature, of clients under LSD who experienced visions of the dead that provided apparently unknown, but verifiable information. One such event occurred to the wife of the late psychedelic-psychical researcher Walter Pahnke. During an LSD session, Mrs. Pahnke had a vision of her dead husband who requested her to return a book concealed in her attic. Although she claimed to have had no prior knowledge of the book, she managed to locate and return it. Of course, it is possible that the knowledge of the book already lay in her subconscious (Stokes, 1997).

One of the most astonishing reports of psi occurring within the clinical setting came from the psychiatrist Paul (1966), who reported taking the mushroom Amanita pantherina. This was her only psychedelic experience and was part of an ESP experiment being conducted by Puharich (see Puharich, 1959, 1962). Paul had an incredibly intense trip, complete with apocalyptic visions followed by salvation through overwhelming love, and was unable to complete the experiment. However, on return to her practice, two of her clients reported extraordinary events at the time Paul had been tripping. One patient had amnesia for the same three hours on Friday evening following the consumption of his first-ever (non-psychedelic) mushroom meal, and upon remembering his experience,


recalled that he had experienced the same apocalyptic fears as Paul had experienced. The other patient could not remember what she had done that evening but on investigation discovered that she had gone to the house of a secret lover and waited outside, love-struck, for two hours, but was prevented from taking any irrational action by her friend, who later informed her of the event. Both patients had a strong bond with the therapist and had expressed an interest in ESP. Paul interpreted the event as a case of spontaneous telepathic tripping, complete with amnesia on the part of the receivers, perhaps demonstrating a certain unpredictability in the experimental induction of psi with psychoactive drugs. 2.4 Evaluation of Field Reports In summary, there is a wealth of reports of the spontaneous occurrence of ostensibly paranormal phenomena with the use of psychedelic substances. Yet this does not mean that these experiences are necessarily genuine paranormal events: Aside from the usual arguments for and against spontaneous phenomena as evidence for the paranormal (e.g., see Pekala & Cardeña, 2000; Stokes, 1997), the fact that respondents had consumed a visionary substance may be reason to question their perception and interpretation of the experiences, at least for those cases which are not substantiated by evidence or independent observers. Nunn, Rizza, and Peters (2001) have found that cannabis use is related to delusional ideation, although it is not directly related to delusional conviction; however, the relationship between psychedelic use and the propensity for false memory and poor probability judgments has not been established (Kapur & Seeman, 2002; Wilson & French, 2006). Furthermore, Shanon (2003) pointed out that the usual definitions of hallucination in the psychological literature fail to adequately encompass the diverse and complex nature of experiences that occur with psychedelics, and nor can assumptions be made about the ontology of such psychedelic-induced visions. Indeed, many people who have had paranormal psychedelic experiences reported how real the experience seemed, often being felt as more real than the ordinary waking experience (e.g., Hofmann, in Grof 2004; Shanon, 2003; Strassman, 2001). It has also been reported that psychedelic-induced mystical experiences feel no less real than previous spontaneous mystical experiences (Doblin, 1991; Exman, 1961; Greeley, 1974; Griffiths, Richards, McCann, & Jesse, 2006; Pahnke, 1966; Pahnke & Richards, 1966; Roberts, 2001; Smith,

2000; Smith & Tart, 1998; Watts, 1968), the same being true for NDEs (Jansen, 2001).

In defense of drug-induced altered states, Devereux (1997) has suggested that, “it is a culturally engineered cliché to dismiss such states as being somehow delusional” (p. 243). Furthermore, Smythies (1960, 1983) has taken issue with the concept of dulled and hallucinatory psychedelic states and insisted that these hallucinations are more than just images from a poisoned brain. Additionally, LeShan (1968) has mocked the assumption that ordinary reality is somehow more real than the psychedelically induced ASC, whereas Tart (1977) questioned how natural is the ordinary state of consciousness, built through a lifetime of socialization. Tart (1972, 1998, 2000, 2001) further questioned the idea that rationality only occurs in the ordinary state, and proposed the establishment of state-specific sciences (for further discussion see Walsh, 2003)

No matter what their epistemological status, however, these experiences do offer a phenomenological spectrum of evidence around which to orient further research. Furthermore, the similarity in reports between those occurring spontaneously in exploratory, therapeutic, and accidental contexts, and those induced intentionally in the traditional ritual context, gives credence to the shamanic use of these substances for supposedly paranormal purposes. By contrast, other traditional psychoactive substances, such as alcohol, coffee, and cocaine are not contemporaneously reported to induce spontaneous paranormal phenomena, and neither are there folk beliefs that suggest they do. Nevertheless, Rogo (1975) wondered whether the occurrence of psychedelic-induced ESP experiences exceeded that of normal ESP experiences, a question that may be partially answered by survey research.

3. Surveys

When reviewing the survey research one immediately notices two trends. First, virtually all of the surveys reported here were published since the 1970s, after the period when most psychedelic research was conducted and the unlicensed use of these drugs mostly became illegal in Europe and North America. Secondly, most of the following surveys have primarily focused on paranormal experiences or belief and have only recorded drug use information as one of many possible co-variables, often omitting to distinguish among the different substances. Only a few studies (DeGracia,


1995; Kjellgren & Norlander, 2000; Tart, 1993; White, 1997) have approached users of psychoactive substances as the target sample. 3.1 Surveys of Belief in the Paranormal

Investigating belief in the paranormal with the Mental Experience Inventory (MEI), Kumar, Pekala, and Cummings (1992) additionally utilized a sensation seeking scale that included a yes/no question about recreational drug use. Of an opportunity sample of 574 psychology students, drug users reported greater paranormal and psi-related beliefs; however, results were reported in terms of the larger sensation-seeking measure as significant main effects. In a more direct assessment of the relationship, Gallagher, Kumar, and Pekala (1994) transformed the MEI into the Anomalous Experiences Inventory (AEI; Kumar, Pekala, & Gallagher, 1994), adding a Drug-Use subscale to complement the other four subscales relating to Anomalous/Paranormal Belief, Experience, Abilities, and Fear. The AEI was successfully validated against other paranormal experience and belief scales using an opportunity sample of 400 psychology students. The AEI Drug-Use subscale correlated positively, although only very weakly, with the AEI Anomalous/Paranormal Beliefs subscale (r = .16, p < .01) and with Tobacyk’s (1988) paranormal belief subscales: Belief in Psi (r = .10, p < .05), Belief in Witchcraft (r = .12, p < .05), Belief in Superstition (r = .11, p < .05), Belief in Spiritualism (r = .17, p < .01), Belief in Extraordinary Life Forms (r = .13, p < .01), but not Belief in Precognition. Drug use correlated negatively with Traditional Religious Beliefs (r = -.14, p < .01).

In addition, some items in the AEI Drug-Use subscale correlated with Tobacyk’s (1988) Revised Paranormal Belief Scale, although only very weakly. Overall, paranormal belief correlated negatively with heroin use (r = -.12, p < .05) but positively with the use of LSD (r = .11, p < .05) and mind-altering substances (r = .15, p < .01). There were no significant correlations found for marijuana, cocaine, or alcohol. The same correlations were found between the AEI Anomalous/Paranormal Belief subscale and some AEI Drug-Use subscale items (mind altering substances, r = .18, p < .001; LSD, r = .15, p < .01), but also including marijuana (r = .16, p < .01), but not heroin. Additionally, for all categories of drugs except heroin there was a small significant negative correlation with the fear of psi (from r = -.12 to -.24), whereas alcohol use correlated positively with fear of psi (r = .13, p < .05). The lack of a consistent significant

correlation between paranormal belief and marijuana use runs counter to Tart’s (1993) finding that 76% of marijuana users believe in ESP. This difference may be due to cohort differences, such as culture and their reasons for using marijuana, or that Tart’s marijuana sample were mostly also experienced with LSD (72%, with 36% classified as heavy psychedelic users; Tart, 1971), a drug that Gallagher et al. (1994) did find to be related to paranormal belief. Furthermore, it should be noted that the items of the AEI Drug-Use subscale only register nominal yes/no responses, whereas more sensitive ordinal drug-use measures would have been expected to demonstrate stronger correlations, if the relationships were linear. Nevertheless, correlations from this study reported here are uncorrected and should be accepted with some caution because of the use of multiple inferential tests.

Pekala, Kumar, and Marcano (1995a, 1995b) sought to find a relationship between the subscales of the AEI and measures of hypnotic susceptibility and dissociation on a similar opportunity sample of 413 psychology students. Supporting the Gallagher et al. (1994) study findings, the Drug-Use subscale correlated positively, and somewhat more strongly, with Anomalous/Paranormal Beliefs (r = .25, p < .001) as well as negatively with Fear of the Anomalous/Paranormal (r = -.14, p < .01), although no breakdown of the results for the Drug-Use subscale was given for the different substances. In addition, overall drug use was found not to correlate with dissociation or hypnotic susceptibility, although marijuana was a special case (see Pekala et al., 1995b).

A later opportunity sample of 107 students (Houran & Williams, 1998) were surveyed using the AEI to explore the equivocal relationship between belief in the paranormal and tolerance of ambiguity. Further support was demonstrated for the small but significant relationships between drug use and anomalous/para-normal belief (r = .22, p < .05) and fear of the anomalous/paranormal (r = -.18, p < .05). Tolerance of ambiguity was found to correlate minimally with both paranormal belief and drug use (r = .23, p < .05), and more so with psychedelic drugs (LSD, marijuana), rather than cocaine, alcohol, or heroin.

Simmonds and Roe (2000) used the AEI in relation to schizotypy, temporal lobe lability, and personality correlates with an opportunity sample of 145 psychology students. Similarly to previous surveys,


there was a small significant correlation between drug use and anomalous/paranormal belief (r = .20, p < .05). Drug use was also found to relate to complex partial epileptic signs (CPES) as measured by a subscale of the Personal Philosophy Inventory developed by Persinger and Makarec (1987), which they had predicted would be the case. However, it is apparent that several items of the CPES are consistent with experiences often reported in other ASCs, drug-induced or otherwise, so such a correlation might be expected anyway. Furthermore, neither of these correlations remained significant when the alpha level was recalculated using a Bonferroni correction for multiple tests, although the relationship between drug use and belief remains consistent with these other surveys, so this correlation is probably genuine, albeit small.

A later survey (Thalbourne, 2001) using the AEI sought to replicate the relationship found by Gallagher et al. (1994) between drug use and belief in the paranormal, and in addition investigated this relationship with respect to transliminality and to kundalini experiences. Transliminality was measured using the 29-item Transliminality Scale (Thalbourne, 1998), before it was rasch-scaled for age and gender bias. Using an opportunity sample of 125 psychology students, Thalbourne found a small significant positive correlation between the AEI subscales: Drug-Use and Anomalous/Paranormal Belief (r = .24, p < .01), supporting previous findings. There was a suggestive but non-significant negative correlation between drug use and fear of the anomalous/paranormal. There was also a significant positive correlation between drug use and transliminality (r = .29, p = .001) and the New Age Philosophy (NAP) subscale of the Tobacyk’s (1988) Revised Paranormal Belief Scale (r = .23, p < .01). There was, however, no significant correlation with Tobacyk’s Traditional Paranormal Beliefs (TPB) subscale, and reanalysis of Thalbourne’s data by Houran and Lange (2001) found the difference in reports of drug use in relation to NAP and TPB to be significant (p < .001, uncorrected for multiple analyses), reinforcing their argument for two distinct paranormal belief groups. Furthermore, drug-use did not correlate with Thalbourne and Delin’s (1993; non-rasch scaled) Australian Sheep-Goat Scale, a different paranormal belief scale (Thalbourne, 2001).

These findings partially support Gallagher et al.’s (1994) small positive correlation of drug use with the Tobacyk Belief in Psi subscale, yet to what extent is

not discernable because Thalbourne’s (2001) results were reported in terms of just two collapsed subscales rather than the full seven. The same is also true of correlations between Anomalous/Paranormal Belief and the Drug-Use subscale, although of note, very few respondents used heroin (n = 3) and cocaine (n = 6) compared to LSD (n = 26) or marijuana (n = 61), indicating that correlations with those reporting drug use (n = 57, obviously some of the respondents did not consider marijuana to belong to this category) were largely in terms of psychedelics rather than other drugs.

A post hoc analysis of the relationship between transliminality and drug use revealed there were small, but significant, positive correlations (ranging from r = .20 to .27) between transliminality and all of the AEI drug-use categories (mind-altering substances, marijuana, LSD, cocaine, and heroin) except for alcohol. Thalbourne (2001) suggested that this relationship may be due to the need to use drugs to escape the unpleasant aspects of the transliminal state, or that drug use may be a means of promoting the psychic phenomena of which high transliminal scorers may have become deprived. Both of these hypotheses might prove to be somewhat correct, but only for differing substances. It is highly unlikely that psychedelic drugs are used to escape the transliminal state because these substances are actually more likely to cause the opposite effect, although some non-psychedelic drugs, such as opiates/opioids might help to escape transliminality. Indeed, Vayne (2001) has suggested psychedelics are expressly used to access liminal states. Alternatively, Thalbourne has speculated that an “openness to experience” trait underlies the relationship between drug use, transliminality, and paranormal experience.

In a follow-up survey (Thalbourne & Houran, 2005), an opportunity sample of 200 psychology students completed the Revised Transliminality Scale (Lange, Thalbourne, Houran, & Storm, 2000), and an extended version of the AEI Drug-Use subscale, which included two extra items, one relating to ecstasy (MDMA) and one relating to speed (amphetamines). As previously, though somewhat less so, drug use was found to correlate marginally, although significantly, with transliminality (r = .21, p < .005, one-tailed). Furthermore, scores on the Oxford Happiness Questionnaire demonstrated that transliminality was not related to happiness and that the majority of high transliminals were happy, offering support to McCreery and Claridge’s (1995)


notion of the pathology-free “happy schizotype” prone to paranormal experiences. However, unhappy high-scoring transliminals reported significantly more drug use than happy high-scoring transliminals (t = 1.98, n = 77, p < .05), somewhat supporting Thalbourne’s (2001) speculation that transliminality, akin to psychosis, can be a unhappy state that such people attempt to escape from with drugs. Unfortunately, Thalbourne and Houran’s findings sweep several different types of drugs —including psychedelics, narcotics, stimulants, and alcohol—together under one umbrella, revealing very little about which of these very different drugs relate to each particular syndrome. For instance, given the system of scoring in this study, it is easily possible that the use of just one drug, such as alcohol, entirely accounts for the differences in substance use between happy and unhappy transliminals, and further research begs more specific analyses.

Here Metzner (2005) pointed out that, aside from merely varying in how they activate or relax one’s nervous system, psychoactive drugs may also be classified along a hedonic continuum of pain and pleasure, reflecting Thalbourne and Houran’s (2005) simplified notions about drugs and the quest for happiness. However, taking a transpersonal approach, Metzner further indicated that drugs may also be considered along a third dimension of consciousness expansion and contraction, such that psychedelics are essentially conscious expanding, whereas opiates, alcohol, cocaine, and amphetamines, being focally restrictive and addictive, are consciousness contracting. Thus, a range of drugs can be used when seeking stimulation, sedation, or happiness, but only specific drugs, psychedelics, will lead to consciousness expanding experiences, and perhaps even ostensibly paranormal ones too. Arguments may prevail over precise definitions and classifications here, but the point remains that psychological research would most likely benefit from a recognition of the experiential differences between drugs rather than just a recognition of their legal status and a crude categorization of them based only on that (Friedman, 2006). 3.2 Surveys of Paranormal Experiences.

3.2.1 Psychiatric epidemiological samples. Recently, a wealth of epidemiological psychiatric research has surveyed reports of cannabis use and schizotypal symptoms, finding fairly consistent correlations between them (for a review, see Castle & Murray, 2004). Items relating to telepathy and other kinds of thought

broadcasting have been often included, and it deserves mentioning that the subscales in which theses items appear tend to correlate with cannabis use (e.g., Johns et al., 2005). However, although relevant, this research is largely indirect to the present review as incidence rates for specific types of paranormal-like experiences are rarely reported, but rather form part of more general subscales.

More specifically, in a quasi-experimental design with 196 university students, Nunn, Rizza, and Peters (2001) found that cannabis use, but not alcohol use, was positively related to unusual experiences (such as the possession of special, almost magical powers), but use of either drug was unrelated to depression or anxiety. Furthermore, cannabis use was related to delusional ideation but not distress, further supporting the notion of the happy schizotype, although cannabis and alcohol use combined was related to delusional conviction. Nunn et al. suggested that schizotypal traits may predispose subjects to cannabis use or that cannabis use may result in high schizotypy scores. Although some prospective studies have been conducted in this area, there are often so many possible confounding factors involved in such research that directions and sources of causality remain entirely speculative (see Castle & Murray, 2004).

3.2.2 Clinical populations. Finding numerous paranormal experiences reported in a DXM-users survey (see section 3.2.4 to follow), White (1997) sought to explain the survey results in terms of temporal lobe dysfunction (TLD). Tentative indirect support comes from a survey of a convenience sample of 100 neuropsychiatric patients where a positive recreational drug-use response was used, among other measures, as a predictor of TLD, with TLD correlating well with reports of subjective paranormal experience (Palmer & Neppe, 2003). However, the recreational drug-use measure utilized a blanket definition that lumped together the use of a variety of different psychoactive drugs and moreover treated drug use alongside brain injury as causative factors in TLD, although there is no clear reasoning given for doing this. In this study, recreational drug use was taken to be either of the following: prolific marijuana use; the three times use of hallucinogens, LSD, mescaline, or PCP; or six months’ use of heroin or amphetamine. However, it was reported in a later paper that, when gender was controlled, there were no relationships between subjective paranormal experiences and any of the categories of drug use or


brain injury with this sample (Palmer & Neppe, 2004), although results may be due to underpowered statistics with only six respondents in this group.

3.2.3 General and student samples. Several major surveys of psychic experiences have included questions regarding the use of psychoactive drugs. The first series of surveys of this nature utilized a psychic experiences questionnaire created by Palmer (1979) for use in a randomly distributed postal survey. The questionnaire was completed by 354 townspeople (T) and 268 students (S), treated as different samples, with response rates of 51% and 89% respectively. Those who acknowledged the use of mind-expanding drugs also responded positively to being an ESP agent, having a recurrent spontaneous PK experience (T only, p < .01, although Palmer urged caution with these two results because of low responses), haunting experience (T only, p < .05), aura vision (S, p < .05), and OBEs (S, p < .01). Despite reported drug-use differences between samples, equal proportions from each group (T: 29%; S: 28%) reported psi experiences actually occurring during use. Kohr (1980) criticized the analysis for not reporting the chi-squared statistic and for using an underpowered test.

Kohr (1980) surveyed a special sample of self-selecting respondents (n = 406) from the Association for Research and Enlightenment, an organization whose membership represented those intrigued by the legacy of the renowned psychic and Christian mystic Edgar Cayce. Using Palmer’s (1979) questionnaire, Kohr failed to find any association between subjective paranormal phenomena and the use of mind-expanding drugs, although figures for drug use were not actually reported. It is suspected that the drug use statistics were not reported in this study because its incidence was quite low. The Kohr sample was both older (61% over 40 years) and markedly more religious (40% = very religious) than the Palmer samples (over 40 years, T = 51%, S = 0%; very religious, T = 8%, S = 9%), and, as stated earlier, Gallagher et al. (1994) found traditional religious beliefs to correlate negatively with drug use. Roney-Dougal (1984) surveyed a different special sample, attendees at an occult conference, about their psi experiences. Of the 33 respondents, 30 (91%) reported psi experiences, of which 12 (40%) reported the use of mind-expanding drugs. This indicates both the slightly higher reported use of psychedelics (36% of the sample) and the greater reporting of paranormal experiences among occultists compared to other populations, though this observation may not be reliable.

Another survey (Usha & Pasricha, 1989a, 1989b) modified Palmer’s (1979) questionnaire, particularly the demographic questions, to suit the needs of an Indian student population (n = 328; response rate 79% using opportunity sampling). Use of mind-expanding drugs was reported by 11%, who were also significantly more likely to be Hindu (p < .05) or male (p < .01), probably largely due to the sacred use of marijuana among many Indian men, mostly Hindus. Of those reporting drug use, 18% reported psi experiences during the drug experience, somewhat less than Palmer’s 28-29%. Similar to Palmer’s work, the use of mind-expanding drugs was positively associated (chi-squared) with OBEs (p < .01), and additionally with waking ESP (p < .05), apparitions (p < .01), and déjà vu experiences (p < .01). Except for apparitions, these three experiences tended to correlate significantly with other psi-relevant experiences such as lucid dreaming, meditation, and mystical experiences. None of the studies using Palmer’s 46-item questionnaire (Palmer, 1979; Kohr, 1980; Usha, & Pasricha, 1989a, 1989b) made any corrections for multiple inferential analyses, so results should be accepted with some caution.

Returning to the surveys of paranormal belief among students reviewed in the previous section (3.1), these studies also investigated anomalous/paranormal experiences, and Kumar et al. (1992) found drug users reported significantly more of these. The later series of five surveys (Gallagher et al., 1994; Houran & Williams, 1998; Pekala et al., 1995a, 1995b; Simmonds & Roe, 2000; Thalbourne, 2001), utilizing the Anomalous Experiences Inventory (Gallagher et al., 1994), each reported a significant positive relationship between the Anomalous/Paranormal Experience and Drug-Use subscales. Correlations ranged from r = .13 (Gallagher et al., 1994) to r = .29 (Thalbourne, 2001), and Pekala et al. (1995a) additionally found that drug use was positively correlated with a Shamanic or Encounter-like Experiences subscale (r = .23; p < .001), which included items relating to OBE and contact with spirits. Furthermore, Pekala et al. (1995b) reported correlations between the use of certain substances and subjective psychic experiences occurring under the influence of drugs, although results were only given for high hypnotically susceptible participants (n = 56; for the AEI Drug-Use subscale r = .57, p < .01; mind-altering substances r = .34, p < .01; marijuana use r = .30, p < .05) and high dissociative participants (n = 59) (Drug-


Use subscale r = .58, p < .01; mind-altering substances r = .30, p < .05; LSD r = .41, p < .01; cocaine r = .34, p < .01).

Thalbourne (2001) also found a relationship between drug use and kundalini experiences (r = .28, p < .01) measured using the 32-item Kundalini Scale (Thalbourne & Fox, 1999). It was suggested by Thalbourne that the relationship between paranormal experience, drug use, and the kundalini experience either indicates that certain drugs may trigger a kundalini experience or that that the use of drugs may alleviate it. Alternatively, it was proposed that the relationship between these factors may also indicate a need for non-standard sensations, or that the physiological aspects of the kundalini experience were being misinterpreted as paranormal. This final supposition is not consistent with long established tantric teachings that warn of genuine psychic kundalini experiences called “siddhis” (e.g., Satyananda, 1996). Furthermore, as an alternative to Thalbourne’s interpretations, the results may simply be due to an overlap of subjective psychic experiences common to both the kundalini and the drug experience, as suggested by Naranjo (1987) and demonstrated by DeGracia (1995) in the following section (3.2.4). Perhaps the activation of the pineal gland and its chemistry, as supposed by Roney-Dougal (e.g., 2001) and Strassman (2001), underlies both factors, resulting in subjective paranormal experiences. Indeed, Roney-Dougal (1989, 1991) noted that the pineal gland is considered by some yogis to be primary in the control of kundalini psi experiences, and there is other putative evidence (see section 1.1) that suggests such a link.

3.2.4 Psychedelic-users samples. DeGracia (1995) conducted a self-selecting internet survey with 61 experienced psychedelic users about their experiences of kundalini-like phenomena. Of those responding, 58% had used psychedelics more than 20 times, most frequently LSD (95%), and psilocybin (82%). The respondents revealed a large overlap between reported psychedelic experiences and those experiences commonly arising in spontaneous kundalini awakenings. Of particular interest, psychedelic drug users frequently reported an enhanced sense of empathy (75%), OBEs (40%), intuition, psychic powers, and the recall of past lives (no statistics given). That the use of psychedelics is related to both paranormal and kundalini experiences is further supported by the survey findings of Thalbourne (2001), as discussed in section 3.2.3

One of the first surveys (Ditman et al., 1969) to explore paranormal experiences with psychedelics

randomly gave 99 alcoholics receiving treatment one of the following three drugs: LSD (the only psychedelic of the three), methylphenidate (a dopaminergic stimulant, also known as Ritalin), or chlordiazepoxide (the first benzodiazepine, a sedative/hypnotic). Those taking LSD reported significantly more of the paranormal-type phenomena, having more experiences of transcending time and of having an OBE supporting findings with the AEI that dopaminergic stimulants (i.e., cocaine) are not conducive to paranormal beliefs.

A survey (Tart, 1970, 1971, 1993) conducted in California in 1970 with 150 experienced users of marijuana recruited by discrete snowball sampling found even higher reports of paranormal experiences than the student and general samples discussed above (section 3.2.3). The marijuana-user sample consisted of 76% students, and 72% of the sample had tried LSD, although only 7% had tried hard narcotics (e.g., presumably heroin). With regard to experiences under the influence of marijuana, 69% reported telepathy (rising to 83% in a later sample), 32% reported precognition, 13% PK (defined as magical operations that cause an effect), and 50% reported seeing auras, with heavier users reporting significantly higher frequencies of these experiences in each category (Tart, 1971). OBEs were reported by 44%, with 53% of this group reporting a least one OBE under the influence (Tart, 1971). In comparison, a later survey (Luke & Kittenis, 2005) found that somewhat smaller percentages of experienced cannabis users (i.e., those using it often or more frequently, n = 60) than in Tart’s study reported the occurrence of telepathy (20%), precognition (12%), psychokinesis (12%), and auras (22%) while under the influence. Yet, the percentage reporting OBEs either with or without cannabis (62%) was larger than in Tart’s study (44%). The use of Californian students at the epicentre of the psychedelic scene at that time may at least partially account for Tart’s heightened findings, perhaps because these respondents were more psychedelically active and responsive, and consuming higher quantities and grades of cannabis than in the 2005 survey.

A survey, similar to DeGracia’s (1995) investigation of transpersonal drug experiences, was conducted in Sweden with an anonymous snowball sample of 16 experienced psychedelic drug users (Kjellgren & Norlander, 2000). Of those returning questionnaires (94%), 37% had used psychedelics more than 20 times, mostly LSD (75%) and psilocybin (75%).


Respondents indicated the occurrence of OBEs (53%), telepathy (60%), the loss of the sense of a discrete self (47%), psycho-geographical traveling (62%), contact with entities (20%), time-travel (40%), animal shape-shifting (53%), and visions of mythological beings (33%), all under the influence of psychedelics. All respondents reported having some psi experiences, with heavier users and, similarly to Usha and Pasricha (1989a, 1989b), those practicing mind-expanding, spiritual, or ritual techniques or preparation reported more of these experiences than infrequent users. However, significant differences in the quantity of experiences between low and high users only occurred for the experiences of telepathy (U = 12, p < .05, two tailed) and gaining knowledge of oneself, and for a combined index of all paranormal experiences (U = 7, p < .05), though uncorrected for multiple analyses. This partially supports the hypothesis that subjective paranormal experiences occur more frequently during the use of psychedelics, although alternative explanations are possible. Furthermore, 31% of the sample reported that their views on life after death have been influenced by their use of psychedelics, and 44% had become less afraid of death through their experiences, although 12% had become more afraid.

In further support of the notion that greater psychedelic use is associated with more paranormal experiences, a limited survey of 67 psilocybin-containing mushroom users found that only 9% of those taking low doses (less than 5 dried grams of Psilocybe cubensis) had experiences of telepathy, whereas 28% of those taking higher doses—what McKenna (1991) called a heroic dose—had telepathic experiences (Hurst, 1994).

Of particular interest to the present review are the results of an incidental internet survey (White, 1997) of subjective paranormal experiences with the use of the dextromethorphan (DXM). Commonly used in cough remedies DXM is a synthetic drug that results in similar subjective experiences to other dissociatives, such as ketamine and PCP. White was concerned about the use of DXM and had a “frequently asked questions” report regarding DXM posted on an internet-based psychoactive drug information site (www.erowid.org). The published survey, unfortunately without statistics or demographics, was the product of reports sent to White from people who had used DXM, often unwittingly as a simple cough remedy, and had experienced a number of subjective paranormal experiences. White was surprised at the reports and was originally very reluctant to

take them seriously, until he received so many that he collated, categorized, and published them.

Many of the experiences reported by White (1997) are consistent with experiences common to ketamine use (Jansen, 2001; Corazza, 2002) and include the following: visions of energy ribbons; a disturbing sense of infinity; a sense of presence of a profoundly powerful, loving, and intelligent being (as is also quoted with DMT use, a very different substance—Strassman, 2001); déjà vu; jamais vu; a loss of sense of causality; memory loops; a sense of presence; OBEs (most often to a different dimension but also on the corporal plane outside of one’s body); NDEs; contact with entities, spiritual beings, and other free-floating consciousnesses (also reported by Carpenter, 2006; Xeper, 2005); occasional ESP, including clairvoyance; and the intuitive understanding of complex ideas such as a math student understanding Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem for the first time. Most of these experiences have since elsewhere been reported in an online user journal, The DXM Zine (Gelfer, 2007). It is noted there were no reports of PK, although some felt that they could slightly influence the laws of probability. These reported experiences are independently consistent with a psychiatric inpatient report of an apparently accidental overdosing with a cough remedy containing DXM (Price & Lebel, 2000). Reported symptoms included the experience of observing oneself from outside of one’s body (OBE), becoming “just thoughts,” 360° vision, vision within people, and “delusions” of telepathy, all of which ceased when the DXM wore off.

Taking a more taxonomic approach than earlier research, Luke and Kittenis (2005) sought to determine which of a range of psychedelics are related to which paranormal experiences in particular. The online survey pooled responses from 139 self-selecting respondents recruited via both parapsychology and psychedelic interest groups. The percentage of respondents who had tried an illicit drug even once (n = 110) and who reported a psi experience while under the influence (47%) was somewhat higher than the 28-29% and 18% found previously with general and student samples (Palmer, 1979; Usha & Pasricha, 1989a, 1989b), as might be expected from this non-ordinary sample.

The study also corroborated many of the observations made in previous research. For example, supporting Strassman (2001), DMT was widespread in inducing entity contact experiences and OBEs, although


primarily to other dimensions, and like 5-MEO-DMT, DMT commonly gave the experience of dissolving into a universal energy. The hypothesis that DMT is fundamental to the NDE (Strassman, 2001) was partially borne out by the relatively widespread reporting of the, albeit generalized, death-like experiences (dying, rebirth, or memory of a past life) although such experiences seemed to be relatively more widespread with 5-MEO-DMT, as observed elsewhere (Luke, 2005; Roney-Dougal, 2001; Shulgin & Shulgin, 1997).

Reports of “sensing an intelligence or spirit being in an ingested plant or substance” were found to be most widespread where respondents were under the influence of plant-based substances: psilocybin-containing mushrooms, ayahuasca, mescaline-containing cacti, and Amanita muscaria, but especially with Salvia divinorum, as has been documented elsewhere (Aardvark, 2002; Addy, 2010; Arthur, 2010; Doyle, 2012; Horner, 2012; Miller, 1994; Vayne, 2001). For a discussion of interspecies encounters on psychedelics see Krippner and Luke (2009). Such plant-spirit experiences also occurred with the use of the cannabis plant, although the most widespread experiences with this drug were clairvoyance and OBEs on this plane and, primarily, telepathy, making this substance a prime candidate for ESP research, as has already been advocated by Tart (1993) for a number of reasons. The dissociative DXM is also a potential candidate for further ESP research, particularly collective ESP experiences, supporting earlier reports of psi occurring with its use (Gelfer, 2007; Price & Lebel, 2000; White, 1997). There were also relatively widespread reports of telepathy with LSD and particularly with MDMA, a drug, categorized as an empathogen, that is characterized by its capacity to induce empathic experiences and that has elsewhere been reported to induce telepathic experiences (Brown, 2012a; Eisner, 1989; Saunders, 1993). Psilocybe genus mushrooms too demonstrated some relatively widespread capacity to accompany psi experiences of all kinds, particularly clairvoyance, but even PK to some extent. However, possibly because of the more infrequent experience of PK, there did not seem to be any one substance that was related to it, with the possible exception of Psilocybe mushrooms, mescaline, and LSD, although none of these convincingly.

In keeping with the previous findings of correlations, ranging from r = .13 to .29, between the

occurrence of paranormal experiences (including mystical experiences) and the use of all drugs (excluding prescription drugs) as measured with the AEI (see section 3.2.3), the Luke and Kittenis (2005) study also found a positive correlation of r = .46, p < .001. The greater correlation in this study most likely was due to the use of different sample types, and variations in the questions used. In addition, an overall correlation was calculated between the frequency of paranormal experiences and the frequency of drug use (excluding alcohol and prescription drugs) that gave a small positive value of r = .31, p < .001, supporting Kjellgren and Norlander’s (2000) and Tart’s (1971) finding that greater psychedelic use is related to more paranormal experiences.3.3 Surveys and Out-of-Body Experiences (OBEs)

The connection between psychoactive substances and OBEs has received special attention. An inspection of the SPR files led Whiteman (1956) to summarize that approximately a third of “separation” (OBE) cases were initiated by physical conditions, including drugs, although which drugs are not specified. Drug type is clearly of relevance, however, as a study experimentally comparing LSD with Ritalin and benzodiazepine experiences also found that LSD induced a significantly greater degree of OBEs (Ditman et al., 1969). Since the 1950s and 1960s several OBE surveys have incorporated questions relating to drug use. Combining two convenience samples of students (n = 192), Blackmore (1982) reported that of the 35 (18%) claiming to have had at least one OBE, 13 (37%) occurred when taking drugs, most often LSD or marijuana. A later questionnaire survey with students (convenience sample, n = 96) found 31% claimed to have had an OBE, and they were significantly more likely than those who did not claim to have had an OBE to have taken drugs such as cannabis, LSD, or opium derivatives (Blackmore & Harris, 1983).

In a similar survey of students from an opportunity sample (n = 200), Myers, Austrin, Grisso, and Nickeson (1983) utilized the OBE question from Palmer’s (1979) questionnaire and found a significant, but small, correlation between reported OBEs and the use of mind-expanding drugs (r = .23, p < .001). Similar to the 18% of Blackmore’s (1982) study, 22% of the Myers et al. sample reported the occurrence of OBEs, with 42% of these having used mind-expanding drugs compared to only 20% using such drugs among those


not reporting OBEs. Furthermore, 50% of the OBE experience group (n = 45) reported some psi-related experiences during drug taking, compared to only 4% of the non-OBE group (n = 155), perhaps indicating a commonality in the etiology of drug-induced psi and OBE experiences.

Although these surveys (Blackmore 1982; Blackmore & Harris, 1983; Myers et al., 1983) suggest that the use of psychedelic substances is an important correlate of OBEs in the student population, this relationship is less pronounced in other populations. A later randomized postal study (Blackmore, 1984) with a sample of people who had reported OBEs revealed that only 18% of respondents reported OBEs occurring after taking drugs and medicines (type not specified). Blackmore (1992) concluded that hallucinogenic drugs undoubtedly help induce the OBE and were more useful for this than other drugs (e.g., stimulants, tranquillizers, sedatives, and alcohol), although she added that OBEs still occur rarely with psychedelic drug use and there was no specific OBE-inducing drug, despite Lilly’s (1978) assertion that ketamine is virtually a chemical road to the OBE. However, Blackmore (2005) later reported an OBE in a self-experiment with ketamine and conceded that, more so than other drugs, ketamine “often involves feelings of body separation” (Blackmore, 2003, p. 356).

The Blackmore OBE surveys (Blackmore 1982, 1984, 1986; Blackmore & Harris, 1983), and that of Myers et al. (1983), support the findings of the earlier survey of psychic experiences by Palmer (1979). In Palmer’s study, a higher percentage of the student sample than the townspeople sample reported OBEs (S: 25%; T: 14%; p < .01), which Palmer attributed to the likely greater use of mind-expanding drugs among the student sample. Of the townspeople, 7% reported the use of mind-expanding drugs compared to 32% of the student population, although Palmer suspected that the student figure was a gross underestimate, possibly due to the illegality of drug use or the interpretation of the term “mind-expanding drugs” to exclude marijuana. It is not specified why Palmer should consider the student sample to be less likely to report their drug-use than the townspeople. In addition, 13% of the townspeople and 21% of the students reporting OBEs said that at least one OBE had occurred under the influence of such drugs, figures that compare more similarly to the 18% reported for the general OBE population (Blackmore, 1984) than to the 37% and 42% in the student OBE groups

(Blackmore, 1982; Myers et al., 1983, respectively). In a review of the OBE survey literature, Irwin (1994) agreed with Palmer that the higher reports of OBE experiences among students (20-48% compared to 8-15% in the general population) were probably due in part to students’ more frequent experimentation with “psychotropic” drugs. However, Irwin suggested that it was probably also due in part to other factors, such as education and familiarity with surveys.

Using Palmer’s (1979) questionnaire, Kohr (1980) failed to find any relationship between OBEs and drug use with the members of the Association for Research and Enlightenment—previous criticisms still standing—although Usha and Pasricha (1989a, 1989b) did find such a relationship with Indian students. The occurrence of OBEs in the Indian sample was positively associated with the use of mind-expanding drugs (chi-squared = 6.87; p < .01) supporting Palmer’s findings, although no proportion was given for comparison. Tart (1993) also found that 44% of marijuana users reported OBEs, with 58% of these indicating that their OBE occurred since using marijuana, with 54% of those experiencing OBEs reporting at least one experience whilst actually under the influence of marijuana (Tart, 1971). Most of Tart’s sample were also students (72%), supporting Alvarado’s (2000) suggestion that the relationship linking psychedelics with OBEs shown in student populations is not evident among the non-student populations, although this assertion is arguably too exclusive of non-student drug-users. For instance, in surveys with psychedelic-users, DeGracia (1995) found that 40% had an OBE while under the influence, and in Kjellgren and Norlander’s (2000) sample, of which only 25% were students, OBEs under the influence of psychedelics were reported as 53%, a figure comparable to Tart’s marijuana group (54%).

Reports of OBEs are also prevalent in other surveys among users of dextromethorphan (White, 1997). The OBE has also appeared within numerous experiential reports of those who have used either nitrous oxide or ether (Crookall, 1961, 1964; Schroll, 2011), LSD (Eastman, 1962; Grof, 1975, 1980; Lilly, 1969; Whiteman, 1965), PCP (Rudgley, 2000), DMT (Strassman, 2001), 4-HO-MET (Kjellgren & Soussan, 2011), Salvia divinorum (González, Riba, Bouso, Gómez-Jaraboa, & Barbanoj, 2006), pituri (Australian Institute of Parapsychological Research, 2004), harmaline and ayahuasca (Andritzky, 1989; Bianchi,


1994; Luna & White, 2000; Naranjo, 1967; Roney-Dougal, 1986, 1989), a host of other plant psychedelics (Schultes & Hofmann, 1992), and even certain simple carbon dioxide and oxygen gas mixtures (Meduna, 1950). That OBEs are also frequently reported to occur with the use of ketamine (Blackmore, 2003; Curran & Morgan, 2000; Jansen, 1997a, 1999, 2001; Lilly, 1978; Muetzelfeldt et al., 2008; Pomarol-Clotet et al., 2006), even apparently veridical ones (Hanna, 2003), is further echoed by a widely distributed UK Department of Health (2004) information booklet, aimed at teenagers, subtitled Facts about Drugs, that states the primary experiential effect of ketamine is an OBE. Furthermore, a taxonomic survey of psychoactive substance use phenomenology found that, out of a possible 17 different transpersonal experiences, OBEs (to another dimension) were the primary experience of both DMT use and ketamine (Luke & Kittenis, 2005). Indeed, a recent online survey (Wilkins, Girard, & Cheyne, 2011) of 192 recreational drug users found that ketamine was the primary predictor of OBEs among a number of so-called recreational drugs (alcohol, cannabis, MDMA, amphetamine, and LSD/hallucinogens), though DMT was not listed specifically. It is also documented that the ancient Indian psychoactive sacramental, Soma, was capable of inducing OBEs (Spess, 2000).

Early OBE researchers were well aware of the occurrence of these experiences with psychoactive drugs and categorized them differently from OBEs with “natural” causes, suggesting that they were of a different type (Eastman, 1962) and of inferior quality (Crookall, 1961, 1972). Blackmore (1986) disagreed, suggesting that a distinction between drug and non-drug experiences was not evident. Similarly, Grosso (1976) stated that both drug and non-drug OBEs have the same characteristics and that the OBE is the extreme manifestation of a normal human process. Grosso further proposed that drug states nicely demonstrated this continuum of out-of-bodyness by exhibiting a range of body-image alterations, from feeling taller to being completely bodiless, offering the most promising means of experimental OBE induction (see section 1.4 for a discussion). Nevertheless at this time, a systemic comparison of the various chemically-induced OBEs and more spontaneous ones is long overdue.

A recent survey substantiates Grosso’s (1976) notion by finding that 32% of a sample of 28 first-time users of ayahuasca report alterations in self-body

image, ranging from fusion with the environment to the complete separation of the conscious self from the body. All respondents were new members to one of two particular Brazilian syncretic Christian churches that use the jungle decoction ayahuasca as a sacramental (Barbosa, Giglio, & Dalgalarrondo, 2005). 3.4 Summary of Survey Research In summary, the findings from the survey research indicate a small but consistent relationship (r = .16 to .25) between belief in the anomalous/paranormal and drug use, although the size of this relationship was more pronounced for the marijuana users in Tart’s (1993) study. Furthermore, these studies support the hypothesis that psychedelics can induce some paranormal phenomena, although the same arguments for and against the genuineness of field reports (section 2.4) also prevail here. In the surveys reported here, with either student or general samples, those reporting ESP, apparitions, and anomalous/paranormal experiences were found to be significantly more likely to use psychedelics. One study found the same for recurrent spontaneous PK (sometimes called poltergeist phenomena) as well, although only tentatively (Palmer, 1979). Furthermore, of those reporting the use of psychedelics, 18-83% reported psi experiences—most commonly telepathy but also precognition—actually occurring during drug use, with heavier users reporting more experiences where specified. Yet, the occurrence of PK during drug use was only reported among a very small proportion of marijuana, psilocybin, mescaline, and LSD users. OBEs are also an occasional or common feature of psychedelic experiences and are reported to occur with a wide variety of drugs and wide variety of users, particularly students.

A weak relationship between paranormal experiences, the use of psychedelics, and kundalini experiences has also been found in two studies, and there is also a weak, but repeated, correlation between transliminality, drug use, and paranormal experience with Australian psychology students. Where specified, the relationship with paranormal experiences, belief in the paranormal, transliminality, and tolerance of ambiguity is reduced compared to psychedelics with respect to cocaine, heroin, and alcohol, perhaps reflecting Metzner’s (2005) classification of these as consciousness-contracting drugs. The same is also true for the negative relationship with the fear of psi found with psychedelics, which is not apparent with heroin and actually reversed with alcohol, although replication and analyses for


specific classes of drugs is necessary. Correlations between self-reports of cannabis use and thought transmission in psychiatric research are apparent, often indirectly, though such experiences are also more widely commonly reported in the apparent absence of pathology, with or without cannabis. Many of the surveys fail to adequately identify which substances lead to which experiences, although a switch to such taxonomic research is now evident (Luke & Kittenis, 2005).

4. Experimental ESP Research

Several experiments have attempted to elicit psi directly through the controlled consumption of psychedelics. These experiments have been reported quite differently, sometimes as entire monographs in excess of 100 pages or at other times as footnotes within another published report, often without useful details and statistics. The majority of these experiments were essentially pilot studies and were mostly conducted during the psychedelic research period of the 1960s. 4.1 Forced-Choice Designs Forced-choice designs are those in which the target is chosen from among just a few known target types, as with the classic Zener cards. Whittesley (1960) reported on the use of LSD (no dose specified) in a forced choice ESP task with 27 participants, using mostly psychiatric outpatients receiving psychotherapy (with LSD presumably). Using ESP cards concealed within opaque envelopes, participants performed two runs of 25 guesses, one before and one after dosing. Neither performance yielded significant deviations from mean chance expectation (MCE), although a chi-squared analysis of the extent of variance revealed a significant reduction in variance (p < .001) for scores in the experimental condition. Under the influence of LSD, participants had reported that the card guessing-task was “ridiculous, petty, mundane, etc.” (p. 221), and Whittesley suggested such an exceptional lack of deviation from MCE was due to participants feeling so constrained. Little can be said of the methodological merits of this simple experiment because little detail is given, but it is questioned whether the variance analysis was pre-planned.

Making similar use of ESP symbols, Pahnke (1971) reported a pilot study with five participants given a high dose of LSD (200-400 micrograms) and tested 8-9 hours later. The results did not reveal an increase from pre-drug scores for the experimental condition.

Pahnke cited the long delay in testing from dosage and, somewhat similarly to Whittesley (1960), the use of an ESP machine with sterile symbols as counterproductive factors. Pahnke proposed that future research would benefit from the use of familiar sender-receiver pairs, with both under the influence, and the use of a stimulant (e.g., caffeine or amphetamine) along with a psychedelic such as 3,4-methylenedioxyamphetamine (MDA) or 2,5-dimethoxy-4-methylamphetamine (abbreviated as DOM, but also known as STP). Despite Pahnke’s reported failure, the psychiatrist Grof (1970) reported his own experience taking LSD in one of Pahnke’s experiments in which Grof successfully described a remote target in each of three attempts. Grof (1970) aptly described the dissonance between the task and the experience that occurs to the psychedelic participant, a mixture of both complete acceptance and fear of psi, when he wrote:

When I got the third correct answer in a row, the feelings [of a universe where no laws of time and space exist] were so powerful that I could not continue. The reason for discontinuation of the ESP experiment was a strange mixture of a conviction that it was absurd to test the obvious and, on the other hand, a metaphysical fear of confusion that would follow if I had to give up the usual concept of time and space and with it all the related reference points we feel so secure with. (p. 3)

Prior to using free-response procedures with LSD, Masters and Houston (1966) also experimented with an ESP-card guessing procedure. With each participant performing ten 25-card runs, only 4 out of the sample of 27 participants did better than chance. Those few participants performing better were known very well by the trip guide and had reported a high degree of empathy (with the guide presumably). Masters and Houston noted that participants very quickly became bored with the task and complained that it was “psychedelically immoral” (p. 90) to have them perform card guessing while tripping.

As part of a larger series of individual ESP tests with 36 participants under the influence of psilocybin, Asperen de Boer, Barkema, and Kappers (1966) found that, in ten 25-card runs, no individual scored significantly better than in their own no-drug control condition. The results of the 29,000 ESP-card trials for the 36 psilocybin and 44 control participants


(a few participants did multiple conditions) were significantly above chance (p < .01) overall. However, a closer inspection of the results showed that, when compared as a group, those in the psilocybin condition scored higher (MCE = .2; mean correct = .214, p < .05) than the control condition (mean correct = .206, p = .09), although the difference between the groups was not significant. However, there is some indication that order effects reduced any difference between the groups, because the psilocybin condition always occurred after the control condition, possibly resulting in test fatigue, as described in the following section (4.2.1).

Kugel (1977) reported very briefly on the results of a telepathy experiment with LSD, in which test scores actually declined under the influence of LSD in comparison to the periods before and after intoxication. Participants had been given trial by trial feedback and it was noticed that there was a very strong tendency for participants to respond to this feedback by responding with the same call after a hit and a different one after a miss, the latter action being known as the gambler’s fallacy. Analysis revealed that this feedback susceptibility increased under the influence of LSD, possibly accounting for the poorer test performance. No further details about the methodology or statistical results were provided in this paper.

In an indirect experiment with participants selected for good psi scoring, Palmer, Tart, and Redington (1976) found a positive correlation between scores on an automated ESP-symbol guessing task in the laboratory and the reported frequency of marijuana use outside of the laboratory, with a negative correlation between ESP scores and alcohol consumption (see Tart, 1993). However, a follow-up study (Tart, Palmer, & Redington, 1979) failed to replicate these results, although Tart (1993) suggested that this was due to the difference in sample groups and the rising popularity of marijuana as a social drug rather than as a tool of self-development. Tart explained this with the observation that the subjective effects of marijuana are highly susceptible to changes in psychological set and expectation, echoing Weil’s (1972) suggestion that marijuana is primarily just an active placebo. Nevertheless, direct experimental telepathy research with marijuana by the parapsychologist Dr. Thelma Moss was apparently unsuccessful (Rogo, 1976), though no original research papers on this are readily available. Even so, some similar findings to the original Palmer et al. (1976) study were found when scores on

a secure non-intentional forced-choice precognition design task with 100 participants (Luke, Delanoy, & Sherwood, 2008) was correlated positively (rs = .27, p = .008, two-tailed) with the reported number of consumed psychedelics over the lifetime.

Despite earlier cautions (e.g., Masters & Houston, 1966; Pahnke, 1971; Whittesley, 1960) that ESP-card tests are too boring to those affected by psychedelic drugs, two later studies (Tinoco, 1994; Don, McDonough, Warren, & Moura, 1996) found further support for the forced choice task boredom factor with the use of ayahuasca in Brazil. In a series of 825 ESP-card guessing trials conducted in two 90-minute sessions with one sender and one receiver, both under the influence of ayahuasca, no significant deviation from MCE was found (Tinoco, 1994). A second automated ESP-card precognition test involved one of the previous participants in 625 trials over two separate sessions lasting one hour and 40 minutes each, the scores of which were slightly below chance but not significantly so. However, it is apparent that no control condition was evident for comparison. As in earlier studies, both participants reported that the tasks were boring and that the tests lost their meaning and importance because it was more important to live the visions of the moment.

As part of a larger investigation into EEG variations with ayahuasca use, Don et al. (1996) similarly found no significant deviation from MCE with a small group of (presumably experienced) participants using the an automated ESP task under the influence of ayahuasca, though again, like Tinoco’s (1994) study, without non-drug controls. Despite the poor preliminary psi-task results, which Don et al. attributed to methodological factors, the use of ayahuasca was shown to significantly increase 40-Hz (gamma) activity within the occipital-temporal-parietal area, particularly when the participant’s eyes were closed. It was noted that amplification of this kind has often been observed during successful psi-tests in previous studies with gifted participants. Don et al. hypothesized that the reported psychic effects of ayahuasca were due to this particular 40-Hz activity amplifying unconscious psi information to conscious levels; however, an independent ayahuasca-EEG study by Stuckey, Lawson, and Luna (2005) failed to replicate the power increases in the gamma frequency range, but instead found increased gamma coherence across the cortex with ayahuasca when compared to control periods.


Unlike most of the other forced choice designs, a series of successful experiments were reported by Puharich (1959, 1962), one of which utilized a 10-image unseen picture-matching test with participants who had ingested the psychedelic mushroom Amanita muscaria. Preliminary exploratory work had led Puharich to report the subjective feeling of telepathy himself, and one of his gifted participants perfectly matched two sets of ten unseen pictures in three seconds. Controlled experimental work with 26 unselected participants in independent trials revealed an overall chance occurrence of hits in the control picture matching series (106/1140; MCE = 114) compared to the experimental group (141 hits; p < .01), indicating a positive effect of the mushroom on ESP, later repeated in a telepathy-type design.4.2 Free Response. 4.2.1 Psychometry (object reading). Several experiments have opted for a free-response design, which is arguably more conducive than forced choice in eliciting meaningful responses from participants under the influence, and psychometry has been especially popular. In an exploratory study, using a special sample of six mediums, Osis (1961a) administered 100 or 125 micrograms of LSD to each of them prior to a psychometry test. Five performed at chance whereas one was extremely successful. Although further details were not provided about the successful participant, Osis noted that the others were too absorbed in either the aesthetic pleasure of the experience or the quest for philosophical knowledge. The mediums distinguished the visions from normal perception and stated that the LSD experience was unique and caused a sense of profound unity with the world unlike that occurring during psychic experiences. Osis advised continuing research with drugs where the experiments were brief (only 20 mins.), as longer sessions appeared impractical and were thought to result in negative scores because participants would lose interest. Limited information is provided about this study, although it is assumed that participants were not experienced with psychedelics.

Smythies (1960, 1987) reported a preliminary psychometry investigation—planned more like a remote viewing task—conducted in 1950 with one volunteer using mescaline. Although the participant was unable to discern the targets under adequate blind, remote-viewing style conditions, informal questioning about the target location typical of psychometry tasks elicited promising responses. Similarly using mescaline, a series

of pilot studies with three participants “failed in card-guessing tests but showed encouraging success in tests with free material, particularly token objects” (Rush & Cahn, 1958, p. 300), though, unfortunately, further details were not given in this paper. Further to these preliminary reports, Marti-Ibanez (1965) gave a second-hand account of success with mescaline in a series of unpublished telepathy experiments conducted at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. Likewise with mescaline, presumably in self-experiments, Breederveld (1976, 2001) reported success in consistently winning above chance at roulette experiments in casinos using real money, although the mescaline was only one of several mostly successful methods. Nevertheless, Breederveld’s success echoes anecdotal reports concerning the pioneer psychedelic researcher, Al Hubbard, who, after apparently developing his psychic ability through the use of LSD (Stevens, 1988), became somewhat notorious for winning on gaming machines in casinos, his reputation being such that he was politely escorted out when he reached a certain limit of earning (Krippner, 2006a).

The most extensive object-reading test of participants under the influence of psychedelics formed part of a battery of ESP tests conducted in a large-scale psilocybin study (Asperen de Boer, Barkema, & Kappers, 1966). In a no-blind repeated-measures design, 44 no-drug control and 36 test participants (30 participants did one of each condition, whereas a few other participants did multiple conditions) given 10 or 20 mg. of psilocybin, were individually tested for four hours for ESP performance with ESP-cards, object reading, traveling clairvoyance, telepathy, and clairvoyance tests regarding both people and objects. Using a complex system for evaluating the success of the free-response tests, the experimenters jointly estimated the degree of probability for each statement given by the participants and then determined the extent to which the probability of correct statements outweighed the number and probability of incorrect statements. All participants were considered to have performed better than chance overall in the object reading, traveling clairvoyance, and clairvoyance-for-persons tests, but those in the psilocybin condition were not considered to have performed better than those in the control condition. However, the free-response results were combined for these three tests so that no separate comparisons between the groups on these tests were reported. Overall performance on the telepathy test revealed 3 hits out of 220 sessions, where 7


were expected by chance, making comparisons between the groups of little relevance, and similarly little success occurred with the clairvoyance-for-objects test.

Asperen de Boer et al. (1966) concluded that it is not possible to induce ESP with psilocybin, although Bierman (1998) argued that their participants should be pitied for having to do such a range of boring and strenuous tests while tripping, a burden unlikely to be imposed in modern research. Parker (1975) also criticized the study for promoting a scientific methodology at the expense of interpersonal factors. Furthermore, Asperen de Boer et al. made little account for the methodological shortcomings of the psilocybin condition, even though they reported that more than half of the psilocybin participants, mostly drug novices, were distracted by their visions. The authors did note, however, that there may have been some order effects because the psilocybin condition always occurred after the control condition. Of the five participants who completed two control trials, four did worse in the second trial, possibly indicating fatigue effects independently of the drug. Asperen de Boer et al. also reported briefly on a previous series of more promising unpublished psychometry trials with LSD that were conducted prior to switching to the psilocybin, which they considered to be less distracting. Out of several LSD participants some exceptionally accurate accounts of object reading where given, for which Kappers (1983) later suggested only a paranormal explanation seemed possible.

4.2.2 Other clairvoyance experiments. Perhaps the first psychedelic ESP experiment was conducted by the French researcher Rouhier who gave mescaline to six subjects, one of whom temporarily developed very detailed and accurate clairvoyant abilities and was able to describe the contents of a nearby room (Rouhier, 1925, 1927). The same sentiment was reported by the man who coined the term psychedelic, Humphry Osmond, after his own mescaline experiences in 1951. Osmond (1961) also reported that, in 1957, he and his fellow researcher Duncan Blewett, both under the influence of mescaline, successfully transmitted telepathic information in an informal experiment to such a degree that an independent observer became acutely panicky at the uncanniness of the event, though, unfortunately, no formal experiment with a larger sample is reported.

Using the more popular substances of the 1960s, Cavanna and Servadio (1964) reported extensively on a repeated-measures clairvoyance design with the alternate

use of LSD and psilocybin in what was primarily an ideographic, psychoanalytic study. In a series of three control, five psilocybin, and four LSD trials, three participants performed in a single-blind (water placebo) free-response clairvoyance test. In each trial there were 10 targets of combined, yet incongruous, elements (e.g., a foot with an eye), which Parker (1975) unduly criticized for being improbable. Only one participant had a positive attitude towards psi phenomena and all were inexperienced with psychedelics. Participants were given low doses of LSD (40, 50, and 75 micrograms) and psilocybin (10 mg), much criticized by Blewett (1965) for failing to consider the possible dose-dependent nature of psychedelic-induced ESP. Yet despite the low doses and extensive psychological screening one participant had an anxiety attack in the first LSD session, which the authors attributed to demand characteristics expressed through the anxiety and anticipation of the experimenters.

The participants’ mentations were rated for correspondences by three experimenters and then independently by two blind judges, with reasonable correspondence between the judging groups, though Blewett (1965) argued otherwise. Compared to the control conditions, the blind judges’ results with both the LSD and psilocybin showed a clear improvement in ESP ability, with some accurate correspondence with about one in five of the targets for both drugs. Notably, no success at all was achieved in the three control conditions, though unfortunately no estimation of the probability of the results was given, nor were inferential statistical analyses possible because the design had no decoy targets in the judging process, as duly criticized by Smythies (1965). Although the results are positive, caution is raised concerning any inferences drawn from so few trials. Cavanna and Servadio (1964) suggested that further research should make use of: stronger emotional targets, greater emphasis on interpersonal relations, and use of free association rather than interview.

A study of some indirect relevance investigated the effects of low-dose LSD (65 micrograms) on apparent subliminal perception with five participants (Freidman & Fisher, 1960). Participants were shown a bold image faded out below the subjective threshold of (conscious) discrimination with several layers of paper and presented after a blank control image in repeated trials. Analysis of free-response descriptions of the hidden image by independent judges revealed that participants gave significantly more accurate descriptions of the target


in the experimental condition under the influence of LSD compared to the control condition, and that these participants also performed significantly better with LSD in the experimental condition than they had done six weeks previously without LSD. The results were interpreted as indicating the enhancement of subliminal perception with LSD; however, they might also be due, partly or wholly, to the enhancement of ESP with LSD. This is because the design mimics an ESP-study design in protocol, and there is some evidence to suggest that ESP is an active factor in subliminal perception research (Stanford, 1990). Alternatively the results may be due to poor methodology, such as order effects, quasi-experimental design, and expectation or other bias due to the lack of blind controls across all conditions and the repeated use of the same subliminal target image. Furthermore, according to Cheesman and Merikle (1986), the mere perception of information from between the subjective and objective threshold, as in this study, is not strictly subliminal perception, but unconscious perception.

Based upon earlier recommendations to avoid boring and repetitive test procedures with participants under the influence of psychedelics, a series of pilot ganzfeld experiments with cannabis (marijuana) and psilocybin were conducted (Wezelman & Bierman, 1997; Bierman, 1998). In the first series, Wezelman and Bierman utilized a no-sender auto-ganzfeld set-up with 40 participants pre-selected for experience with marijuana. In a randomized crossover design, participants performed two trials each, one self-dosing marijuana condition and a control condition. All but four participants, who became nauseous and dropped out after the first session, completed both trials. A planned mixture of subject judging or external judging was used. The control condition had a hit rate of 15% (MCE = 25%) compared to 30% for the marijuana condition, and Bierman (1998) noted that the score for the marijuana condition was mainly due to the external judges, particularly one experimenter-judge who was also using marijuana. However, scores for the experimental group were not significantly different from MCE.

Wezelman and Bierman (1997) also reported on findings from a no-sender ganzfeld pilot-study conducted with six psilocybin-experienced participants performing two trials each under the influence of psilocybin. There was no control condition. Utilizing a buddy system to deter bad trips, pairs of receivers performed the

ganzfeld together. With only subject judging this time, participants in the psilocybin group scored 7 direct hits out of 12 trials (58%), a figure that even with only a few trials is significantly deviant from MCE (p < .05), although uncorrected for a stacking effect (see Milton & Wiseman, 1997, p. 93).

4.2.3 Telepathy experiments. Bierman (1998) continued with the previous work, this time in a telepathy design using a within-subjects control condition with 20 psilocybin-experienced participants who each performed one control and one psilocybin ganzfeld trial with a sober sender. Participants in the psilocybin condition scored at chance (25%), whereas in the control condition they performed slightly below (20%), with no significant difference between the two. However, a post hoc analysis of the results for negative and positive clips revealed an interaction between target emotionality and drug state, with a much higher hit rate for positive clips (44%) than negative clips (8%) in the psilocybin condition and a reversal of this effect in the control condition. This interaction was explained in terms of psilocybin participants possibly detecting the positive ESP targets, but blocking the negative images to deter bad trips, given that participants were tripping alone this time; however, the reverse effects for the control condition are not as easily explicable. Bierman interpreted this result as suggesting that psychoactive drugs affect psi performance and that target emotionality and the psychological set of the participant may interact to alter the results. It is also worth noting that ganzfeld experiments with psychoactive drugs are likely to induce a unique, possibly combined, state of consciousness, unlike the usual drug or ganzfeld experience alone, given that the ganzfeld environment is considered by many scholars to already induce a unique kind of ASC (e.g., Wackerman et al., 2000). However, this idea needs further verification.

Coming from the field of psychedelic experimentation rather than parapsychology, towards which they reported being skeptical, Masters and Houston (1966) conducted a series of ESP experiments in which they demonstrated a much greater degree than their contemporaries of familiarity with the effects of the drugs being used. They provided an experienced trip guide, with whom most participants were familiar, and utilized experienced trippers as participants. The study had 62 receivers, with their guide as the sender of the 10 static image targets, and only the receiver


under the influence of LSD. Using independent judges, the majority of the 62 receivers (77%) gave free-recall responses approximating the target at least 2/10 times, with five of these participants approximating the target image 7/10 or 8/10 times. The remaining 14 participants (23%), who performed worse, were either unknown to the guide, anxious, or primarily interested in their own personal psychological narrative rather than the ESP task, though these observations may be post hoc. Sometimes, receiver statements also matched non-target thoughts of the sender. But Parker (1975) noted that non-verbal communication from the guide could not be ruled out. Once again, no estimation of the probability of describing the target image is known, because no decoy images were used in the judging process and no comparison was made to a control condition to establish if LSD actually improved scores. Nevertheless, accuracy rates were similar to those reported in the clairvoyance procedure of the same nature by Cavanna and Servadio (1964), where LSD and psilocybin scores exceeded those in control conditions. Cavanna and Servadio further reported an exploratory sender-receiver telepathy design with one LSD trial and one control, where only the receiver took LSD. The results indicated accurate comparisons in approximately one in three of the targets for LSD, with a rate of only one in ten for the no-drug control condition.

Following up from a previous forced-choice ayahuasca ESP study (Tinoco, 1994), Tinoco (2011) conducted a free response task in 1995 with three participants under the influence of ayahuasca acting as senders and receivers in a telepathy-type task. No use of decoy targets was made in the judging procedure, nevertheless three independent judges concluded that there was no correlation between the target and the response in any of the 15 trials; however, no exact probability of getting a hit can be calculated with this method, and the interpretations of the judges are subjective. Furthermore, no control group was used for comparison, it is not clear how the targets for sending were initially chosen, and participants complained that they were not getting any visual imagery and, as with the two previous ayahuasca studies, that the task was boring in such a state.

Finally, Puharich (1962) followed up his earlier success at clairvoyance with Amanita muscaria with a demonstration for four Los Angeles news reporters, who also acted as participants and who were either skeptical or

hostile towards the idea of drug-induced psi. The design relied on a computer-recorded random number-series guessing task with a non-drugged sender elsewhere, though where was not specified so sensory leakage cannot be ruled out. Participants scored at chance in the control condition (35 hits in 297 trials, nonsignificant) and after ingestion of A. muscaria repeated the test (average 40 mins. later) and made a combined score of 65 hits in 432 trials (p < .005). Scoring returned to chance after two and half hours, as they had in the previous clairvoyance experiment, although participants still reported feeling that their intuition was active. Puharich (1962) attributed the results to the neurochemical action of cholinergia heightening the ESP function by activating the parasympathetic functions (slow heart rate, etc.) indicative of the trance state. However, this explanation is somewhat erroneous because the psychoactive principles in A. muscaria—muscimol and ibotenic acid—can both calm and stimulate the central nervous system, respectively, whereas the cholinergic chemical, muscarine, is now known to be only a trace and psychologically inactive constituent of the mushroom (Michelot & Melendez-Howell, 2003). There is also the possibility that optional stopping occurred in this latter experiment as indicated by the different number of trials in the control and experimental conditions, and Krippner (2006a) also raised concern that Puharich’s research, as with Masters and Houston (1966), was reported in a self-authored book rather than a peer-reviewed journal. 4.3 Summary of Experimental Research Due to the exploratory nature of most of these experiments, it is difficult to fully assess their efficacy using psychedelics to produce ESP (no PK experiments having been attempted). In most cases this could have largely been improved with an adequate control condition without order effects (Palmer, 1978), and the blind use of decoy targets in the judging process. Procedures using subjective probability estimates by experimenters (such as Asperen de Boer et al., 1966) are now virtually obsolete in parapsychology because they are so difficult to assess and are prone to bias (Parker, 1975). In the one ESP-card experiment to use a control condition, scores in the psilocybin condition were significantly different from chance and were also superior to the control condition, although not significantly (Asperen de Boer et al., 1966). Nevertheless, it is apparent that those experiments using ESP-card type symbol guessing procedures were largely unsuccessful compared to chance expectation.


The use of the symbol-guessing procedure has been widely criticized for being far too mundane under the influence of psychedelics (Grof, 1980; Masters & Houston, 1966; Pahnke, 1971; Parker, 1975; Rogo, 1976; Stafford & Golightly, 1967; Smythies, 1960; Tart, 1968; Whittlesey, 1960). Even so, using Amanita muscaria, Puharich (1962) demonstrated that forced-choice procedures could be successful with picture-sorting tasks. More engaging, free-response procedures have demonstrated at least some success in all but one of the studies that have used psychometry, although rarely with any control condition for comparison. A clearer indication of possible psychedelic-induced ESP, even at times in comparison to a control condition, comes overall from the clairvoyance and telepathy designs, except for the Asperen de Boer et al. (1964), Tinoco (2011), and the marijuana ganzfeld studies (Wezelman & Bierman, 1997). Replication, however, is needed and, in some cases, with better methodology and pre-planned analyses. It remains curious that no formal explicit experiments with precognition or PK have been performed, particularly the former because powers of divination are traditionally attributed to many plant psychedelics.

5. Methodological Critique of Experimental Research

When consideration is given to what has been learned from these largely pilot studies, experimenters and commentators alike have highlighted the difficulties involved in attempting to test for psi with participants who have taken a psychedelic. Aspirin de Boer et al. (1964) suggested that the participant’s willingness to perform in the task was important, but given that participants have difficulty maintaining alertness, self-control, focus, interest, and orientation to the task (Edge, Morris, Palmer, & Rush, 1986; Millay, 2001; Rogo, 1976), it seems much more important to consider the participant’s “capability” to perform in the experiment rather than their mere willingness. Parker (1975) notes that a participant’s increased sensitivity to subtle influences under psychedelics is both a boon and a bane to research. Indeed, using psychedelics to induce psi is a double-edged sword, namely all of the reasons cited in the introduction that make such research alluring also make participants poor test subjects. This is because participants may become engrossed in the experience (Rogo, 1982), the aesthetic rapture (Osis, 1961a; Smythies, 1960), the quest

for philosophical knowledge (Osis, 1961a), a deep soul-searching self-examination (Blewett, 1963), one’s own personal drama (Millay, 2001; Parker, 1975), and the flow of thoughts (Ryzl, 1968). In addition, participants may have difficulty communicating because of the lack of adequate language (Lilly, 1969), the overwhelming flood of ideas and emotions (Ryzl, 1968) and the speed of change of the internal experience (Blewett, 1961b, 1963). The experience of dissociation (e.g., with ketamine) can also hinder communication when participants become no longer present or aware of their physical environment and, as Huxley (1961b) pointed out, there is a need to assure participants of their identity once constructs of space and time disappear. Blewett (1961a) further warned of other unwanted psychological reactions that may occur if participants attempt to either escape from or rationalize their experience.

However, it is apparent that these obstacles to research may be greatly alleviated or even eliminated if participants are experienced with the use of psychedelics (Blewett, 1963; Parker, 1975; Tart, 1977). Indeed, about a quarter of inexperienced participants are expected to have intense spontaneous mystical experiences during their first trip (Wulff, 1997, 2000). Yet, very few of the studies reviewed here (only Bierman, 1998; Masters & Houston, 1966; Wezelman & Bierman, 1997) specifically reported the use of participants experienced with these psychedelics, although it is worth noting that those that did were relatively more successful than those that used inexperienced participants. Further to this, it has been suggested that experienced psychedelic participants can be better trained to stabilize their experience (Millay, 2001; Tart, 1977) and may even naturally train themselves to stabilize experiences through repeated use (Levine, 1968). Regardless of training, it has been strongly advised that participants be allowed to stabilize their experience before testing begins (Blewett, 1963, 1965; Millay, 2001; Parker, 1975; Tart, 1977). Pahnke (1968) further recommended an 8- to 12-hour pre-dose preparation period when working with terminal cancer patients, although Ludwig (in Tart, 1968) questioned the necessity of this in a parapsychological context.

Stabilization of the experience may even be expedited by inducing hypnosis prior to drug administration (Parker, 1975; Tart, 1968) in what has been called the “hypnodelic” state (e.g., see Levine & Ludwig, 1965; Ludwig 1968; Tart, 1967). Alternatively, Ryzl (1968) reported re-inducing LSD states through


hypnosis, as is also reported elsewhere, although it was uncertain how successful this was (Ludwig, 1968), though success inducing other drug states (e.g., MDMA, heroin) has also been reported (Hastings, 2006; Hastings et al., 2000; Ludwig & Lyle, 1964). Similarly, Farber (2000) has described the successful re-induction of psychedelic states using hypnotic anchoring techniques available in neuro-linguistic programming. Perhaps, the entire psychedelic experience can be stabilized and anchored during test trips with experienced users and then later re-induced, with or without hypnosis, so that no psychedelics are actually taken during the test procedure. Testing for psi under such “controlled flashbacks” may overcome most of the stipulated problems, and have the added advantage of investigating Rogo’s (1976) question of whether it is the neurochemical action of the drugs or the state induced that can seemingly produce psi.

Although some researchers (Halliday, 1961; Nicol & Nicol, 1961; Paterson, 1961a; Smythies 1960; Tart in Levine, 1968) suggest that using good psi scorers, psychics, and mediums in drug studies would improve scoring, Eileen Garrett (1961b) noted that although LSD enhanced her mediumistic experience it would not improve forced choice test-scores. Echoing this, the Osis (1961a) experiment has shown that using mediums did not prove any more successful than the use of normal participants in the other psychometry experiments. This was probably due to all the problems mentioned already that occur more with inexperienced psychedelic users, indicating that sample selection should primarily seek to select experienced users over psi-effective participants, although, presumably, ideal participants would be both, though not necessarily.

Considering aspects of timing, several authors have offered advice, though no formal studies have been conducted. Both Ryzl (1968) and Grof (1980) suggested that the optimum period for testing psi during the LSD session was towards the end when the effects were leveling off, as in the Masters and Houston (1966) experiments, yet Pahnke (1971) disagreed. From extensive personal experience, Copley (1962) suggested testing for ESP once the trip had finished. As regards to the duration of the psi-task, rather than the extended test periods favored by some researchers (e.g., Asperen de Boer et al., 1964; Tinoco, 1995), Osis (1961a) suggested 20 minutes should be the maximum for optimum performance.

Some consideration has also been given to the optimal substance. Pahnke (1971) recommended

combining stimulants with psychedelics, whereas Asperen de Boer et al. (1966) chose psilocybin over LSD, due to it being milder, with which Cavanna and Servadio (1964) agreed. Indeed, LSD has a much longer duration of action than psilocybin and as Blewett (1963) noted, 10-hour trips are hard to staff. Ryzl (1968) also questioned the utility of LSD in psychedelic psi testing and proposed that the ideal substance, if it can be synthesized, should inhibit cortical activity to suppress the stream of thoughts, depress sub-cortical activity to block incoming stimuli and excite spheres of the cortex involved in ESP production, yet maintain rational insight, and increase suggestibility. However, such a designer drug is far in the future, though such psychochemical engineering may one day be possible (Brown, 2012b); moreover, there are an increasing number of ethnobotanical substances becoming known that have traditionally been used for psychic purposes, which have not yet been thoroughly tested, or even tested at all (e.g., Salvia divinorum).

Tart (1993) further suggested that marijuana was an ideal substance for psi experimentation because of its wide familiarity within the public, its mild psychedelic qualities and its reputed ability to induce psi, experientially at least. Puharich’s (1962) apparent repeated success with Amanita muscaria also needs replicating. Furthermore, other non-psychedelic chemical psi research, such as de Pablos’ (2002) unsuccessful first-person precognitive-dream drug-study, could also be replicated with the use of psychedelic substances that have actually been reported to induce psi in dreams. For instance, there are reports of precognitive dreams, by both traditional users and by modern consciousness researchers, with substances such as Calea zacatechichi (Devereaux, 1997; Díaz 1979; Mayagoitia, Díaz, & Contreras, 1986), Silene capensis (Hirst, 2000, 2005; Sobiecki, 2008, 2012), and tree datura (Brugmansia; Metzner, 1992; Schultes & Hofmann, 1992). Other substances seem best suited to other experimental designs too, for example, telepathy-like experiments might also benefit from the empathogenic effect of substances like MDMA, as the one participant under its influence in a remote detection experiment did exceedingly well (Brown, 2012a). The use of a placebo in a double-blind or blind control condition, as in Cavanna and Servadio (1964), is of questionable utility in this type of experiment because at anything less than sub-threshold doses the participant is likely to easily detect the effects of the drug; nevertheless, researchers should be aware that placebo drug effects


have been demonstrated in ESP research when coupled with positive false feedback on task performance (Pitman & Owens, 2004).

Several researchers have also commented on the importance of dosage (e.g., Braud, 2002; Levine, 1968). Blewett (1961b) warned that giving participants low doses of LSD may not be sufficient to break through the barrier between the normal and the full-blown psychedelic state and can be merely disorientating rather than transformative, and he later suggested that doses up to 1,500 micrograms of LSD (a very large dose) need investigating, because ESP might be dose dependent (Blewett, 1965). Support for this logic is also evident in escalating dose research with DMT (Strassman, 2001). It is additionally advised that experienced participants control their own dosage (Tart, 1977), as in the experiment by Wezelman and Bierman (1997). Participant’s self-reports of the depth of the altered state were also considered better than dosages as indicators of subjective effects (Tart, 1977). Self reports using the Hallucinogenic Rating Scale were also considered better indicators of dosage than physiological measures (Strassman, Qualls, Uhlenhuth, & Kellner, 1994), though the use of a scale of transpersonal experience, such as the Self-Expansiveness Level Form (Friedman, 1983; Pappas & Friedman, 2007), would also likely be fruitful in discerning the relevant depth of the psychedelic ASC. Furthermore, some researchers (e.g., Parker, 1975; Tart 1968, 1977) have noted that the issue of dosage is largely irrelevant in comparison to the influence of the psychological factors of set and setting, as originally noted in psychedelic research by Leary, Litwin, and Metzner (1963). In discussion of this, Vayne (2001) suggested that the influence of psychological factors on psychoactive drugs can vary their effects so much that the drug can be thought of primarily as an experience, composed of set, setting, and substance.

Factors considered important in determining psychological set include the participants’ expectations, attitudes towards themselves, idiosyncratic perceptions, and emotional orientation to the experiment (Levine, 1968; Tart, 1968). It is also deemed imperative to engender a sense of self-surrender, acceptance, and trust (Blewett, 1963). Factors considered important in determining psychological setting include those that are ordinarily considered under demand characteristics (Parker, 1975; Tart, 1968, 1977), particularly the experimenter’s attitude, which should be warm, friendly,

and supportive (Blewett, 1963). Psychological issues induced through interpersonal relations within the laboratory become magnified when participants are on psychedelics (Blewett, 1963; Parker, 1975). Cavanna and Servadio (1964) highlighted this when one of their participants had an anxiety attack concurrent with their own anxiety, which led them to advise that the experimenters themselves should be experienced users of the psychedelic substance under investigation, as also advised by Strassman (2001). Tart (1968) also recommended that the experimenter should guide the experience towards the goal of the study, and has criticized previous work for assuming psychedelic states automatically induce psi, because, as noted by Tart, Osmond, and Beloff (in Levine, 1968), and Puharich (1959), in traditional scenarios the shamans who use these substances usually have extensive training and experience. It is further suggested that the experimental task be shaped to the state of the participant, not vice versa (Tart, 1977), and utilize the strong motivation, directed awareness, and complex ritual that is found in shamanism (Copley, 1962; Grof, 1980; Tart, 1968). Grob and Harman (1995) have also urged the integration of aspects from shamanic practices into scientific procedure so that there is attentiveness to factors of set and setting, such as intention, expectation, preparation, group identification, and formalized structure, as well as the integration of the experience in the following months. Indeed a multi-method approach to studying psychedelic shamanic practices is advised, so that ethnography can inform suitable experimentation (Giesler, 1984, 1985; Luke, 2010a). Nevertheless, Storm and Rock (2011) pointed out that, in psi research with psychedelics, researchers need to be aware of the difference between shamanic techniques and merely shamanic-like techniques; for example, the latter may lack the purpose of serving one’s community. Furthermore, Tart (1977) has recommended the implementation of mutual research, where participants are considered as co-investigators, to reduce experimenter bias and enhance a sense of participation, trust, and motivation.

6. General Summary and Conclusions

Even though the subjective paranormal experiences, clinical observations and anthropological reports are

subject to all the usual criticisms and rebuttals that apply to non-experimental cases (e.g., see Stokes, 1997) there is a growing body of reports, rooted in thousands of years of


traditional psychedelic use, that supports the notion that genuine paranormal phenomena do occur. Nevertheless, as evidence this data is not scientifically rigorous, yet it has great value in mapping the phenomenological terrain of paranormal experiences with psychedelics. This body of reports is further supported by correlations from surveys linking psychedelic use with the increased reporting of paranormal experiences and belief in the paranormal, although again, self-reports have more phenomenological merit than evidential value. Furthermore, even though it can be considered little more than exploratory at this stage, the experimental evidence is more positive than not and proves promising so far, illuminating both methodological pitfalls and possibilities.

It is apparent that parapsychopharmacology is a multidisciplinary endeavor pooling expertise from anthropology, ethnobotany, phytochemistry, neurobiology, psychopharmacology, psychiatry, psychotherapy, transpersonal psychology, and indeed parapsychology. It also owes much to the non-academic explorers of consciousness, be they shamans, occultists, or psychonauts. It is a branch of research that is still very much in its infancy, and, along with other fields conducting research with the use of psychedelics, has been operating very quietly since the late sixties until a gentle turn in the tide during the last decade or so has seen experimental research resumed (see Grob & Harman, 1995). Nevertheless, further experimental research continues to need strict ethical and often governmental approval before it can proceed, requiring lengthy applications (see McKenna, 2004; Strassman, 2001). Several years ago, Tart (1977) recommended bypassing these difficulties by casually enrolling participants who were already using psychedelics, rather than having the experimenter administering the substances directly. An example of this kind of experiment involved several thousand Grateful Dead fans, renowned for their psychedelic consumption, who acted as senders in a series of dream telepathy experiments with some success (Krippner, 1999; Krippner, Honorton, & Ullman, 1973; Roberts, 2004). Indeed, taking what Giesler (1984, 1985) calls a psi-in-process approach and keeping naturalistic variables intact, group experiments may be one way to access the kind of group telepathy experiences that people tripping in groups sometimes report (e.g., Grey, 2007; Nuttal, 1970; Stevens, 1989; Wolfe, 1971), especially on DXM (Luke & Kittenis, 2005). However, without the grounded and controlled atmosphere of a concert or shamanic ceremony, psychedelic group ESP experiments

run the risk of turning into bacchanalian scenes, as once witnessed by Puharich’s wife (Hermans, 1998).

However, now resumed, direct parapsychological research with psychedelics needs expanding beyond the Netherlands and Brazil—the only place where experimental psi-chedelic research has been conducted since the 1970s—and treating these substances like any other drug worthy of investigation within a medical or therapeutic context has recently proven a fruitful means of inquiry for many researchers (Doblin, 2004; Grob & Harman, 1995), although psi research does not readily attract such funding at the present time. Nevertheless, it should be noted that psychedelics are considered as sacramentals by the spiritual and religious groups that use them and they must be utilized and researched with respect. It is also clear that besides trying to replicate the promising free-response studies, further experimental psychedelic research should utilize protocols that maximize psi effects, and this work can then simultaneously enhance process research methodology by indicating optimal conditions for psi through the psychologically magnifying effects of these substances. For instance, Bierman’s (1998) psychedelic psi research may have revealed the apparent psychic blocking of negative images, and, from earlier experiments, forced-choice tasks are clearly too mundane. Research should also seek to study these substances in the shamanic context in which they have most effectively been used, designing appropriate test protocols for traditional settings. A recent example of which is Hirukawa et al.’s (2006) apparently successful demonstration of psi using a field random event generator in an ayahuasca ritual with the Santo Daime church in Brazil.

Additionally, following in the footsteps of William James, there has already been some return to self-experimentation with psychoactive drugs by de Pablos (2002, 2004), who has developed a viable protocol for testing one’s own precognitive dreaming abilities with drugs, which might easily be adapted to waking experimentation as well. All experimental research should also be designed and conducted with an appreciative consideration of Tart’s proposals for the creation of state-specific sciences (Tart, 1972, 1998, 2000, 2001). In the future, parapsychologists might ask their participants about their drug use, and researchers investigating the use of psychedelics might once more include questions relating to paranormal experiences (e.g., Echenhofer, 2005). Furthermore, with an ever


growing number of substances being discovered and a large natural data pool of psychedelic users, there is a need for more thorough and focused phenomenological research that investigates and identifies the types of paranormal experience that occur through the use of each of these diverse psychedelic substances (Luke, 2004a, 2004b, 2004c; Luke & Kittenis, 2005).

Finally, there is much that can be offered to transpersonal studies from the investigation of parapsychopharmacology, and vice versa. Certainly it is clear that no study of the extraordinary phenomena of the psychedelic state would be complete without the insights and perspective of transpersonal psychology. Indeed, many of the exceptional experiences encountered with psychedelics involve parapsychological elements and yet they also go beyond the ordinary scope of parapsychology into the wider transpersonal realms (Luke, 2012b), such as entity encounters (e.g., Luke, 2011b) and profound mystical experiences (Luke & Kittenis, 2005). It is also somewhat inevitable then that this course of research is as likely to culminate in transformation for the researcher as it is in evidence for the genuine existence or otherwise of psychedelically induced paranormal phenomena (Luke, 2011c). It is also illuminating at this point to consider this research in terms of Tart’s (2002) evaluation of these related fields of enquiry, where parapsychology is to transpersonal psychology what physics is to engineering: One researches the fundamental technical nature of the subject matter so that the other may apply it. In the current case a great deal can be learned, as Tart reminds, about the fundamental nature of mind through the study of parapsychology and—by looking to the psychedelic dimension—about the neurochemical mediation of exceptional aspects of consciousness in particular. Ultimately, however, it is down to transpersonal psychologists how they use this knowledge and apply it, though, fortunately, the history here tells us that wisdom usually prevails.

Acknowledgements

This research was initially supported by a grant from the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (www.maps.org). The author would like to thank Stanley Krippner, Marios Kittenis, Debra Weiner, Nicola Holt, Harris Friedman, and Adam Rock for their help in the preparation of this manuscript. Earlier drafts of parts of this manuscript appeared in Luke (2008b) and Luke and Friedman (2010).

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About the Author

David Luke, PhD, is Senior Lecturer in Psychology at the University of Greenwich where he teaches an undergraduate course on the Psychology of Exceptional Human Experience, focusing on his two main research interests of psychedelics and the paranormal. David is also a guest lecturer at the University of Northampton for the M.Sc. program in Transpersonal Psychology and Consciousness Studies, and is past president of the Parapsychological Association. Since 2008 he has directed the Ecology, Cosmos and Consciousness lecture series at the October Gallery in London and is one of the core organizers of the biennial Breaking Convention: A Multidisciplinary Conference on Psychedelic Consciousness. He sits on the council of the Society for Psychical Research and, along with Nicola


Holt, Christine Simmonds-Moore and Chris French, he is author of the book Anomalistic Psychology (Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).

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