The Limits of Words

Mysticism, Language and the Ineffable

Oct 15, 2024

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Mystical experiences defy language.

They stretch beyond the confines of words, pulling us toward something deeper, something ultimate—something we feel but cannot fully articulate. Yet, across cultures and centuries, mystics have tried to convey the ineffable. It’s a pursuit I’ve found both inspiring and maddening, especially within the traditions I’ve immersed myself in: Hinduism and Buddhism. Both offer profound, yet seemingly contradictory, views of reality that have shaped my spiritual path since my teenage years.

I’ve long been captivated by Nagarjuna, one of my favorite mystic philosophers. His exploration of Sunyata—emptiness—has resonated with me from the moment I encountered it. The idea that everything, including the self, is devoid of intrinsic essence challenges the very foundation of how we see the world. It flips conventional understanding on its head, forcing us to confront the unsettling notion that nothing has inherent meaning. And yet, this emptiness, in its Buddhist form, isn’t a void to fear but a liberating realization that things aren’t fixed; they’re in constant flux.

But here’s where the tension lies, and this tension has haunted me for years.

After spending so much time in both Hindu and Buddhist thought, I’m still not certain about the fundamental nature of reality. Hinduism’s concept of Brahman—the ultimate reality, the essence of all that exists—is compelling and comforting. It suggests there is something eternal and divine that connects everything, including my own individual essence, my Atman. But Buddhism tells me a different story, equally compelling but less comforting. It teaches that no such ultimate self exists; everything is empty, and clinging to the idea of an eternal self is part of what keeps us trapped in suffering.

So, I ask myself: is there really a singular, eternal reality, a God, as Hinduism suggests? Or is the Buddhist perspective right—that there is no inherent self, and everything is ultimately empty? This question has been the driving force behind much of my spiritual and philosophical exploration. It’s also the reason I’m so fascinated by ineffability. Both traditions touch on truths that evade intellectual understanding. They offer pathways to the ultimate, but both tell us that language, with all its limitations, is not enough to fully grasp the divine or the empty.

In the Upanisads, Brahman is described as beyond thought and words. The only way to point toward it is through negation, through metaphor, through paradox. It’s not something that can be fully expressed, only hinted at. Similarly, Buddhist texts on emptiness, like Nagarjuna’s "Seventy Verses on Emptiness," tell us that language can’t capture the truth. We’re left with riddles, paradoxes, and the uneasy realization that any attempt to pin down ultimate reality will slip through our fingers.

This question—whether the ultimate reality is something or nothing—has stayed with me since my spiritual awakening, which was partly sparked by psychedelics and partly by these mystical traditions. And I’m not sure it’s a question I’ll ever fully resolve. In simpler terms, I guess it comes down to: is there a God, or not?

Is there a singular, eternal truth, or is everything just empty?

Yet, it’s this very unresolvability that keeps me coming back to Zen. Zen doesn’t offer any neat answers, nor does it bother with long-winded explanations. It just says: stop thinking, stop asking, just be and know it all in the here and now. There’s a certain peace in that simplicity and directness. Zen doesn’t concern itself with the metaphysical debate between Brahman and Sunyata. Instead, it invites me to sit quietly, breathe deeply, and find contentment in the unknowing.

Around a decade ago, I stumbled upon The Cloud of Unknowing, a Christian mystical text that has deeply influenced my journey toward Zen. It’s remarkable how similar the Cloud’s emphasis on surrendering intellectual understanding is to Zen’s approach, even though the Christian path focuses more on love than the stark simplicity of Zen. The Cloud teaches that true knowledge of God isn’t something we can think our way to; it requires letting go of thought altogether. This idea of “unknowing” mirrors my experience with ineffability—Hinduism and Zen both push me beyond the intellect, beyond the need for answers, toward a kind of surrender. It’s as if peace lies not in knowing but in accepting that some mysteries will always remain out of reach.

And this brings me back to the tension I can’t seem to shake: is it possible to reconcile the Hindu idea of Brahman—this ultimate reality—with the Buddhist teaching of emptiness? Is the notion of ineffability itself pointing to a deeper truth—that reality might be both something and nothing at once, beyond all attempts to capture it with words? Or does ineffability simply highlight the limitations of language, while the deeper truths remain knowable, if only we could step beyond our verbal constraints?

These questions keep circling back to the ineffable. Language fails, but it’s still the best tool we have. Through riddles, paradox, and poetry, mystics throughout history have wrestled with words, trying to describe what cannot be described. Hinduism, Buddhism, Zen, and even Christian mysticism all lead us to the same realization: at some point, words will fail. But the journey toward understanding, the journey toward the divine—or emptiness—isn’t about finding the right words. It’s about embracing the mystery, the paradox, the space where knowing turns into unknowing.

Perhaps that’s where the answer lies—not in reconciling these two perspectives, but in accepting that they don’t need to be reconciled. Maybe, in the end, it’s not about choosing between something or nothing, but about realizing that the ultimate truth might be something beyond both.