Deep Meditation: How to Enter Higher States of Consciousness

When people say, “I want to meditate more deeply,” they’re usually not looking for just one more technique. They’re looking for that subtle threshold—the moment when the mind doesn’t simply “calm down,” but seems to shift into a different mode. The breath grows quieter. The body becomes pleasantly heavy. Thoughts still pass through, but they no longer demand attention. And somewhere beyond the familiar noise, a sense of space appears. Some describe it as silence. Others as clarity. And some as the feeling that they’ve reached a different level of consciousness.

Deep meditation isn’t a race for “more unusual” experiences. It’s more like the art of returning to a place that has always been there—but one you rarely visit, because something “more important” is always making noise in the foreground. And the most interesting part is this: the less you chase it, the more easily it happens.

Imagine your mind as a lake. At first, the water is stirred up—memories, plans, tasks, inner dialogues, worries. If you try to “push” it into becoming perfectly still, you’ll only create more waves. But if you sit on the shore and stop throwing stones, the lake gradually settles on its own. Deep meditation begins right here: not with a fight, but with a refusal to keep feeding the waves.

The first key to going deeper is preparation—as a message to yourself: “It’s safe to relax now.” That’s why the place matters. What matters most isn’t that it’s special, but that it’s quiet enough. Softer light. A comfortable temperature. Your phone out of reach of “just a quick check.” Once you start entering meditation, it shouldn’t be interrupted.

Then comes the body. Many people try to meditate as if they’re “mind only,” but the doorway to higher states rarely opens when the body is tense. You don’t need complicated practices. It’s enough to let your body “settle into place”: relax the jaw, let the shoulders loosen, allow the belly to soften. Feel the weight of your body on the chair or the floor—as if you’re telling yourself, “There’s no need for tension. I can let go.”

Breathing is often the bridge. It’s the fastest language the body understands when there’s no danger. If you simply lengthen the exhale—without forcing it—the mind begins to follow a deeper logic. You breathe, and it’s as if something in you draws inward. Your pulse becomes more even. And attention, which just a moment ago was scattered across countless thoughts, gradually begins to shift into another kind of state of consciousness.

This is where the moment happens that confuses so many people: instead of trying to “stop your thoughts,” you learn to let them pass. The difference is enormous. When you try to stop them, you enter an argument with the mind. And the mind loves arguments—it’s its favorite sport. But when you simply notice the thoughts and don’t follow them, they begin to lose their weight. They become like clouds: they’re there, but they aren’t “you.” And the less importance you give them, the more naturally the silence between them opens.

Deep meditation has a paradox of its own: the more you strive for a particular experience, the more things refuse to happen the way you expect. It’s like trying to fall asleep—if you tell yourself, “I have to fall asleep right now,” your body tightens and sleep runs away. But if you tell yourself, “Okay, I’m going to rest, and whatever happens, happens,” you fall asleep. It’s the same here. Higher states of consciousness don’t arrive as a reward for effort. They come as a natural result of relaxation and presence.

This is the most suitable state for practices of spiritual self-improvement and growth. But if you approach meditation as if you’re taking an exam, all you’ll create is tension. When you see meditation as a way of building inner wholeness, it becomes a path of development. And it’s in this relationship that lasting change is born.

Finally, when you come out of meditation, don’t rush to “switch back on” into the world. A deep state is like water saturated with silence—if you jump straight into noise, it splashes and breaks apart. Give yourself a minute. Feel the room. Feel your body. And ask yourself one simple question: “What can I carry from this state into the next hour of my day?” Sometimes the answer is small—to speak more slowly, to listen more carefully, not to eat in a hurry, not to respond immediately. But it’s exactly these small carryovers that make meditation real, rather than a separate “activity.”

Deep meditation isn’t an escape upward. It’s a descent inward—into a quieter, clearer, freer layer of consciousness that has always been there. And once you’ve felt that layer, you start to understand something simple: the “higher” isn’t far away. It’s closer than your next thought.

Author: Noelle R. Hartwyn