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http://dx.doi.org/10.1037/14258-006Varieties of Anomalous Experience: Examining the Scientific Evidence, Second Edition, E. Cardeña, S. J. Lynn, and S. Krippner (Editors)Copyright © 2014 by the American Psychological Association. All rights reserved.

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I briefly looked back. The person following me did not look like an ordi-nary human being; he was as tall as a giant and reminded me of Rübezahl [a mountain spirit in German legend]. Now it was fully clear to me that I was undergoing a dream, and with a great sense of relief I continued running away. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I did not have to escape but was capable of doing something else. I remembered my plan of talking to other persons during the dream. So I stopped running, turned around, and allowed the pursuer to approach me. Then I asked him what it actually was that he wanted. His answer was: “How am I supposed to know?! After all, this is your dream and, moreover, you studied psychology and not me.” (Tholey, 1987, p. 97; translated in Metzinger, 2009, p. 146)

I remember going to bed with mind peacefully composed and full of a quiet joy. The dream during the night that followed was at the begin-ning quite irrational, though perhaps more keenly followed than usual.

LuCId drEAMING: PArAdoxES of drEAMING CoNSCIouSNESS

STEPHEN LABErGE

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I seemed to move smoothly through a region of space where, presently, a vivid sense of cold flowed in on me and held my attention with a strange interest.

I believe that at that moment the dream became lucid. Then sud-denly, . . . all that up to now had been wrapped in confusion instantly passed away, and a new space burst forth in vivid presence and utter reality, with perception free and pin-pointed as never before; the dark-ness itself seemed alive. The thought that was then borne in upon me with inescapable conviction was this: “I have never been awake before.” (Whiteman, 1961, p. 57)

dEfINITIoN

In everyday life, we do not ordinarily think about the fact that we are awake—assuming that we are awake, an issue the second of the two quotes above brings into question. Likewise, as a rule, we are not aware of the fact that we are dreaming while we are dreaming. We ordinarily experience our dreams as if they were taking place in physical reality and only recognize them as dreams after we awaken. However, there is a significant exception to this generalization: Sometimes, while dreaming, we are explicitly aware that we are dreaming. The experience of lucid dreaming, as this phenomenon is termed (Van Eeden, 1913), is clearly anomalous in comparison with the usual mildly delirious experience of nonlucid dreaming. The term lucid is used in the psychi-atric sense, indicating clear insight and correct orientation to reality as opposed to the clouded insight and deluded disorientation of the delirious.

Just as there are degrees of delirium, there are degrees of lucidity (Barrett, 1992; Kahan & LaBerge, 1994; LaBerge, 1985; LaBerge & deGracia, 2000). In the best of cases, lucid dreamers claim to be fully in possession of their cognitive faculties: They report being able to reason clearly, to remember the conditions of waking life, and to act (or not act) voluntarily upon reflection or in accordance with plans decided upon before sleep. At the same time, they remain soundly asleep, experiencing a dream world that can seem vividly real. In short, they experience themselves as if in a life space that can feel as real at the time as the rest of life (Globus, 1987).

The usual definition of lucid dreaming is simply dreaming while know-ing that one is dreaming (Green, 1968; LaBerge, 1985). Some researchers (e.g., Tart, 1984; Tholey, 1988) consider this minimal criterion too broad and argue that the term lucid dreaming should require additional features such as correct memory for the circumstances of waking life, a degree of control over the dream, the sense that one is experiencing an altered state of conscious-ness, and so on. However, there are practical reasons for preferring the simpler,

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minimalist definition. for example, in laboratory studies of lucid dreaming, memory for the fact that one is sleeping in the laboratory is relevant and essen-tial (LaBerge, 1990), but in other lucid dreams (Lds), the location where one is sleeping may be of no consequence whatever. Moreover, although dream control and dream awareness are correlated, neither requires the other (Kahan & LaBerge, 1994), and there is no requirement for a fully lucid dreamer to exercise control over the dream at all; one might, for instance, choose to lucidly observe the events of the dream without interference (LaBerge, 1985).

That said, the usual criterion for lucidity is somewhat vague in several ways. first, there are many different senses of “knowing,” so the kind of know-ing one has during an episode of lucid dreaming may be in question. Second, as suggested by the term episode, current usage calls an entire dream report “lucid” even if only a moment of actual lucidity occurs. These ambiguities may be a source of misunderstanding, as when researchers use an idiosyncratic definition that reflects their theoretical bias. for example, Hobson (2001) claimed: “This rare but learnable talent is usually called lucid dreaming and is most economi-cally defined as the bolstering of the self-reflective awareness that is normally diminished or absent in dreaming” (p. 93). Note the unjustified assumption that self-reflection is normally “diminished or absent” in rapid eye movement (rEM) dreaming, presumably in comparison with “the waking state.”

LaBerge (1985) distinguished two contrasting perspectives from which we experience our dreams and other states of consciousness: actor and observer. The actor perspective is how we ordinarily experience our dreams (and waking life)—as an actively involved participant within the dream (or waking) scene. In contrast, when we take the observer perspective, we are reflective, not identified, and “beyond” or “meta” to the scene. As actors, we experience ourselves as being contained in the dream scene; as observers, we experience ourselves as containing the dream—“I am in the dream” ver-sus “the dream is in me” (or, equivalently, “in my mind”). Lucid dreaming involves a balance between detachment and participation in which both actor and observer perspectives are present (LaBerge, 1985). In the typical nonlucid dream, we are identified with the actor perspective. In “witness-ing,” whether of dreaming or nondreaming sleep, identification is with the detached observer (Gackenbach, 1991).

Several other types of anomalous experiences are similar to lucid dream-ing. Most closely related is the out-of-body experience, which in some cases can be almost identical phenomenologically to lucid dreaming. However, although people having out-of-body experiences are normally reflectively conscious that something strange is happening, in contrast to lucid dream-ers, they believe that they are not dreaming (Blackmore, 1988; LaBerge & deGracia, 2000; see also Chapter 7, this volume). LaBerge and colleagues (LaBerge, Levitan, Brylowski, & dement, 1988; Levitan, LaBerge, deGracia,

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& Zimbardo, 1999) have provided psychophysiological evidence for both their similarities and differences.

other related anomalous experiences include some near-death expe-riences (LaBerge, 1985; see also Chapter 12, this volume), some ufo or alien abduction experiences (Gackenbach, 1991; see also Chapter 8, this vol-ume), some hallucinatory experiences (see Chapter 5, this volume), and some mystical and meditative experiences (Gackenbach, 1991; LaBerge, 1985; see also Chapter 13, this volume). Hunt (1989) argued for framing the whole set of related experiences as experiences of de-embedding of the self. Green and McCreery (1994) proposed the term metachoric to refer to experiences in which the entire perceptual environment is replaced by a hallucinated world.

under ordinary conditions, most dreams are not lucid. A recent Internet sample of 4,299 people with average dream recall (two to three dreams per week) reported a median (minimal) Ld rate of twice a year (LaBerge, 2009). for that average sample, 25% reported one Ld per month, and 10% claimed to have Lds twice a week, which amounts to about 1.5% of all dreams. for the subset of 902 reporting at least nightly dream recall, the reported Ld fre-quencies went up to 50% monthly, and 25% reported weekly frequency. This represents about 2.5% of all dreams. The estimate of approximately 1% to 2% of dreams being lucid is consistent with Krippner, Bogzaran, and de Carvalho’s (2002) sample of 1,666 “recent dream” reports from dream seminar participants in five countries. of these, 1.7% were Lds.

Lds typically occur late in the sleep cycle, nearly always during rEM sleep. This implies a relatively activated brain, and some evidence suggests that high levels of presleep activity (Garfield, 1979) or emotional arousal (Sparrow, 1976) may be associated with the occurrence of Lds. Meditation (Gackenbach, 1991; Hunt, 1989) and intensive psychotherapy (rossi, 1972) may also facili-tate lucid dreaming. Interruptions of the sleep cycle with 30 to 60 minutes of wakefulness strongly increase the probability of lucidity in subsequent sleep (LaBerge, Phillips, & Levitan, 1994).

dreamers commonly become lucid when they puzzle over oddities in dream content and conclude that the explanation is that they are dreaming. Spontaneous lucidity is also frequently associated with anxiety dreams and the recognition of a dreamlike quality of the experience (Gackenbach 1988; Green, 1968). According to a content analysis of 100 lucid dreams, Hearne (1983b) found the following causes of lucidity: anomaly recognition (53%), “just knew” (16%), anxiety (13%), recurring dream recognized (9%), and “unclear how, or don’t remember” (9%). Note that there is no direct mention of direct entry into the dream state (wake-initiated lucid dreams; see the Psychophysiology section of this chapter).

People are more likely to recognize an experience as dreamlike if they are familiar with what their dreams are like (LaBerge, 1985); this is one

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reason why lucid dreaming is more frequently reported by high dream recallers. Although for most people lucid dreaming is a rare experience, for some it is a learnable skill (LaBerge, 1980a, 1980b), and a variety of techniques are available for inducing Lds, comprehensively listed in Exploring the World of Lucid Dreaming (LaBerge & rheingold, 1990).

As freud (1900/2010) noted in The Interpretation of Dreams, it is pos-sible to carry a specific mental set into sleep, such as intending to wake at a certain hour, or if one’s baby cries, or to remember dreams. Sleep is also compatible with the intention to have Lds, and researchers have developed several effective methods for inducing Lds based on this approach: diligent practice with some of these techniques has allowed highly motivated indi-viduals with good dream recall to become lucid at will (LaBerge, 1980a, 1980b).

Another approach to Ld induction is related to biofeedback: delicate sensory stimuli are applied during rEM sleep that if incorporated into dreams can cue dreamers to remember that they are dreaming (Hearne, 1978; LaBerge, 1980a; LaBerge, owens, Nagel, & dement, 1981). A variety of stimuli have been tested; the most promising results so far have been with flashes of light (LaBerge & Levitan, 1995).

PHENoMENoLoGy

The realization that one is dreaming can sometimes exert an extremely powerful impact on the dreamer, as illustrated by the example at the begin-ning of this chapter. The following Ld is similar in this respect:

I dreamed that I was standing on the pavement outside my home. . . . I was about to enter the house when, on glancing casually at [the pave-ment] stones, my attention became riveted by a passing strange phe-nomenon, so extraordinary that I could not believe my eyes—they had seemingly all changed their position in the night, and the long sides were now parallel to the curb!

Then the solution flashed upon me: though this glorious summer morning seemed as real as real could be, I was dreaming!

With the realization of this fact, the quality of the dream changed in a manner very difficult to convey to one who has not had this experience.

Instantly, the vividness of life increased a hundred-fold. Never had sea and sky and trees shone with such glamorous beauty; even the common-place houses seemed alive and mystically beautiful. Never had I felt so absolutely well, so clear-brained, so inexpressibly free! The sensation was exquisite beyond words; but it lasted only a few minutes and I awoke. (fox, 1962, pp. 32–33)

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In other cases, the initiation of lucidity takes on a much calmer emotional tone, as in the case of the very logical von Moers-Messmer (1938):

from the top of a rather low and unfamiliar hill, I look out across a wide plain towards the horizon. It crosses my mind that I have no idea what time of year it is. I check the sun’s position. It appears almost straight above me with its usual brightness. This is surprising, as it occurs to me that it is now autumn, and the sun was much lower only a short time ago. I think it over: the sun is now perpendicular to the equator, so here it has to appear at an angle of approximately 45 degrees. So if my shadow does not correspond to my own height, I must be dreaming. I examine it: it is about 30 centimeters long. It takes considerable effort for me to believe this almost blindingly bright landscape and all of its features to be only an illusion. (p. 316)

Given the great variability in all types of dreams, the question can arise: on average, how different are lucid and nonlucid dreams? Although there are descriptions of content differences between lucid and nonlucid dreams in the literature (e.g., von Moers-Messmer, 1938), there are few systematic indi-vidual analyses (Gillespie, 1988; LaBerge & deGracia, 2000). These analyses provide an idea of potential content characteristics but may, of course, prove uncharacteristic of the typical Ld (likewise, “the average lucid dream” may describe a nonexistent abstraction).

Gackenbach (1988) reviewed content differences between lucid and nonlucid dreams (NLds) as measured by both self-evaluations and indepen-dent judges. Aside from the defining matter of state-consciousness, there were few consistent differences in content (e.g., perhaps relatively fewer characters, more auditory and kinesthetic sensations, and more control in Lds compared with NLds). These differences were minor enough for her to conclude that Lds are more similar than dissimilar to NLds—an unsurprising conclusion given that both are types of dreams.

Worsley (1988) pointed out that as useful as such content analyses are from groups of individuals who spontaneously experience lucidity, they do not capture the subtleties of the experience that comes from the more expe-rienced and sophisticated lucid dreamer. for example, Levitan and LaBerge (1993) analyzed self-rated content scales from 699 reports provided by 52 relatively experienced lucid dreamers. Compared with nonlucid dreamers, lucid dreamers had significantly higher levels of control, more positive emo-tions, and higher levels of visual vividness, clarity of thinking, physical activ-ity, and changes of scene.

As a result of learning and practice, experienced lucid dreamers are likely to have lucid (and perhaps nonlucid) dreams that differ from the typical Lds of beginners. Experienced lucid dreamers are also more likely to use specialized techniques for Ld induction, control, and stabilization (LaBerge & rheingold,

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1990). for example, to prevent premature awakening, lucid dreamers can spin their dream bodies or rub their dream hands together until the dream resta-bilizes (LaBerge, 1985). Both of these techniques are based on the idea that consciousness presents only one interpretation of reality at a time. If we vividly dream that we are spinning like a dervish, we cannot at the same time feel that we are lying motionless in bed. If we feel our phenomenal hands rubbing against each other, we cannot simultaneously feel them as motionless (as they are in physical reality). Thus, in both cases, the dream interpretation of reality is effectively stabilized. LaBerge (1995) found that the relative odds of contin-ued dreaming favored spinning over “going with the flow” (a control task) 48 to 1, and for rubbing over going with the flow, 27 to 1.

AfTErEffECTS

In general, the aftereffect of most dreams, lucid or otherwise, appears to be relatively subtle. If you get hit by a truck in the dream world, you wake up and walk away. Not so in the physical world. on the other hand, some dreams, no doubt, have changed people’s lives (de Becker, 1965), and the nature of Lds may increase their potential impact.

A number of researchers (Hunt, 1989; Kuiken & Sikora, 1993) have argued that lucid and other forms of intensified dreams are more likely to affect subsequent waking feelings, judgments, and action than ordinary dreams. Insofar as Lds are experienced as interesting, exciting, and relatively pleas-ant, mood elevations would be expected to ensue upon awakening (LaBerge, 1985). In a study of mood before and after sleep, Levitan and LaBerge (1993) found more positive mood after lucid than after NLds. researchers have not, as yet, conducted research on the long-term effects of lucid dreaming,

PSyCHoPHySIoLoGy

Thanks to psychophysiological methodology, lucid dreaming is accepted today as a normal, if rare, phenomenon of rEM sleep. Previously, dreams had been characterized as essentially single-minded (lacking any internal com-mentary) and nonreflective (rechtschaffen, 1978); in this context, reports of lucid dreaming were viewed with not a little suspicion. The orthodox point of view circa 1980 might be summarized thus: Lds don’t happen, and even if they do, they can’t happen during genuine sleep.

The concept of “conscious sleep” can seem so self-contradictory and paradoxical to certain ways of thinking that some theoreticians once con-sidered Lds conceptually impossible and even absurd. Probably the most

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extreme example of this point of view was provided by Malcolm (1959), who argued that given the premise that being asleep means experiencing nothing whatsoever, “dreams” are not experiences during sleep at all, but only the reports we tell after awakening. This concept of sleep led Malcolm to con-clude that the idea that someone might reason while asleep is “meaningless” and that, moreover, “If ‘I am dreaming’ could express a judgment it would imply the judgment ‘I am asleep,’ and therefore the absurdity of the latter proves the absurdity of the former” (p. 48). Thus, “the supposed judgment that one is dreaming” is “unintelligible” and “an inherently absurd form of words” (p. 50).

The point of this example is to show the skeptical light in which accounts of lucid dreaming were viewed before physiological demonstration of the reality of the phenomenon made philosophical arguments moot. As for the occasional reports in which dreamers claimed to have been fully con-scious that they were dreaming while they were dreaming, the orthodox view in sleep and dream research assumed (until very recently) that anecdotal accounts of Lds must be somehow spurious.

However, anomalous or not, people still reported experiences of lucid dreaming, so the question was raised: under which presumably abnormal physiological conditions do reports of lucid dreams occur? In the absence of empirical evidence bearing on the question, speculation largely favored two answers: either wakefulness or non-rEM sleep. Most sleep researchers seemed inclined to accept Hartmann’s (1975) impression that Lds were “not typical parts of dreaming thought, but rather brief arousals” (p. 74; Berger, 1977). Schwartz and Lefebvre (1973) noted that frequent transitory arousals were common during rEM sleep and proposed these “micro-awakenings” as the physiological basis for Ld reports. Although no one had offered any evi-dence for this mechanism, it seems to have been the orthodox opinion (e.g., foulkes, 1974) at least until the early 1980s. Antrobus, Antrobus, and fisher (1965) expressed a similar orthodox view and predicted that recognition by the dreamer of the fact that he or she is dreaming would either immedi-ately terminate the dream or cause a shift to non-rEM sleep. Likewise, Hall (1977) speculated that Lds might represent “a transition from Stage-1 rEM to Stage-4 mentation” (p. 312). Green (1968) seems to have been alone in reasoning that since Lds usually arise from nonlucid dreams, “we may tenta-tively expect to find lucid dreams occurring, as do other dreams, during the ‘paradoxical’ phase of sleep” (p. 128).

REM Research and Lucid Dreams

Empirical evidence began to appear in the late 1970s supporting Green’s (1968) speculation that Lds sometimes occur during rEM sleep. ogilvie,

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Hunt, Sawicki, and McGowan’s (1978) pioneering study recorded the sleep of two volunteers who reported Lds after awakening from rEM periods. However, the investigators provided no evidence that the reported Lds had in fact occurred during the rEM sleep immediately preceding the awaken-ings and reports. What was needed to unambiguously establish the physio-logical status of Lds was some way to mark the exact time that the Ld was taking place.

The crucial technique was based on earlier studies by roffwarg, dement, Muzio, and fisher (1962) that found that the directions of eye movements recorded during rEM sleep sometimes exactly corresponded to the direc-tions in which individuals reported they had been looking in their dreams. I reasoned that if lucid dreamers can act volitionally, they should be able to demonstrate volitional control by making a prearranged eye movement signal marking the exact time they became lucid (LaBerge, 1985). We also attempted to signal using a microswitch based on earlier research associating switch presses with reports of non-rEM dreaming (Brown & Cartwright, 1978). Although I was unable to actuate the microswitch during Lds, we were able to observe corresponding muscle twitches (see figure 6.1A–B). using this approach, my colleagues and I used a variety of voluntary signals to validate five participants’ claims of Lds (LaBerge, 1985; LaBerge, Nagel, dement, & Zarcone, 1981). All of the signals, and therefore all the Lds, had occurred during uninterrupted rEM sleep. I noted that one of the origi-nal reviewers of this study recommended rejecting the paper for publication because the reviewer found it impossibly “difficult to imagine subjects simul-taneously dreaming their dreams and signaling them to others” (LaBerge, 1985, p. 72).

Hearne and Worsley independently developed and tested an almost identical signaling technique (eye movements plus microswitch presses) and also found that lucid dreaming occurred exclusively during rEM sleep (Hearne, 1978, 1983a). As with our results, Worsley (the single lucid dreamer studied) was unable to press the microswitch in any of his Lds, and because Hearne did not measure forearm EMG, only the eye-movement sig-nals were visible. Studies in a number of other sleep laboratories have used eye-movement signals exclusively and obtained essentially the same results (dane, 1984; fenwick et al., 1984; Holzinger, LaBerge, & Levitan, 2006; ogilvie, Hunt, Kushniruk, & Newman, 1983; Watanabe, 2003), making it clear that, although perhaps paradoxical, lucid dreaming is a proven phe-nomenon of rEM sleep.

The studies cited showed that Lds typically occur in rEM sleep. However, rEM sleep is a heterogeneous state characterized by great physio-logical variability. Two distinct phases are ordinarily distinguished: periods of eye-movement activity and high central and autonomic nervous system

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Figure 6.1. A: Voluntary eye-movement signaling validates report of lucid dreaming during uninterrupted REM sleep. Four channels of physiological data (central EEG [C3-A2], left [L] and right [R] eye movements [LOC and ROC], and chin muscle tone [EMG]) from the last 8 minutes of a 30-minute REM period are shown. Upon awakening, the lucid dreamer (TLD) reported having made five eye-movement signals (labeled 1-5 in the figure). The first signal (1, LRLR) marked the onset of lucidity. Emotional sweating artifacts can be observed in the EEG at this point. During the following 90 seconds, TLD “flew about,” exploring his dream world until he believed (falsely) that he had awakened, at which point he made the signal for being awake (2, LR × 4). After another 90 seconds, TLD realized that he was still dreaming and signaled (3) with three pairs of eye move-ments. Realizing that this was too many, he correctly signaled with two pairs (4) of eye movements. Finally, upon awakening 100 seconds later, he signaled appropriately (5, LR × 4). B: Morse code communication from the lucid dream. Evidence of voluntary control of other muscle groups during REM was found by LaBerge, Nagel, Dement, and Zarcone (1981) while testing a variety of lucidity signals. We observed that a sequence of left and right dream-fist clenches resulted in a corresponding sequence of left and right forearm twitches as measured by EMG. Here TLD sends a Morse code signal with left and right fist clenches corresponding to dots and dashes, respectively. Hence the mes-sage translates as “SL” ( ... .-..), TLD’s initials. (Calibrations are 50 µV and 5 seconds.)

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activation (phasic rEM) versus periods with few eye movements and rela-tively low activation (tonic rEM). Several studies have shown that Lds are strongly associated with phasic rEM. LaBerge, Levitan, and dement (1986) analyzed physiological data from 76 signal-verified lucid dreams (SVLds) of 13 participant-observers. Physiological comparison of eye-movement activ-ity, heart rate, respiration rate, and skin potential activity for lucid versus nonlucid epochs revealed that the lucid epochs of the SVLd rEM periods had significantly higher levels of physiological activation than the preceding epochs of nonlucid rEM from the same rEM periods. The same study found that rEM periods in which Lds occurred were marked by higher physiologi-cal activation than those in which they did not occur. Similarly, Brylowski, Levitan, and LaBerge (1989) found that H-reflex amplitude (a measure of spinal reflex excitability) is lower during lucid compared with nonlucid rEM. All this supports the idea that Lds do not occur during some lighter state of near-wakeful sleep but in a deepened state of intensely active phasic-rEM sleep.

Given the strong findings of autonomic activation associated with lucid dreaming, one would expect that various electroencephalography (EEG) measures of central nervous system activity would also show activation. The few studies that have compared EEG from lucid and nonlucid dreams have focused on alpha activity from one or two sites (e.g., ogilvie, Hunt, Kushniruk, & Newman, 1983; ogilvie, Hunt, Tyson, Lucescu, & Jeakins, 1982) and have reached contradictory conclusions (see LaBerge, 1988, for a review). A preliminary EEG brain-mapping study found the onset of lucid-ity to be marked by left-parietal-temporal lobe EEG activation (Brylowski, Levitan, & LaBerge, 1986; see also Holzinger, LaBerge, & Levitan, 2006). researchers have also reported that Lds occur most commonly late in the sleep cycle (Green, 1968; Van Eeden, 1913). Laboratory evidence supports this claim. LaBerge et al. (1986) found that 11 of 12 dreamers had more Lds in the second half of their rEM time.

As discussed, Lds are reported to start either from an ongoing dream or directly from a short awakening. Accordingly, LaBerge et al. (1986) dichoto-mously classified SVLds as either wake-initiated or dream-initiated, depend-ing on whether or not the reports mentioned a transient awakening in which the individual consciously perceived the external environment before reenter-ing the dream state. fifty-five (72%) of the SVLds were classified as dream-initiated and the remaining 21 (28%) as wake-initiated. for all 13 individuals, dream-initiated Lds were more common than wake-initiated ones. As expected, in contrast to the dream-initiated type, wake-initiated lucid dreams were almost always immediately preceded by physiological indications of awakening, establishing the validity of classifying Lds in this manner (see figure 6.2).

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In sum, Lds are likely to occur only when optimal physiological and psychological conditions are present: namely, a sufficiently activated brain and an appropriate mental set. The required degree of brain activation appears to occur only during phasic rEM sleep.

Psychophysiological Relationships During REM Lucid Dreams

Lucid dreaming makes it possible to answer empirically questions that could previously only be asked theoretically. for example, how long do dreams last? from 1979 to 1982 I set lucid dreamers the task of estimat-ing a 10-second interval of time while dreaming. The dreamers marked the beginning and end of estimated dream time intervals with eye-movement signals, allowing comparison of subjective “dream time” with objective time. In each case, the intervals of time estimated during the Lds were very close in length to the actual elapsed time (LaBerge, 1980a, 1985; see also Erlacher & Schredl, 2004).

Figure 6.2. A lucid dream initiated from a transient awakening during REM (wake-initiated lucid dreams). Six channels of physiological data (left and right temporal EEG [T3 and T4], horizontal eye movement [EOG], chin muscle tone [EMG], electro-cardiogram (ECG), and heart rate [BPM]) from the last 3 minutes of a 14-minute REM period are shown. The lucid dreamer (TLD) abruptly awoke during a REM-burst at (1). The onset of the 40 seconds of wakefulness is marked by a twitch in the EMG, a distinctive two-phase pattern of heart rate acceleration-deceleration, a cessation of eye movements, and the appearance of continuous alpha rhythm in the EEG. TLD reported having been acutely and uncomfortably aware of being awake at this moment; he was anxious about the fact that he had not yet had a lucid dream that night, and the hour was late—perhaps too late? Then, suddenly, he was flying high above a field! All doubt vanished instantly: This was lucid dreaming. He immediately made a lucidity signal (LRLR) at (3) and began the scheduled experimental task, singing between signals 3 and 4, and counting between signals 4 and 5. This allowed comparison of left and right hemisphere activation during the two tasks (LaBerge & Dement, 1982b). The thrilling transition to lucidity (3) is accompanied by a corre-sponding orientation response (OR), here visible in a biphasic heart-rate response similar to that shown on awakening (1), as well as a large emotional sweating (skin potential) artifact in the EEG (particularly T4/A2). These ORs are common at the onset of lucid dreams. (Calibrations are 50 µV and 5 seconds.)

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LaBerge and colleagues (LaBerge, Nagel, dement, & Zarcone, 1981; LaBerge, Nagel, Taylor, dement, & Zarcone, 1981) reported data indicat-ing a very direct and reliable relation between gaze shift reported in Lds and the direction of polygraphically recorded eye movements. The results obtained for Lds (e.g., dane, 1984; Erlacher, 2007; fenwick et al., 1984) are much stronger than the generally weak correlations previous investi-gators obtained testing the hypothesis that the dreamers’ eyes move with their hallucinated dream gaze. This is because before the advent of lucid dreamers, researchers had to rely on the chance occurrence of a highly recognizable eye-movement pattern that might be readily matchable to the (nonlucid) dreamer’s reported dream activity (e.g., roffwarg, dement, Muzio, & fisher, 1962).

In another study, LaBerge and dement (1982b) demonstrated that participants could control their respiration rate during lucid dreaming. researchers have also provided evidence for the voluntary control of other muscle groups during rEM (Erlacher, Schredl, & LaBerge, 2003; fenwick et al., 1984; LaBerge, Nagel, dement, & Zarcone, 1981).

following researchers’ reports of cognitive task dependency of later-alization of EEG activity in the waking state, LaBerge and dement (1982a) recorded EEG from right and left temporal sites while dreamers sang and counted in their Lds (see figure 6.2). The results showed the same task-dependent lateralization in rEM sleep as in the waking state: The right hemisphere was more activated than the left during singing; during count-ing the reverse was true.

Sexual activity has been reported as a common theme of Lds (Garfield, 1979; LaBerge, 1985), although content analyses of the Lds of students do not seem to support the claim (Gackenbach, 1988). In a laboratory study, LaBerge, Greenleaf, and Kedzierski (1983) recorded two lucid dreamers who reported experiencing sexual arousal and orgasm in Lds. The patterns of physiological activity during dream sex closely resembled those accompany-ing corresponding experiences in the waking state.

The psychophysiological studies summarized above all support the following view: during rEM sleep, the events that we dream we experi-ence result from patterns of brain activity that in turn produce effects on our peripheral nervous systems and bodies to some extent modified by the specific conditions of rEM sleep, but still closely similar to the effects that would occur if we were to experience the corresponding events while awake (Erlacher, Schredl, & LaBerge, 2003). This view may explain in part why we are so inclined to mistake our dreams for reality: To the functional systems of neuronal activity that construct our experiential world (model), dream-ing of perceiving or doing something is equivalent to actually perceiving or doing it.

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CLINICAL ISSuES

Neither the individual differences nor the clinical literature provides any indication that psychopathology is associated with lucid dreaming. on the contrary, lucidity is more likely associated with mental health (Snyder & Gackenbach, 1988). for example, Gruber, Steffen, and Vonderharr (1995) concluded “that frequent lucid dreamers, characterized by the unusual degree of control they often exhibit within the dream state, are also better able to manage or control various aspects of cognitive, emotional, and social func-tioning while awake” (p. 7). There is little reason to believe that dreaming lucidly is more likely to cause psychopathology than dreaming nonlucidly.

Lucid dreaming arguably possesses considerable potential as a psycho-therapeutic tool (Spoormaker & Van den Bout, 2006). over a century ago, Hervey de Saint-denys (1859/1982) used lucidity to cure himself of a terrify-ing recurrent nightmare:

one night, . . . when the dream returned for the fourth time, at the moment my persecutors were about to renew their pursuit, a feeling of the truth of the situation was suddenly awakened in my mind; and the desire to combat these illusions gave me the strength to overcome my instinctive terror. Instead of fleeing, . . . I resolved to contemplate with the closest attention the phantoms that I had so far only glimpsed rather than seen. . . . I fixed my eyes on my principal attacker, who some-what resembled the grinning, bristling demons which are sculpted in cathedral porticos, and as the desire to observe gained the upper hand over my emotions, I saw the following: the fantastic monster had arrived within several feet of me, whistling and cavorting in a manner which, once it had ceased to frighten me, appeared comic. . . . The attention I had concentrated on this figure had caused its companions to disappear as if by magic. The figure itself seemed to slow down in its movements, lose its clarity and take on a woolly appearance, until it changed into a kind of floating bundle of rags . . . and then I awoke. [The nightmare did not recur thereafter.] (pp. 58–59)

Tholey (1988) also observed that when the dreamer courageously and openly looks at hostile dream figures, their appearance often becomes less threatening. Indeed, most people say that becoming lucid in a nightmare makes them feel better afterward more often than not. In a survey study of 698 college students, Levitan and LaBerge (1990) found that 81% of the 505 volunteers who reported having had both Lds and nightmares claimed that becoming lucid in a nightmare usually improved the outcome. Lucidity was about 7 times more likely to make nightmares better than worse.

Several case studies (Spoormaker, Van den Bout, & Meijer, 2003; Zadra & Pihl, 1997) and a randomized controlled study (Spoormaker & Van den

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Bout, 2006) support the claim that lucid dreaming can be an effective treat-ment of nightmares. However, other studies have not found lucid dreaming to be a significant addition to imagery rehearsal therapy (Lancee, Van den Bout, & Spoormaker, 2010), illustrating perhaps that superficial “it’s only a dream” training is no better than just changing the dream in waking imagination. Although the randomized controlled study mentioned above (Spoormaker & Van den Bout, 2006) did not effectively relieve the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, Gavie and revonsuo (2010) made a compelling case for lucid dreaming providing a helpful supplement for treating anxiety related to the disorder by reducing fear and providing a sense of control over the nightmare.

Tholey’s (1988) review of his work with lucid dreaming for personal integration lists four advantages of lucid relative to nonlucid dreams:

1. Because of the lucidity, the dream ego is less afraid of threaten-ing dream figures or situations. for this reason, there is less resis-tance to confronting these figures or situations.

2. using appropriate techniques for manipulating lucid dreaming, the dream ego can get in touch with places, times, situations, or persons that are important to the dreamer.

3. Especially in dialogue with other dream figures, the dream ego is able to recognize the present personality dynamics and their etiology (diagnostic function).

4. Through appropriate activity of the dream ego, a change of personality . . . is possible (therapeutic or creative function). (p. 267)

dane (1984) described such lucid dream work as “intrapersonal” psycho-therapy, in which one’s own waking and dreaming consciousnesses are used therapeutically.

Tholey (1988) studied the effect of various attitudes toward hostile dream characters, concluding that a conciliatory approach, through engaging in dialogue with hostile dream characters, is most likely to result in a posi-tive outcome. He found that when dreamers tried to reconcile with hostile figures, the figures often transformed from “lower” order into “higher” order creatures, meaning from beasts or mythological beings into humans, and that these transformations frequently allowed the dreamers to immediately understand the meaning of their dreams. furthermore, conciliatory behavior toward threatening figures would generally cause them to look and act in a more friendly manner. for example, Tholey dreamt:

I became lucid, while being chased by a tiger, and wanted to flee. I then pulled myself back together, stood my ground, and asked, “Who are you?” The tiger was taken aback but transformed into my father and answered,

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“I am your father and will now tell you what you are to do!” In contrast to my earlier dreams, I did not attempt to beat him but tried to get involved in a dialogue with him. I told him that he could not order me around. I rejected his threats and insults. on the other hand, I had to admit that some of my father’s criticism was justified, and I decided to change my behavior accordingly. At that moment my father became friendly, and we shook hands. I asked him if he could help me, and he encouraged me to go my own way alone. My father then seemed to slip into my own body, and I remained alone in the dream. (p. 265)

I reported that the percentage of anxiety-triggered Lds decreased in each of the 3 years of my dissertation study from 36% to 19% and finally to 5%. The decrease in proportion (and frequency) of anxiety-initiated Lds with time was probably caused by the psychotherapeutic techniques I was practicing (LaBerge, 1985; see also Tholey, 1988), as the following example illustrates:

I was in the middle of a riot in a classroom; a furious mob was raging about, throwing chairs and fighting with each other. A huge repulsive barbarian with a pock-marked face, the Goliath among them, had me hopelessly locked in an iron grip from which I was desperately trying to free myself. At this point, I recognized that I was dreaming, and remembering what I had learned from handling similar situations previously, I immediately gave up my struggle . . . and tried to feel loving as I stood face to face with my ogre.

At first, I failed utterly, feeling only repulsion and disgust for the ogre. He was simply too ugly to love: thus spoke my visceral reactions. But I tried to ignore the image and seek love within my own heart. finding it, I looked my ogre in the eyes, trusting my intuition to supply the right things to say. Beautiful words of acceptance flowed out of me, and as they did, he melted into me. As for the riot, it had vanished without a trace; the dream was over and I awoke, feeling wonderfully calm. (LaBerge & deGracia, 2000, p. 279)

Since Tholey’s review, several clinically oriented articles have appeared. Hall and Brylowski (1991) compared lucid dreaming with Jung’s conception of active imagination. other therapeutic discussions include an integration of hypnotically facilitated psychotherapy (Klippstein, 1986) with integral dream practice, aimed at developing the dreamer’s creative participation and mindfulness (Bogzaran & deslauriers, 2012). Most therapists have focused on the use of dream lucidity as a tool in nightmare management, understanding, and personality integration (Abramovitch, 1995; Brylowski, 1990; Evers & Van de Wetering, 1993; Galvin, 1993; Holzinger, 1995). Tholey (1988) also studied the use of lucid dreaming as a means to resolve “unfinished busi-ness,” such as in the case of the death of a loved one. Although there is no indication of a relation to psychopathology, there may be risks for unstable

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individuals in pursuing dream lucidity, just as there will be risks for unstable individuals pursuing any activity.

It seems prudent that one should use Lds to work through personal issues before seeking spiritual “transcendence,” a point that I have emphasized (LaBerge, 1985; LaBerge & rheingold, 1990). All too many lucid dreamers, from Van Eeden (see LaBerge, 1985, p. 175) on, who have prematurely sought to transcend the self before accepting the unaccepted or “shadow” elements of the personality, have experienced demonic nightmares (see also Kelzer, 1987). The solution is to strive for self-integration before self-transcendence (LaBerge, 1985; LaBerge & rheingold, 1990); otherwise, the motive to tran-scend is tainted with the motive to escape unpleasant truths.

THEorIES

There are far more questions about lucid dreaming that fall under the heading of “theoretical” than the limited space available allows me to consider. for example, what kind of thing or process comprises an Ld? What mechanisms are responsible for the occurrence of Lds? Why aren’t all dreams lucid? Why do they take the form they do? Not all of these and the many more theoretical questions about Lds can be satisfactorily answered at this point.

As described earlier, there are two major types of Ld: dream-initiated and wake-initiated. Each type may require distinct explanations. The wake-initiated type seems easier to explain: Normal rEM periods are frequently interrupted by a few seconds or minutes of wakefulness, followed by a return to rEM sleep. If you find yourself awake in bed with a vivid memory of just having been dream-ing, you will likely be very conscious of your current state. If a few seconds later you find yourself in a dream, especially if it is not a dream of lying in bed, you may notice the discontinuity in your state. Still conscious, but now of dream-ing, you have just begun a wake initiated lucid dream. This mechanism for Ld induction seems straightforward enough. What remains to be determined is how the circumstances surrounding the temporary awakening affect the probability of a conscious return to rEM sleep. for example, I would predict that the pre–wake-initiated lucid dream awakenings occur during relatively intense phasic rEM, associated with the drive to return to rEM sleep.

As for the more common and diverse form of Ld initiation, the dream-initiated type may be less obvious. It is most easily explained if one can accept the evidence that rEM sleep can support reflective consciousness, even if in most rEM periods we are not lucid. However, there are moments in most rEM periods in which we have the necessary physiological activation to become lucid. What is usually absent is the relevant mental set to become lucid by

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noticing dream signs as such. This can be corrected by the proper mental techniques (e.g., Mnemonic Induction of Lucid dreams; LaBerge, 1980b).

A summary of this view is that two requirements for having an Ld are a prepared mind and an activated brain. An elevated level of central nervous system activation seems to be necessary for the occurrence of Lds. Evidently, the high level of cognitive function involved in lucid dreaming requires a correspondingly high level of neuronal activation. In terms of Antrobus’s (1986) adaptation of Anderson’s (1983) ACT* model of cogni-tion to dreaming, working memory capacity is proportional to cognitive activation, which in turn is related to cortical activation. Becoming lucid requires an adequate level of working memory to activate the presleep inten-tion to recognize that one is dreaming. This level of cortical and cognitive activation is apparently not always available during sleep but normally only during phasic rEM.

When dreamers become lucid, they may very well show increased activ-ity in the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex (dLPfC), as Hobson (2009) proposed. However, there is no evidence to suggest that this hypothetical activation is inconsistent with rEM sleep. Indeed, it makes no sense to insist that the dLPfC is activated only in Lds: If dLPfC activation is a necessary condi-tion for lucid dreaming, it must occur during the nonlucid interval of rEM prior to the onset of lucidity. Consider the example of von Moers-Messmer’s (1938) Ld cited earlier in which he engaged in extended trigonometric rea-soning about the position of the sun before finally becoming convinced that he was dreaming. Even if he was not yet “lucid,” he was obviously extremely clear-minded when reasoning in the manner described.

Transpersonal psychology has also incorporated dream lucidity into its theoretical perspective (Walsh & Vaughan, 1993), drawing on lucidity’s histor-ical connection to a variety of religious perspectives, especially in the Tibetan Buddhist literature (LaBerge, 2003; Norbu & Katz, 1992). Hunt’s Multiplicity of Dreams (1989) brilliantly integrates dream lucidity into a dazzlingly wide range of contexts ranging from anthropology, evolutionary biology, and psycho-history, to psychiatry, neurology, cognitive, and depth psychology. Laughlin’s (2011) Communing With the Gods does the same from a neuroanthropological perspective.

METHodoLoGICAL ISSuES

developing an appropriate methodology for the study of such phenom-ena as mental imagery, hallucinations, dreaming, and conscious processes in general requires solving a number of significant problems. Although subjective reports provide the most direct accounts of the contents of

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consciousness, they are difficult to verify objectively, and introspection is far from an unbiased, direct, or error-free process of observation (but see Chapter 2, this volume).

Several strategies are available to increase our confidence in the reli-ability of subjective reports. first, as Snyder and Gackenbach (1988) empha-sized, it is important to verify that informants understand the concept of lucid dreaming by requiring the inclusion of a recognition phrase in a sample lucid dream report (i.e., “. . . and then I realized I was dreaming” or “I fell asleep consciously, directly entering into a lucid dream”).

Another approach is to use highly trained (and in the context of dream research, lucid) participants who are skillful and accurate observers of their conscious experiences, as noted earlier in the phenomenological section. Lucid dreamers necessarily play the role of “participant observers” during experiments set in their own dream worlds. Additionally, one can use psycho-physiological methodology, which capitalizes on the fact that the convergent agreement of physiological measures and subjective reports provides a degree of validation to the latter (Stoyva & Kamiya, 1968).

Psychophysiological methodology has been essential to the laboratory study of lucid dreaming. More broadly, the psychophysiological approach was also responsible for the explosion of dream research following the discovery of rEM sleep in the early 1950s. Although the standard psychophysiological para-digm of dream research yielded fruitful results for many years (Arkin, Antrobus, & Ellman, 1978), it possessed an important limitation: There was no way of making certain that volunteers (assuming they were nonlucid) would actually dream about what the researchers were interested in studying. Presleep manip-ulations producing predictable and reliable effects on dream content have not been very effective (Tart, 1988). Thus, researchers could only wait and hope that eventually a dream report would turn up what one was looking for. This strategy was really no better than a “shot-in-the-dark” approach, and for this and other reasons, some dream researchers have been calling for abandoning the psychophysiological method in favor of a purely psychological approach. for example, foulkes claimed in 1980 that “psychophysiological correlation research now appears to offer such a low rate of return for effort expended as not to be a wise place for dream psychology to continue to commit much of its limited resources” (p. 249). This conclusion may well be justified, but only inso-far as it refers to the psychophysiological approach as traditionally practiced, using nonlucid participants. The use of lucid dreamers overcomes the basic difficulty of the old methodology and may revitalize the psychophysiological approach to dream research. Not everyone agrees with this: In the early 1980s, when LaBerge claimed that Ld signaling experiments disproved the assump-tion that rEM sleep cannot support reflective consciousness and voluntary action, Hobson argued that while Lds may be of interest in themselves, they

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cannot have any relevance to dream research (see LaBerge, 1985). Thirty years later, Hobson (2009) still insisted that using lucid dreamers to study the psychophysiology of dreaming is invalid because Lds aren’t “normal” and thus cannot occur in “normal” rEM sleep.

CoNCLuSIoN

A parallel can be drawn between the initially anomalous appearance of lucid dreaming and that of the state that has been called paradoxical sleep (i.e. rEM sleep; LaBerge, 1990). When rEM sleep was first discovered, its characteristics (e.g., highly activated brain, autonomic nervous system vari-ability, muscle atonia) contradicted the accepted notion of sleep as a passive state of rest and required the expansion of our concept of sleep. The evidence associating lucid dreaming with rEM sleep reviewed earlier requires a similar expansion of our concept of dreaming and a clarification of our concept of sleep—lucid dreaming may well emerge as the most anomalous feature of paradoxical sleep.

In my view, the many studies reviewed showing signal-verified lucid dreaming during rEM sleep clearly indicate that rEM sleep is capable of supporting reflective consciousness. We took enormous care to show that these SVLds occurred during unequivocal rEM sleep (Brylowski, Levitan, & LaBerge 1989). Moreover, we have recorded over 100 SVLds scored as rEM sleep, and logically only one of these needs to have been correctly classified to confirm this potential of rEM sleep. Hobson (2009) interpreted these results differently. Because he believed that reflective consciousness is incompatible with rEM dreaming, he boldly claimed that lucid dreaming must be a dissociated hybrid mixture of waking and dreaming.

This might be a possible conclusion, given the false premise that no reflectively conscious states are rEM, but I think it is an error, similar to arguing that because most mammals don’t fly, bats, if they existed, must be hybrid rat–birds. That’s not quite what it is like to be a bat. Hobson cited a recent EEG study of lucid dreaming (Voss, Holzmann, Tuin, & Hobson, 2009) as supporting the idea that lucid dreaming is a “dissociated” or “hybrid” state. However, the study does no more than assume its conclusion: As the first paragraph of the abstract states, “Lucid dreaming is a dissociated state” (Voss et al., 2009, p. 1191). The assumption behind this claim is that reflec-tive consciousness indicates the presence of the waking state, and hence lucid dreaming signals from rEM sleep indicate the dissociative presence of “waking consciousness.”

In the absence of evidence for this dissociation hypothesis, I prefer the alternative: drop the a priori assumption about rEM sleep limitations and

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accept that lucid dreaming shows that rEM sleep can support reflective con-sciousness. remember also that experimental evidence supports the frequent presence of self-reflection during nonlucid dreaming (Kahan & LaBerge, 2011; Kahan, LaBerge, Levitan, & Zimbardo, 1997). The essential difference between dreaming and waking is sensory input, not reflective consciousness (Kahan & LaBerge, 1996; Llinás & Paré, 1991).

However, the term sensory input is surprisingly complex. fenwick et al. (1984) showed that a highly experienced lucid dreamer was able to perceive and respond to environmental stimuli (electrical shocks) without awakening from his Ld. This result raises a theoretical issue: If we accept perception of the external world as the essential criterion for wakefulness (LaBerge et al., 1981a), then we would be forced to conclude that the participant must have been at least partially awake. on the other hand, when environmental stimuli are incorporated into dreams without producing any subjective or physiological signs of arousal, it is reasonable to speak of the perception as having occurred during sleep.

furthermore, it may be possible for one sense to remain functional and awake while others fall asleep (LaBerge, 1980a). Similarly, Antrobus et al. (1965) argued that the simple question “Asleep or awake?” may not have a simple answer:

Not only do sleeping and waking shade gradually into one another but there is only limited agreement among the various physiological and subjective operations that discriminate between sleeping and waking. At any given moment, all systems of the organism are not necessarily equally asleep or awake. (pp. 398–399)

The situation can be summarized as follows:

As long as we continue to consider wakefulness and sleep as a simple dichotomy, we will lie in a Procrustean bed that is bound at times to be most uncomfortable. There must be degrees of being awake just as there are degrees of being asleep (i.e. the conventional sleep stages) . . . we will probably need to characterize a wider variety of states of consciousness than those few currently distinguished (e.g. “dreaming,” “sleeping,” “waking,” and so on). (LaBerge, 1990, pp. 121–122)

Lucid dreaming is an experience ideally situated to cast light on a range of states of consciousness, both ordinary and anomalous. further work needs to be done in a variety of areas, including developing techniques for having and optimally making use of Lds as well as better understanding the phe-nomenology and neuroscience underlying the experience and its associated individual differences.

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A relatively neglected area of great interest is the relation between the body of knowledge surveyed in this chapter and the extensive Tibetan Buddhist experiences with Ld yoga (LaBerge, 2003; Norbu & Katz, 1992; Wallace & Hodel, 2012). Western scientists have studied lucid dreaming for little more than 20 years. In contrast, the Tibetan Buddhists have practiced a form of lucid dreaming known as the yoga of the dream state for more than 1,000 years. This is one of several reasons that Western science could likely benefit from a study of dream yoga.

The Tibetan Buddhist point of view reverses the order of valuation of the waking and dreaming states: Whereas Westerners consider the waking state the only reality and dreams to be unreal and unimportant, Buddhists believe (a) the dream state has greater potential for understanding and spiri-tual progress than the so-called waking state, and (b) both states are equally real or unreal. In addition, according to Tibetan lore, the practice of yoga provides essential preparation for the dreamlike after-death state, allowing the yogi to become illuminated at the point of death or to choose a favor-able rebirth (LaBerge, 2003). There are four stages of Tibetan dream yoga (Evans-Wentz, 1958; LaBerge, 2003):

1. comprehending the nature of the dream (i.e. that it is a dream and thus a construction of the mind);

2. practicing the transformation of dream content until one expe-rientially understands that all of the contents of dreaming con-sciousness can be changed by will and that dreams are essentially unstable;

3. realizing that the sensory experiences of waking conscious-ness are just as illusory as dreams and that, in a sense, “it’s all a dream”; and

4. meditating on the “thatness” of the dream state, resulting in union with the Clear Light.

The first three stages just described all find support in the experiences of Western lucid dreamers and current constructionist psychological theories of mind. It is not yet clear to what extent the fourth stage can be studied by current scientific methodology.

Both Tibetan Buddhists and a number of other specialists in “inner states” (e.g., franklin Merrell-Wolff, Sri Aurobindo, Ibn El-Arabi, to name a few; see LaBerge, 1985) regard achieving continuity of consciousness between waking, dreaming, and dreamless sleep as an essential step to higher develop-ment. Indeed, according to Laughlin (2011), the same has long been true for many of the peoples of the world who possess cultures valuing the experience of multiple realities and who support the use of dreams for social and personal

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purposes. Studying conscious transitions between these three states seems an extremely promising area of investigation.

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