Visions and trances in The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna pop up like unexpected guests at a devotional feast—startling, vivid, yet perfectly at home once their role becomes clear. Born of intense bhava (divine emotion), they aren’t daydreams but authentic encounters with the Infinite. Devotees often find themselves plunged into a waking trance, eyes half-closed, breath slowed to a whisper. In those moments, Kali’s red radiance or Krishna’s flute may appear, Christ’s serene gaze may fill the inner sky—each vision reflecting the devotee’s own longing, yet pointing beyond the self toward something immeasurably greater.

A key distinction unfolds between savikalpa samadhi and nirvikalpa samadhi. The first keeps a thread of duality intact—a subtle awareness that “this” is experiencing “that.” The second sweeps away all boundaries, leaving nothing but pure consciousness. Ramakrishna’s own episodes at Dakshineswar often shifted from one to the other, like moving from a vivid oil painting into blank, boundless space.

Psychologically speaking, modern neuroscience—think Harvard’s meditation studies—finds similar patterns: sensory areas lighting up, brainwaves slowing under deep prayer. Yet Ramakrishna insisted that science can map the terrain but never fully capture the destination. His friendly warning about mistaking personal fantasies for divine messages still rings true: chasing mirages in the mind is about as useful as nailing jelly to a wall.

Balancing these ecstatic states with everyday life is never a piece of cake. He urged karma yoga—service and duty—as the anchor that keeps the feet on the ground. In today’s hustle culture, where guided meditations and mindfulness apps promise quick fixes, his approach feels fresh: use visions as fuel, trances as pit stops, but keep driving through the everyday traffic of chores, relationships, and work. That way, liberation isn’t a one-off fireworks display but the steady unfolding of a life lived in touch with something vast, tender, and true.