Having at last extricated ourselves from the Kantian labyrinth, we can now pursue our “adventure of reason” (Abenteuer der Vernunft) in the open country. Kant employed this term in the Critique of Judgement in specific reference to the possibility of a person to conjecturally explain the evolution of species beginning with an original organic prototype. We have taken the term, however, as a metonym for the way of knowing that Goethe developed in order to transcend the “the empirico-mechanico-dogmatic torture chamber” of the science of his day, from which he declared that it was “necessary to liberate phenomena once and for all.”  Because, as Kant so definitively illustrated, phenomena are ineluctably relative to a subject for whom they are phenomena, the liberation of phenomena depends on the liberation of ourselves; these are correlative. “All of Nature groaneth and travaileth together until now,” as the Apostle admonished. If this exploration has contributed in some respect to the fulfillment of this injunction, then it will have served its end. Whereas in prior chapters our concern has been to juxtapose Goethe’s approach to contrasting conceptions, in this section, we will attempt to find our way on Goethe’s path of knowledge by the light of a certain friend, whom those greater than me have called “il maestro di color che sanno,” or “the master of those who know.” We refer, of course, to the student of Plato and teacher to Alexander, Aristotle. Next, we hope in the final chapter to arrive at our goal in Steiner’s philosophy, which, with a nod of acknowledgement to Barfield, we may described as “Goetheanism come of age.”
To begin, let us recall “the open secret” as expressed in the Goethean maxim that we began this exploration withal:
Das Höchste wäre, zu begreifen, daß alles Faktische schon Theorie ist
to which was offered the following translations: “The highest were to grasp that everything factual is already theory,” “that everything phenomenal is already noumenal,” or “that everything perceptual is already conceptual.” We may consider the same principle in the terms that Aristotle developed in Ancient Greece, which, incorruptible as metallic gold, has not tarnished even after the passage of so many centuries. One may immediately recognise the essential complementarity that Goethe calls “fact” and “theory” in what Aristotle set forth in the 4th century B.C. in his distinction of “matter” (ΰλη, “hyle”) and “form” (είδος, “eidos”). Sometimes Aristotle uses the term μορφή (“morphe”) for “form” instead of είδος, (“eidos”) and for this reason, the matter-form physics of Aristotle is often referred to as “hylomorphism.” This is an apt term because, as we indicated in an earlier chapter, Goethe coined the term “morphology” to describe his biological studies. Aristotle illustrates the hylomorphic relation through such examples as the following: matter is to form, respectively, as: syllables are to words, natural elements like Earth, Water, Air, and Fire,  are to physical bodies, and premises to are conclusions. Matter is “that from which” a thing is made, while form is “that which” is made. Matter is the potential (δυνάμεις, “dynamis”) to become a form, and form is the actuality (ενέργεια, “energeia,” or ἐντελέχεια, “entelekheia,” “entelechy”)  of that potential. Aristotle offers the example, among others, of bricks and an house, respectively. As Aquinas, one of the foremost interpreters of Aristotle, phrases this relation, “matter, then, differs from form in this, that it is potential being; form is the ‘entelechy’ or actuality that renders matter actual; and the compound is the resulting actual being.” 
Matter may also be seen as a container or vessel of form, as its content. In respect to Goethe’s aphorism, we can now see that facts constitute the matter of a theory, as their form. Form, theory, concept, and idea will not, as a rule, be distinguished in this investigation, though in a different context, careful articulation of the nuances of each term would be doubtless prove extremely useful. An analogous complementarity to matter and form appears in the relation of phenomenon and noumenon, or the appearance of things and “things-in-themselves”: phenomena express the noumena which impressed them. Similarly, a percept is the vessel of a concept as its form. These aspects are also distinguished as part and whole, or “how” and “what.” And they are related in just the same manner as they are distinguished. Just as leaping up implies pressing down, so every distinction is also a relation, which principle we treated in the first chapter of this exploration. It will already be patent to the reader that the above presents an entirely different conception of knowledge than Kant set forth. The latter, together with the majority of contemporary scientific systems, insist on dividing what Aristotle distinguished. For Aristotle, unlike for Modern science, for instance, “matter” does not refer to some brute stuff in the form of infinitesimal pellets which could exist irrespective of an ideal or formal aspect. Neither does it refer, in the manner of contemporary physics, to fields of probability. Matter, for Aristotle, is always related to a form that it participates. The two aspects are distinct, but not separate. The little pellets, therefore, are forms insofar as they exist, and the matter is that out of which the existing things are made. It is difficult to know how to apply Aristotle’s conception to the the probability waves that quantum mechanics describes because Aristotelian physics is designed to understand existing things, and the existence of the probability of something existing is dubious, to say the least, as many, including David Bohm have pointed out. 
Nevertheless, of existing things, not all of them exist in just the same manner. Rather, there are various modes and degrees of existence: “being may be said in many ways,” as Aristotle put it.  Let us explore these manifold ways of which being may be said in respect Goethe’s notion of the Urpflanze, or “archetypal plant.” We can understand the archetypal plant as a form, είδος, or idea, which can differentiate itself both materially and formally. The latter refers specifically to speciation, which is a metamorphosis of the idea. The question of material differentiation will require further investigation to explicate. Matter, again, can be understood as the medium in which the form accomplishes this actuality, which always entails a diachronic embodiment or instantiation of itself in the said medium. A brief note on diachronic instantiation is in order before we proceed to consider the divers media which a form may assume as its matter.
Before we address the phenomenon of “diachronic instantiation,” however, it may be necessary to preëmpt a possible source of misunderstanding. For Aristotle, a particular form-matter composite which generates and maintains itself is a living thing (in contrast to an artefact, which neither generates nor maintains itself) and it is called a “substance.” Many modern interpreters retroject their own notions of “matter” and “substance” onto Aristotle’s physics and therefore imagine him to be advocating some manner of Early Modern materialism. This is a sure way to misunderstand Aristotle, however, because Early Modern philosophers like Galileo, Bacon, and Descartes, repurposed the Philosopher’s words to mean almost the inverse of what Aristotle himself intended. As a result, in the twentieth century, Whitehead, for example, simply assumes that Aristotle means the same thing as the Early Moderns with such terms. Wishing to differentiate his own “process ontology” from Aristotle’s “substance ontology,” Whitehead construes the latter as an immediate predecessor to Cartesian Dualism, which, for the reason indicated above, it most certainly is not. Whitehead also criticises Aristotle for departing from the mathematical approaches of Pythagoras and Plato, which sought “to measure, and thus express quality in terms of numerically determined quantity.”  He then faults the manner of thinking that Aristotelian logic encouraged for its emphasis of classification rather than quantification, before remarking that the popularity of Aristotle’s logic “retarded the advance of physical science throughout the Middle Ages,” and finally concluding: “If only the Schoolmen had measured instead of classified, how much they could have learnt!”  With due respect to Whitehead, this displays a markedly superficial and tendentious conception of philosophical history. To compare the mathematics of the Pythagorean to that of Modern thinkers is to employ that term equivocally, since the magnitudes in question are intensive and extensive, respectively. This is to say that Pythagorean and Modern mathematics are polar opposites. Put another way, Ancient mathematics concerns proportion and Modern concerns quantity. Plato, for instance, was not quantifying the cosmos when he described it at an interplay of “the One” and the “indefinite Dyad.” Instead, he was describing the dynamic interaction of unity and difference insofar as it could be grasped through proportion. Furthermore, neither Aristotle’s notion of matter or of substance has the slightest resemblance to what Whitehead is contesting when the latter set forth his “process philosophy” or “ontology of organism” in opposition to it. Aristotle defines substance, or ουσία “ousia,” in Categories,  as that (i) which cannot be predicated of something else and (ii) which is capable of admitting contrary qualities while retaining its identity. Indeed in this formulation, one may be reminded of Aristotle’s notion of entelechy, for the above is to say that a substance may change while remaining itself. For this reason, a substance in the proper sense can only be an individual living thing, since when an heap of sand is elaborated with clay and lime to form bricks, the heap of sand ceases to exist, and when the stack of bricks is elaborated to form an house, the stack of bricks is similarly abolished. When a chick becomes an hen, however, the same entity does not cease to exist. The substance of that entity persists, despite its matter being continually combusted, excreted, regenerated, replaced. Aristotle is obviously not thinking of matter as inert and mindless particles, which conception Whitehead rightly criticises. Indeed, in On Generation and Corruption, Aristotle likens the form or “eidos” of an organism to a duct or a channel through which currents of matter, like water, continually flow, even as the substance is shaped by the dimensions of its passage, which is a far more concrete metaphor for ordered flux than Whitehead ever managed in spite of his elaborate metaphysical schemata. The philosopher John Philoponus, commenting on the relevant passage from Aristotle above, offers the further metaphor of the form–eidos of an organism as an elastic tube (σωλήν) through which varying volumes of matter may ingress and egress according to the growth and metabolic rate of the organism. Naturally, the above is to be understood as a metaphor because it is likening an idea (the form) to an artefact (a tube), which is itself inherently an idea-matter composite. Thus it will be an aid to our understanding provided that we do not fall into the modern error of supposing the duct to be divisible from the matter that fills it…only distinct.
Returning to the question of “diachronic instantiation” with a slightly more sophisticated understanding of form and matter, or hylomorphism, we are now in a position to consider this notion in greater depth. One need only consider that the concept of development is implicit in the concept of organism. Put another way, an organism which does not change in an ordered manner through time is not an organism. Correspondingly, if someone thinks she sees an organism without seeing it as a diachronic instantiation of a form, she is not seeing an organism—matter in the shape of the organism, perhaps. If we recall our example from the last section, we must acknowledge that the blue flower itself only becomes manifest at a single culminating point in the growth cycle of the being in question, and is presaged by a vernal phase of generation and succeeded by an autumnal phase, which is a fruitional and decadent one. This elaboration of the matter by the form through time transpires according to the principles of “enhancement” (Steigerung) and “polarity” (Polarität), of which the two subordinate principles are “expansion” and “contraction.” Thus the floral stage represents that of maximal expansion or actuality, and also the inflection point and subsequent turn towards maximal contraction, or potentiality, in the seminal stage. We set forth, in Chapter 7, a third principle to add to the two which Goethe explicitly delineated which we called “rhythm,” or “respiration” (Schwingung, perhaps, as we suggested earlier) and which lends a periodicity to the phenomenon of diachronic instantiation. Elsewhere we have called this principle “immanent rhythmicity.” 
Taken together, therefore, we can conclude that the actualisation of physical matter by a form transpires over a period of time, which is essentially the life-span of the given organism. It remains to be explored to what degree the same holds for other species of matter. The form then, in itself, implies all of the various material manifestations that it will undergo. Phenomenally, therefore, a form is better conceived of as a verb than a substantive, though from the transcendental perspective it is the same form that appears in many ways. This is, of course, precisely the meaning of entelechy, or ἐντελέχεια, which is to say, “being-at-work-to-remain-itself.”  Obviously our adventure of reason has led us past the guardian of the Kantian threshold, since the intellection of a form beyond its physical-material instantiation has overstepped Kant’s criteria of knowledge since the form is neither an object of sense nor does it conform to the a priori conditions of space, and arguably time as well. The intellection of the idea happens at a specific time and yet it is not inherently time-bound.
To conceive of a form which necessarily expresses itself diachronically may seem like an abstract notion and yet it is essential if we are to grasp Goethe’s insight into the archetypal plant. And fortunately, it is not as hermetic as it may at first appear: after all, speech and music are no different. We can apprehend the unity of a single word despite the diversity of its sequence of syllables or phonemes, a song even whose compass contains many notes, and a single symphony despite its progression through different movements. Indeed we recognise that if it did not progress, there would be no symphony to speak of. And yet a common form unites the differences and provides for the recognition of its unity. In just the same manner ought we to conceive of the blue flower; as a poem or a sonata.
Returning now to the primary thread of our inquiry, we may continue our investigation of the diverse modes or media by which a given speciation of the archetypal plant-form may express itself. The most obvious such medium is in physical nature and by means of the chemical elements like carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen,  or in the classical elements of Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. This is the medium of physis (φυσις) The same form or idea might assume other media, however. Indeed Goethe attempted to express the Urpflanze in a sketch when he depicted it to Schiller in their famous altercation, and he tried to express it in prose in The Metamorphosis of Plants and A History of my Botanical Studies. Very importantly, the archetypal plant may appear in the medium of the mind, or nous (νους). This is a special case since the form of the archetypal plant achieves its purest condition in the mind. This is because the nature of the former is a form, and mind, as “place of the forms,”  is therefore its natural habitat. The same form that appears physically may also appear noetically. In this manner, we have come to the crux of Goethean science, since unlike Kant, Goethe holds that the content of the idea is no less objective for the fact that it appears subjectively. Hegel brought this notion to a pitch in his philosophy of objective idealism, though as a rule he was hardly better-understood than Goethe, of whom the former considered “myself to be one of your sons.”  The notion of objective idealism is actually quite straightforward, since few people doubt that a number, for instance, can be an object of intellectual intuition despite that it medium is the mind of a subject. Goethe grasped the idea of the plant, through intellectual intuition or judgement-in-beholding (anschauende Urteilskraft), with the same certainty that a person may grasp the number 3.
An inquiry into Aristotle’s description of the process of cognition will help to shed light on this manner of intellectual intuition. Of what has been described as “the most intensely studied sentences in the history of philosophy,”  philosopher Herbert Davidson goes on to remark of De anima III.5 that “just what Aristotle meant by potential intellect and active intellect—terms not even explicit in the De anima and at best implied—and just how he understood the interaction between them remains moot.” It will be evident to anyone who reads Aristotle that he did not fear to divulge secrets to the unprepared because only the initiated would find his publications intelligible. Plutarch relates the story of Alexander the Great:
…when he was in Asia, and heard Aristotle had published some treatises of that kind, he wrote to him, using very plain language to him in behalf of philosophy, the following letter:
Alexander to Aristotle, greeting. You have not done well to publish your books of acroamatic doctrine; for what is there now that we excel others in, if those things which we have been particularly instructed in be laid open to all? For my part, I assure you, I had rather excel others in the knowledge of what is excellent, than in the extent of my power and dominion. Farewell.
And Aristotle, soothing this passion for preëminence, speaks, in his excuse for himself, of these doctrines as in fact “both published and not published,” as indeed, to say the truth, his books on metaphysics are written in a style which makes them useless for ordinary teaching, and instructive only, in the way of memoranda, for those who have been already conversant in that sort of learning. 
Aristotle’s abstruse presentation of the agent and patient intellects in Book III of De anima, therefore, is meant as “an open secret” (offenbar Geheimnis) in Goethe’s sense.  Put another way, it “knows for whom it should speak and for whom it should remain silent.”  Indeed the archetype of the plant is only perceptible to the one who has prepared his mind to receive it. In other words, it is esoteric not because it conceals itself, but because it reveals itself before eyes that are unripe and therefore we do not see it. For this reason, Goethean science demands a concerted education of our own faculties: “every object well-contemplated opens an higher organ of cognition in us,” Goethe wrote. Obviously it is not a physical organ to which Goethe refers. Instead this “new organ” is a pure idea which we have mastered, and can therefore recognise its instantiation in other media, such as the physical elements accessible to sensory intuition. Fichte describes a similar evolution of the cognitive capacity:
This science presupposes a completely new inner sense organ, through which a new world is revealed which does not exist for the ordinary man at all…The world revealed by this new sense, and therefore also the sense itself, is so far clearly defined: it consists in seeing the premises on which is based the judgment that ‘something is’; that is, seeing the foundation of existence which, just because it is the foundation, is in itself nothing else and cannot be defined. 
The senses, as Kant affirmed, are one source of intuition. But Goethe and Fichte set forth the intellect as the other. Because the senses provide the appearance of things, or how they appear, while the intellect discloses what those things are, for this reason Fichte describes the ability of this “new inner sense organ” for “seeing the foundation of existence.” Thus, as the eyes perceive colour, so the mind perceives forms. Aristotle affirms the same “mind (nous) must be related to what is thinkable, as sense is to what is sensible.” Judgement-in-beholding, which is the competency of Fichte’s “new inner sense organ,” means to join the phenomenal aspect with the noumenal one in consciousness. Critically, this intellectual intuition, by which we may grasp “the-thing-in-itself,” is not calibrated in our infancy in the manner of our organs of sensory perception. On the contrary, we must actively undertake the development of our organs of cognition. Indeed the scope of our intellectual intuition will be prescribed as a function of our level of development in this respect. Neither ought one to object that the possibility to think a falsehood disproves this faculty, since through such education we learn to correct for discrepancies in the same manner that we are able to correct for visual anomalies like after images without compromising their function as faithful organs of sense. In a manner, therefore, that the ableness for intellectual intuition should appear as a graduated proficiency in not something mystical but something obvious. As Blake put it, “A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.” Aristotle describes the process whereby the mind emerges to a conscious self-activity and self-education:
Once the mind has become each set of its possible objects, as a man of science has, when this phrase is used of one who is actually a man of science (this happens when he is now able to exercise the power on his own initiative), its condition is still one of potentiality, but in a different sense from the potentiality which preceded the acquisition of knowledge by learning or discovery: the mind too is then able to think itself.
What Aristotle is saying is that an idea may be a potential object of intuition before we actually learn to grasp it, and once we learn to grasp it is still a potential object of intuition but in a more immediate manner than before, or “in a different sense from the potentiality which preceded the acquisition of knowledge by learning or discovery.” For instance, everyone is, in principle, capable to intuit the idea of the archetypal plant, and yet for the one like Goethe who has once succeeded, the same idea will be immediately at hand, ready to be actualised by the eventual perception of any one of its instances. “The mind too is then able to think itself” means that, once one has negotiated the transposition of the archetypal plant from one of its instantiations in physis to its pure form as nous, which is “the place of the forms,” then the archetypal plant becomes not a “being-at-work” whose existence is a function of Nature, but now of mind. Thus, its form-noumenon and its matter-phenomenon are become the same.
Aristotle describes this reflexive noetic activity of the mind in the notorious chapter of De Anima in which he differentiates the agent and the patient intellects (intellectus agens et intellectus possibilis). The same mind brings forth the form actively and also becomes the form receptively as matter. Because the matter is not other than the form, in this case, the form-idea is pure actuality:
Actual knowledge is identical with its object: in the individual, potential knowledge is temporally prior to actual knowledge, but universally it is not prior even in time. Mind is not at one time knowing and at another not. When mind is set free from its present conditions it appears as just what it is and nothing more: this alone is immortal and eternal (we do not, however, remember its former activity because, while mind in this sense is impassible, mind as passive is destructible), and without it nothing thinks.
“Actual knowledge is identical with its object” because the form of an object is what that object is. “Potential knowledge is temporally prior to actual knowledge, but universally it is not prior even in time” because the idea of the Urpflanze, for instance, must be potentially thinkable before I can actually think it. Moreover, in a second-order but analogous relation, I must first have educated myself to potentially think the idea of the Urpflanze, before I can actually do so. Nevertheless, the actual idea of the Urpflanze preëxisted my ability to potentially think it. In fact, the former is not essentially time-bound at all in the manner that any particular instantiation of it would be, whether in physis or in nous. This, again, entirely departs the premises of the Kantian a priori knowledge-complex. To “set mind free from its present conditions” means to attain the state in which its agent function is no longer concealed in consciousness by the products of its patient function, for we are ordinarily only aware of the results of our perceptions and not their production. We will save en exegesis of the final lines for another occasion, since we are now in a position to understand the Nature of judgement-in-beholding (anschauende Urteilskraft), which is in many ways to purpose of this entire exploration.
Goethe writes of his perception that “my intuition itself is a thinking, and my thinking a intuition,” and calls this faculty “judgement-in-beholding.” Following Aristotle, we can now understand how the active faculty of judgement and the passive faculty of beholding may be brought into union. Now we are prepared to understand the specific manner in which Goethe transcended the Kantian threshold. Let us recall that thinking, for Kant, was a spontaneous or active faculty, while sensation was an intuitive or passive one. Because of its spontaneity, the veracity of thinking was undependable, while because of its nature, sensation could only reveal how things appear, not what they are. Of thinking, however, we can be certain of its own content since it was our doing, just as we can be certain of our own motives in the exercise of practical reason. Our uncertainty lies in whether thinking appropriately instantiates an objective idea or form. The following must be accomplished: thinking spontaneously brings forth noetically the same idea that is manifest before the senses phenomenally. And this idea, in its pure form, is just the noumenon or “thing-in-itself.” Objects speak their truth to us, but they do this with our own voice. We must, therefore, be disposed to lend it to them and also to listen to them: “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” Obviously a phenomenon will not disclose itself if we ignore it any more than the reader can interpret this text if she refuses read it. Indeed, just as with text, a phenomenon does not conceal a noumenon, but rather reveals it…to the one with eyes to see.
 For the Greeks, as for most pre-Early Modern European cultures, elements were not primarily chemical but phenomenological and this always correlated to the perception of them, unlike the majority of the elements of the modern periodic table. Indeed one might even go so far as to say that latter are only perceptible insofar as their are translated into the terms of the former. Nitrogen, becomes perceptible, for instance, when at room temperature and ordinary barometric pressure it is experienced as gaseous, which is to say, as Air.
 See linked page.
 Joe Sachs writes of “entelechy”:
Aristotle invents the word by combining entelēs (ἐντελής, “complete, full-grown”) with echein (= hexis, to be a certain way by the continuing effort of holding on in that condition), while at the same time punning on endelecheia (ἐνδελέχεια, “persistence”) by inserting “telos” (τέλος, “completion”). This is a three-ring circus of a word, at the heart of everything in Aristotle’s thinking…
 “Est ergo differentia inter materiam et formam, quod materia est ens in potentia, forma autem est endelechia, id est actus, quo scilicet materia fit actu, unde ipsum compositum est ens actu.” (Commentary on De Anima, section 215)
 David Bohm, quoted in Sheldrake, Rupert. The New Science of Life. Icon Books, UK, 1981.
Now, there’s one other thing that modern quantum mechanics doesn’t handle. Oddly enough, physics at present has no contact with the notion of actuality. You see, classical physics has at least some notion of actuality in saying that actuality consists of a whole collection of particles that are moving and interacting in a certain way. Now, in quantum physics, there is no concept of actuality whatsoever, because quantum physics maintains that its equations don’t describe anything actual, they merely describe the probability of what an observer could see if he had an instrument of a certain kind, and this instrument is therefore supposed to be necessary for the actuality of the phenomenon. But the instrument, in turn, is supposed to be made of similar particles, obeying the same laws, which would, in turn, require another instrument to give them actuality. That would go on an infinite regress. Wigner has proposed to end the regress by saying it is the consciousness of the actual observer that gives actuality to everything.
 τὸ δὲ ὂν λέγεται μὲν πολλαχῶς, (Metaphysics, IV.2).
 Science and the Modern World, p. 37.
 Chapter 5.
 See linked page.
 See note 3.
 Anthroposophical chemist Rudolf Hauschka has recommended rechristening oxygen and hydrogen with the more natural and expressive names of “biogen” “pyrogen,” respectively.
 Aristotle’s phrase is “τόπον εἰδῶν,” “topos eiden,” or “place of the ideas-forms,” cf. De Anima 429a27-29
 “Denn wenn ich den Gang meiner geistigen Entwicklung übersehe, sehe ich Sie überall darein verflochten und mag mich einen Ihrer Söhne nennen,” Hegel wrote in a letter to Goethe, 24 April 1825.
 Davidson, Herbert (1992), Alfarabi, Avicenna, and Averroes, on Intellect, Oxford University Press, p. 3.
 Life of Alexander, chapter 7.
 Goethe’s poem, “Epirrhema”
In the contemplation of Nature,
Always view the one and all:
Nothing is within, nothing is without;
For what is inside, is also outside.
So seize without delay
That sacred open secret.
Delight both in the true appearance,
And the serious game:
No living being is a solitary thing,
But always a multitude.
 See Chapter 1.
 Introductory Lecture to the Science of Knowledge (Wissenschaftslehre), delivered at Berlin University in the autumn of 1813. Sämtliche Werke, Collected Works, Berlin, 1845, Vol. I, P. 71.