There are two or three things to understand about meditation. The most difficult, and the most essential, is this: because of the word itself it seems meditation must be some action, some doing, something you will have to do. But the higher we go, the less our words remain meaningful. So “meditation” sounds like something to do. In truth, meditation is not something you do; it is something that happens. You can be in meditation; you cannot do meditation.
Understand it as you would the word “love.” The same confusion arises there too: it seems you must “do” love. You cannot do love—you can be in love. And there is a great difference between being and doing. If you do love, it will turn false. How can a fabricated love be true? Done love becomes performance and acting.
This is the greatest difficulty. If something can be done, we can tackle it. Let there be hardship, a mountain to climb, difficulty—we will manage. But when something is to happen, what are we to do?
Once a great emperor in Japan heard that a monk on a nearby mountain was teaching meditation. Many reported that they felt deep peace, great joy, a glimpse of the divine. The emperor also went. The ashram stretched far across the hills. In the center stood a large building, a temple with a golden spire; around it were the monks’ quarters. The emperor said to the old monk, “Please explain, point by point, what seekers do here. And show me the places where whatever is done is done. I have come to understand the whole matter.”
The monk took the emperor around. He showed the place where the monks took their meals: “Here they eat.”
The emperor said, “I am not interested in dining and such. Tell me the real thing.”
He showed where they bathed: “Here they bathe.”
“Don’t waste my time,” the emperor said.
“Here the monks study; here they sleep.”
“Leave these little things,” the emperor insisted. “That building in the middle with the golden spire—what do you do there?”
A strange thing: whenever the emperor mentioned that central temple with the golden spire, the monk suddenly became deaf—he heard everything else but not that! They toured the whole ashram and left the one building that seemed most worth seeing. At the gate the monk bid the emperor farewell. The emperor said, “Either I am mad or you are. The very building that seems worth seeing—you did not even take me near it. You showed useless things—where they bathe, where they eat. What do you do in the central hall? Why do you go deaf when I ask about it?”
The monk said, “Your question puts me in a great difficulty. You asked me to show you where we do what we do. That building is for the time when we have nothing at all to do—then we go there. That is our meditation hall. There we do nothing. As long as there is doing to be done, we are in these other places. When someone is ready to enter non-doing, he goes to that hall. And you ask—what do you do there? I am stuck. If I say, ‘We meditate there,’ that would be wrong. Meditation means precisely this: a state of mind in which we are not doing anything.”
So the first thing to grasp is that meditation is not your doing. Remember too: wherever there is doing, there will be tension. Only in non-doing can there be rest and peace. But we have completely forgotten non-doing. For twenty-four hours we are doing something or other. Even at night we dream; if nothing is left to do, we do something in dreams. To be empty is difficult. To pause in non-doing even for a moment is hard.
Yet, it is a great paradox: by doing you can obtain anything in the world—but by doing you cannot obtain the divine. To come upon the divine, you have to descend into non-doing. Its dimension is different. Its path is very different. Why?
Whatever we achieve by doing cannot be greater than us. How can what we have made be greater than the maker? Build as vast a house as you like—it cannot be greater than its owner. Climb to the loftiest post—it will still be beneath you; you will be above the post. Truly, no one can do anything greater than himself—how could you? What you do will always be less than you. The divine is not less than you; therefore it remains beyond the reach of your doing—you cannot do God.
Also remember: whenever we do something, our ego is strengthened. “I did it!”—and the “I” grows stronger. Those who are moving toward God must have their ego melt, not harden. The stronger it becomes, the harder the meeting. So through doing you will never arrive at the divine, because doing fortifies the me. Build a grand house—the me swells: “I built it!” Pile up wealth—the me consolidates. Accumulate knowledge—the me becomes more solid. Those who would go toward the divine cannot carry the ego along; hence there is no path there through doing.
This is the greatest difficulty. We are habituated to doing, and we have no clue how to not-do. It should have been simple: doing should be difficult, non-doing easy; because in non-doing there is nothing to be done—how can that be hard? But habit! Our whole life is entangled in doing. We have lost the knack of not-doing.
So here, for these three mornings, for this one hour, we will take a small dip into the journey of non-doing. It is not certain you will manage, because if you go on doing, you will stall. What can I do then? How to get you into non-doing? You can see the difficulty. One can teach doing; how can one teach not-doing? The teaching of non-doing can only be negative. All we can say is: don’t do this, don’t do that, and then leave it—whatever happens, let it happen.
A farmer sows a seed. He waters it, manures it, fences it. But he cannot pull out the sprout. The sprout will come by itself. What I am calling meditation—you cannot pull it out; it will sprout on its own. You can only create the situation in which nothing hinders its emergence.
As I was saying yesterday: each night you go to bed and you sleep. If someone asks you, “Please tell me precisely how you sleep,” you will be at a loss. Sleep too seems like an action. The word gives the impression that you did something. In the morning you say, “I slept.” So it appears you did something. If I ask, “How did you sleep? What did you do to sleep?” whatever you say will have nothing to do with sleep. You will say, “I lay down.” But lying down is not sleep. You will say, “I used pillows.” But pillows are not sleep. Sleep can come without pillows, and with pillows it may not come. You will say, “I shut the doors and made it dark.” But making it dark is not sleep; one can be awake in darkness. Then I will tell you: all this was preparation for sleep; it was not sleep. Yes, after all the preparation, what did you do then? How did sleep come? You will say, “I just lay there.” But lying there is not sleep; lying is waiting—just awaiting that sleep may come. You cannot bring sleep; you can only wait. You can arrange things so that you may lie in ease and wait, watching for sleep to arrive.
For meditation too, you have to wait. We can make the outer arrangements. Even those outer arrangements are only needed on the first steps; slowly they become unnecessary, once you learn in what mood-state meditation descends. Meditation is not something you do; you do something else, and meditation settles in between your doings. So for meditation you must wait, and create a situation in which obstacles are removed.
Understand it a little more. Suppose we tell someone: “You may be angry, but you are not allowed to redden your eyes, not allowed to clench your teeth, not allowed to make a fist; do nothing with your body—just be angry.” He will be in trouble. Anger needs a situation into which it can descend. If you say, “Don’t clench your hands, don’t press your teeth, don’t redden your eyes, don’t let a line come to your face—otherwise, be angry,” he will be stuck. Anger is not clenched hands, nor pressed teeth, nor bloodshot eyes; anger is something else. Yet only when that situation is there does anger descend.
In America there was a thinker, James. He even stated the matter upside down and, with Lange, propounded a theory—the James–Lange theory. There is much juice in it. What he said is not literally true, but it is alive. We ordinarily say a man runs because he is afraid. James said he is afraid because he runs. For who can demonstrate fear without running? We say, “He got frightened and ran.” James and Lange said, “No, it’s the other way: he ran, therefore he became afraid. For let him stand still and show fear!” Their point is: if it doesn’t express through the body, then show us the fear!
Fear has its situation in which it descends. Anger has its situation. Love has its situation. Meditation too has a situation—a context—into which it descends. You cannot bring meditation; you can only create the situation. But even if you have arranged the situation and meditation does not descend, you cannot complain. You must understand that somewhere a mistake remains in the situation. Then wait.
I open the door of my house and the sun does not come in—then I must understand it is still night; I will have to wait till sunrise. Keep the door open; when morning comes, the sun will enter. You cannot tie sunlight into bundles and carry it in, but you can, if you wish, keep even so great a sun out by closing a door.
This is delightful. We are unable to bring meditation, but we are perfectly able to prevent it. We can stop the light; we cannot bring it. And to bring it, all that is needed is that the door not be shut, that it be open. Still, if the door is open at the wrong time and the light does not come, whom will you complain to? No one is there to hear. You will have to wait. The sun will rise; the light will come in.
So, as I see it, first: meditation is non-action. Second: meditation is awaiting. In truth, non-action can only wait. Action can demand: “Come!” But one who is doing nothing can only wait: if you come, thank you; if you do not, there is no complaint. It is not in my power; I cannot drag you here.
What does a farmer do? He sows the seed and waits. He has provided the situation—watered and manured. Now he sits and watches for the seed to break. And beware: if the farmer is impatient, like small children. Children plant a mango pit and, an hour later, dig it up—“Has the sprout not come yet?” Then they put it back, and an hour later they return. No waiting—great impatience—“Let the plant sprout quickly!” That mango seed will never sprout—remember that. Because if you pull it out each hour, that hour is lost; put it back and it starts all over again.
The seed must be left in the soil, in solitude, in darkness—the sprout will break silently; it will grow; you will have to wait. And remember, the weaker the seed, the more seasonal, the sooner it will appear. The greater the tree, the longer-lived, the longer it will take. So do not be in a hurry.
Many come to me and say, “It’s been two days now I’ve been meditating, and still no vision of God!”
It is useless to say anything to them; they have no idea what they are saying. They have sat with eyes closed for fifteen minutes and think they are claimants, entitled to God. If God had a supreme court, they could file a case: “For two days I sat fifteen minutes with eyes closed—and you did not come!”
Life requires great patience. The deeper the treasure you seek, the more patience is needed. And the wonder is: the more patience, the sooner it comes; the more impatience, the longer it takes. If patience is infinite, it can happen this very instant. If there is no patience at all, even after infinite births it will not.
How to create the situation? We cannot create meditation; we cannot produce it. But how to make the door through which meditation comes? I will give you three sutras. We will practice these three and wait. The day these three are fulfilled, you won’t even notice when your life changed—meditation will have arrived.
And meditation does not come gradually, by degrees. It comes like an explosion. When your door is open and the sun rises, it is not that one ray comes, then a second, then a third. No—if the door is open and the sun has risen, the whole sun is present; all the rays flood in at once. There is an explosion. When love comes into life, it does not arrive step by step; it appears all at once. Heat water to a hundred degrees—at once the droplets leap and become steam. It is not that one droplet is half steam and half water. Here is water, there is steam—between them there is no degree. Yes, in heating water, there are degrees—up to a hundred.
So when meditation comes, it comes all at once. But building the situation can take time. Those are the degrees—the long warming up to a hundred. And it is a curious thing: even at ninety-nine degrees, water is still water. At ninety-eight, still water. At ninety, still water. At ninety-nine and a half, still water. Just a hair’s breadth more and—jump!—it crosses over. Half a degree earlier, it was still water. Only hot water—no real difference yet. What is the difference between cold water and hot water? Only this: if that last half degree completes, the water that had reached ninety-nine and a half becomes steam, while the water at ten degrees does not. Otherwise, both are water. And from ninety-nine and a half one can still slip back. There is no inevitability that, having reached ninety-nine and a half, you must reach a hundred. You can fall back. Half a degree—and everything can be lost. And my own understanding is: we lose God from very close, not from far away—just by the corner—we miss.
I have heard of a blind man in a palace with a thousand doors. He was feeling each door to find a way out. He had tried nine hundred and ninety-nine; only one door remained—the open one. When he came to it, his head began to itch. He scratched—then walked on. Now he would search again among the closed doors—nine hundred and ninety-nine doors of wandering—then perhaps he would again come to the thousandth. Who knows, he might miss again. Let a small itch arise, take two steps forward—and it is a wall.
We miss from that close—not from far. Just as we are about to turn, we turn away. A small thing—and everything is lost.
Three sutras for this preparation. These are only the prologue. In this prologue meditation can descend. The first sutra I call: the feeling of floating.
Go to a riverbank and watch. One man enters the water and swims—he fights the current, he tries to get somewhere. Right beside him, a dry leaf drifts by. It does not swim, it aims nowhere; it simply floats along. See: the leaf’s mind is utterly at ease—because there is no effort to swim. Just floating, no fight with the river. The dry leaf has mounted the river’s shoulders: “Where you take me, I go. Why should I bother to swim? The river itself is flowing so strongly; I go along.” It does not fight; it becomes one with the river. The waves lift it—it rises; the current carries it—it goes.
Another man is swimming—he exerts all his strength; he is fighting the river.
The mind too has two states: swimming and floating. If you are in the swimming state, you will move into action, into karma. Without the urge to swim, no one enters karma. The more active the mind, the more it will be swimming—against rivers, against life’s current, against people, against circumstances—fighting all the time.
But I am saying meditation is non-action. So drop fighting; float. Take a dry leaf into your meditation—that dry leaf floating in the river. For a few moments, become that dry leaf: flowing along, not fighting. This feeling of floating is an essential condition for meditation. If it is there, meditation can descend.
But even for meditation we will sit as if for an inner fight: “I must meditate!” Hands clenched, teeth tight. Are you going to war? Are you swimming?
No—relax, let go, become loose. Do not fight anything—just float. For five minutes we will do this experiment to taste the feeling of floating. Once you have tasted it, we will do the second, then the third. We will understand each sutra separately, and then sit for meditation—the sum of all three.
For the feeling of floating, the body must be utterly relaxed. Floating needs no tension. Everyone should sit a little apart—no one touching anyone. Make sure no one is touching you; another’s touch will never allow you to arrive at floating. Another’s touch fills you with a deep tension. Touch is a distant thing—even another’s mere presence fills you with inner strain.
You are alone in your sitting room—you are a different person. The bell rings—immediately you are someone else. A man enters—you change. Every fiber tightens. You are no longer the one who was resting a moment ago. In the bathroom you are another person, in the sitting room another. In the bathroom you are relaxed—no question of anyone’s presence. So sometimes even an old man behaves like a child there—making faces in the mirror. But if he learns someone is peeking through the keyhole, everything changes—the child is gone; the old man is again stiff. So even another’s presence is a hindrance. Another’s touch is a hindrance. So no one should be touching anyone. And then we will close the eyes, so that others can be forgotten. You are alone—only then can you relax completely.
Here we are experimenting. Once you have understood this, do it at night when you lie in bed. Darkness has fallen, the world is closed, the door is shut, you are lying silently. Do this experiment just before sleep. Let sleep come while doing it.
You will find the quality of sleep in the morning has changed. You will wake different—fresher, more quiet, more joyous. The possibility of anger will lessen, tension will lessen. And this is the condition—when it reaches a hundred degrees, meditation will also happen.
So first, for five minutes, we will do the floating experiment.
Close your eyes. No—let them close on their own. Let the lids relax. Sit with the body loose. Let the eyes fall shut, leave the body relaxed. Let the lids droop—do not press them; even that effort is not right. Just let them fall, and they close. Leave the body loose and sit utterly at ease. We are not going to work; we are going to float—so sit completely relaxed. There is no difficulty at all—just prepare rightly and floating will happen.
Let the body be loose, eyes closed—and begin to see a small picture in imagination: it is morning, the sun has risen, two mountains shine in its light, and between them a river runs. Just imagine this, so the feeling of floating can be understood. Between two hills, in the glittering sunlight, a river is racing. The river is running, flowing. See it clearly, because soon we too will enter it and float in it. The river flows; it will become clear. Two shining hills; between them the river runs. The river flows—now gently leave yourself in it; step in softly. Do not swim—let go like a dry leaf; just begin to float, flow with the river. The river runs; you too flow with it. Keep seeing yourself drifting, drifting, drifting. Leave yourself completely loose; the river will carry you—there is nothing to do. For five minutes let only one feeling be present: I am flowing, I am flowing. Do not move your hands, do not swim, do not try to reach anywhere. The river runs; I am flowing, I am flowing. Let a single feeling remain: I am flowing, I am being carried; I am not doing anything—just flowing. As you float, the mind will grow light and quiet; a new freshness will fill within. Floating, all tension will drop. In five minutes, when you come out of the river, the whole inner climate will have changed.
Now I will be silent for five minutes. Flow, and keep letting go. If the body bends, let it; if it slumps, let it. Do not worry about the body—just loose, no tension. It will lean forward, it will sway back; it may slide—let it. Be completely loose, and float...
Watch: keep no tension on the face—because you are floating. Do not knit the brow—because you are floating. You are not doing heavy work; you are not doing anything—just flowing... the face becomes light and calm, each line softens; inside, the mind settles... I am flowing, I am flowing... with every breath, only this remains—I am flowing, I am flowing, I keep flowing... the mind grows light and peaceful... I am flowing, the river runs... the mind becomes utterly fresh, new, quiet... I am flowing—I am doing nothing, just drifting along like a dry leaf... I am flowing... the mind grows light and calm...
Let go, totally let go—be carried, become a dry leaf... the river runs, I am being carried... I am flowing, I am flowing... I am doing nothing—everything is happening: the river flows, the sun has risen, and I too am flowing... I am not doing anything—just flowing... and the mind grows utterly quiet, lighter and lighter... a deep silence is born within—as if a burden has dropped... I am flowing, I am flowing... I have been carried away like a dry leaf; I am doing nothing—I am just flowing... See yourself drifting; recognize clearly the inner feel, the flavor of floating. This is the first link of meditation... I am flowing, I am flowing... Let go, totally let go—do not hold even a little; keep no tension... I am flowing, I am flowing, I am flowing... The mind becomes utterly quiet and light... Where can restlessness be in floating? Restlessness can be in swimming. Where can tension be in floating? Tension can be in swimming. Let go—recognize this feeling well: I am flowing...
Now slowly come out of the river... you are standing on the bank... the river still flows on... but see how five minutes of floating have changed things—the mind is lighter...
Now slowly open your eyes. Understand the second experiment. Then we will sit for it. Open your eyes gently.
When the idea of floating arises, the mind’s burdens drop. When the idea of swimming arises, they grow. With the idea of swimming, this world begins to look like an enemy—we are fighting, fighting with everything. With the idea of floating, this world becomes like a mother’s lap—we lie down in it, we sleep, we drift. Those who would enter meditation must learn the art of floating—there is no other way.
The second sutra is the feeling of not-being, of disappearing, of dissolving.
There was a fakir, Nasruddin. One day he asked his wife, “People die, but how does the one who dies come to know that he has died?”
His wife said, “What silly notions arise in you! When you die, you will know—why worry now?”
Nasruddin said, “When I die, perhaps I will not come to know. While I still have awareness, let me find out what happens upon dying!”
Just to put him off, his wife said, “Your hands and feet will grow cold—then you will know.”
One cold morning Nasruddin went to the forest to cut wood. He began to feel his hands and feet turn cold. He thought, “Looks like I am dying.” He had seen dead people—never saw any of them standing. He thought, “Since I am dying, I should lie down, because all corpses are lying.” He quickly dropped the axe and lay down. It was cold; while he swung the axe there was some warmth. Now the axe lay aside and he lay down; he grew colder. Colder still—“Now the matter is finished; nothing can be done.” Soon he was quite cold. He thought, “The dead do not speak, nor get up, nor shout, nor tell anyone they are dead. Others must figure it out, because never have I heard a dead man say, ‘I am dead.’” So he lay there, stiff as a board.
Some travelers passed by and saw him. “Looks like someone is dead.” They stopped to talk. Nasruddin thought, “People always gather when someone dies.” They made a bier. “Let us at least carry him to the cremation ground.” They tied him to the bier and set off. But they were strangers and didn’t know the village paths. At a crossroads, one way led to the cremation ground, another to another village. “Which way leads to the cremation ground?” they asked. Nasruddin knew. But he thought, “The dead never tell which way the cremation ground is.” The men said, “This is trouble—no one is around to ask. If someone came by, we could inquire.” They grew quite anxious; they needed to reach the other village soon. “What a nuisance we have taken on! We should at least take this man to the cremation ground, but no one is in sight,” they said. Nasruddin many times thought of telling them, “I know.” But the dead never say. Finally they began to abandon him. “In an emergency at least, I should tell them,” he thought. He said, “Listen—when I used to be alive, people went to the cremation ground by the left road.” And quickly he lay still on the bier again. They said, “What a madman you are! If you can talk, get up—why are you troubling us?” They pulled him up. He returned home.
He told his wife, “What a thing you told me—that when hands and feet grow cold a man dies! I got into great trouble! Not only I, but four others too were troubled. But I thank you—because something very wonderful happened.”
His wife asked, “What happened?”
He said, “When I accepted that I was dead, I became as peaceful as I have never been—even though I was alive. Once I accepted, ‘I am dead,’ I thought, ‘Now what restlessness can there be?’ When I lay under that tree, when they bound me to the bier, the peace I knew—I had never known before. Though you were wrong that cold hands mean death, it is good you told me—otherwise I would never have known this peace. Now I will live as if I am already dead.”
His wife said, “What madness!”
He said, “I am no longer willing to carry the burden of being alive on my head. In those few moments I knew such bliss. I realized this notion ‘I am’ is the root of all my trouble. I am dead now—do not consider me alive.”
From that day Nasruddin’s life was a different life.
So the second deep condition for meditation is the feeling of dissolving. As long as the thought “I am” is there, you cannot be silent. This “I am” is our unrest. And the fun is: it echoes because we go on striking the note; if we stop, it fades. Still, we are; but in a very different sense. We are no longer in the sense of “I.” Nasruddin too was, no one dies because hands get cold. In truth, no one dies. Those whom you have burned on the bier—they too did not die. No one dies. Even if they had burned him, nothing essential would have changed. What burns is not our being. What remains even after burning—that is what we are.
But we come to know it only when the sense of “I” drops. Because we have identified this “I” with the body, mind, thoughts, ego—as if this is me. All this is mortal; it will end. Before it ends on its own, if someone sees it ending—he attains the ultimate peace.
So the second sutra is the feeling of dissolving—of not-being, of nothingness.
We will practice it for five minutes so its flavor is clear. Once it is clear, you begin to live differently. If someone abused Nasruddin, he would say, “Ah, you are abusing that Nasruddin who died? Had he been here, my son, he would have taught you a lesson. But he is gone.” And he would walk on.
People said, “Have you lost your wits? We are abusing you.”
He said, “I heard—but you are abusing the Nasruddin who is already dead.”
Certain—it is impossible to abuse such a man. The one who catches the abuse—the “I”—is not there. In truth, the abuse does nothing; what matters is the knack of catching it. If I abuse you and you don’t catch it, it is wasted. The question is of catching. And if I don’t even abuse, and you are skilled at catching, then seeing my eyes, you will catch it; seeing my gait, you will catch it—“This man looks as if he is abusing!” A skillful catcher will find abuse where none is given; and if he forgets how to catch, even where it is given, he will not catch it. Then what can abuse do?
So Nasruddin laughed. “You abuse a dead man—someone who is no longer there! Have some shame—why abuse one who is gone?” And he remained unhurt. For the one who used to be hurt had died. Within us there is a string that grieves—that is the “I.” It keeps getting hurt.
Close your eyes—not forcefully, let them close. Leave the body loose, and try to understand the second sutra. Become Nasruddin. Eyes closed, body loose... let it be loose, eyes closed... utterly loose—we are not going to do anything; we are going to die... totally loose—as if the body is not... eyes closed, body released... if it bends, let it; if it falls, let it; if it lies down, let it... leave it completely loose...
Now see a second picture: we are at the cremation ground; not standing—lying, tied to the bier. You have often gone there to carry others—sometimes it is good to go to carry yourself. This time, you have come to carry yourself. The cremation ground, friends and relatives, acquaintances—they are all around. The bier is there; it is you who are tied—not someone else. The mind will say, “See someone else.” No— it is you. No one else is tied to this bier—you are. Recognize the face well—you have seen it in the mirror many times; it is the same face. It is you on the bier. It is me—on the bier. Recognize clearly: I am tied to the bier.
Even this thought—“I am on the bier”—will bring a great peace within. The thought that this bier is mine—everything changes. They lift the bier onto the pyre, the heap of wood; now they are lighting the fire. It has caught. See: dark night; the fire rises, tongues of flame run toward the sky; the pyre is burning; smoke spreads... not only the wood burns—I burn... see, I am burning... friends and loved ones step back—the heat is intense; the fire is roaring; soon everything will be ash... flames shoot toward the sky and I am burning, dissolving... Let one feeling remain within: I am dissolving, I am dissolving, I am coming to an end... As the flames grow, as the body turns to ash, an unparalleled peace will enter within, a profound hush will descend. If I have dissolved, what unrest can remain?
For five minutes, keep watching: I am dissolving. The friends have gone; silence spreads over the cremation ground; the fire burns on... soon all will be ash... all is becoming ash... I am dissolving, I am dissolving... let go completely—dissolve. What can burn will burn; what cannot burn will stand across, watching—watching itself burn and dissolve. Let what burns burn; what does not burn will not.
Everything dissolves; I am dissolving, I am dissolving... the mind grows calm and light... I am dissolving, I am dissolving... I am completely gone... I am gone... silence—everything is quiet; the flames too begin to die; a heap of ashes and embers remains... I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... The cremation ground is silent; the darkness is deep; the embers fade; only a mound of ash remains... Look at this mound carefully; recognize it well—this recognition is precious... a heap of ash remains; I am completely gone... I am gone... I am gone... And see what peace, what stillness surrounds within...
I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... all is gone... I am gone... I am gone... completely gone... The mind is silent, utterly light—no burden, no weight, no tension. I am gone—then what burden? What tension? What unrest? I am completely gone...
I am gone... I am gone... Let only one feeling remain—I am gone... I am gone... I am not... I am not... I am not... Recognize this feeling well—it is the necessary step into the temple of meditation. No one can enter meditation while the “I” remains. I am gone... I am not... Recognize this fully... I am not... the mind has become utterly quiet...
Now slowly open your eyes. Understand the third experiment, and do it. The deeper this feeling “I am not” goes, the more it creates the situation into which meditation can descend. Beyond the “I,” perhaps there is no other stone that blocks its coming. When “I am not,” the door opens—space appears—through which meditation can enter.
The third sutra is total acceptance.
In life we are full of refusals. Our life is resistance through and through. And we do not see how much unrest we have gathered through resistance and denial.
I was a guest at a small rest house. The state’s chief minister was also staying there that night. I returned at about half past ten; he returned around quarter to eleven. A small village, a small rest house. For some reason a dozen dogs had gathered around, quarreling and barking. I fell asleep. The chief minister came to me after a while and said, “Seeing you asleep makes me envious. I chased those dogs away several times—but they return. They make such a racket—how can sleep be possible!”
I said, “The dogs won’t even know you are a guest here. They don’t read newspapers, they don’t listen to the radio. How would they know the chief minister is staying here? What interest would they have in troubling you? They wouldn’t even imagine they must harm your sleep. Perhaps there was some relationship from a past life—otherwise there seems no link in this one that they should come to bother you. You go to sleep; let them bark.”
He said, “How can it be—that dogs bark and I sleep?”
I said, “Dogs barking causes no disturbance. The feeling ‘dogs should not bark’ causes the disturbance. Let’s try an experiment. The dogs won’t run away; even if you chase them, they’ll return. How long will you go on—through the night? Take my advice—lie down on your bed and accept the barking. Accept that dogs bark. Listen quietly. Agree: dogs bark and I sleep. Don’t create a conflict between the two. There is no real opposition between dogs barking and your sleeping. Let the dogs bark; accept it. Their sound will echo within and pass. Just listen silently. Do not resist. Do not carry the feeling ‘dogs should not bark.’”
He said, “What will that do? Dogs will keep barking. How will my acceptance stop the dogs?”
I said, “The dogs won’t stop—you will stop.”
There was no other way. He chased them once or twice more; they came back. Then with no choice, he followed my suggestion—he lay down. Who knows when he fell asleep.
At six in the morning he woke me and said, “This is astonishing. I lay down and accepted: ‘All right, dogs bark; I have no quarrel.’ I listened to their barking peacefully. I don’t know when I fell asleep. And not only did I sleep—I slept more deeply than in years.”
For sleep that comes in non-resistance is very deep. In meditation, non-resistance—a complete lack of quarrel—is essential. Ordinarily, when someone sits to meditate, he becomes very disturbed: dogs bark, crows caw, a child cries, a vessel clatters in the house. If a man in a house begins his prayer, his worship, his meditation, he starts harassing the whole household. He entered to meditate somewhat disturbed; he emerges even more disturbed—because he has picked a fight with the whole world.
Will the world stop for your meditation? Nor is there any need. The world will go on: cars will pass on the road; horns will blow; people will talk. What has your meditation to do with others?
But the very attitude of meditation is wrong if you think “all this should stop.” There is no greater disturbance than this thought: “There should be no disturbance.” The world will continue. Buddhas will be born, Mahaviras will be born, Krishnas, Christs will be born—the world will go on. If Krishna is to become Krishna, he will have to accept the world as it is. If Buddha is to be at peace, these dogs will go on barking, the crows will caw—he will have to be peaceful in their midst. If any Buddha were to insist, “Let all be still; then I will be still,” then that stillness is impossible—never in any life will it happen.
So the greatest obstacle for meditation is our expectations: this should not be, that should not be, then meditation will happen. None of your expectations will be fulfilled. In fact, you will have to drop expectation and enter meditation. And there is a very strange sweetness when we begin to accept.
For five minutes we will do this third experiment. Now there are street sounds, birds are calling. We will listen and accept. We will let them enter us in a friendly way. No resistance will remain in between. We do not refuse. That crow will caw; the sound will echo and pass. And here is the curious thing: as when you walk on a dark night, a car comes, its headlight falls into your eyes, then the car goes—and the darkness seems even deeper. If you accept the crow’s caw, the horn on the road, you will be surprised to discover: the horn will sound and cease, and you will enter a silence deeper than the one you had before the horn. Acceptance carries you deeper.
Close your eyes. Leave the body loose. Let the eyes close, and let the body be utterly relaxed. Why be an enemy of the body? Leave it loose. If the head droops, let it; if the body slumps, let it. Release completely; relax. Now for five minutes, sink into a single feeling: everything is accepted.
Notice—once you accept, you begin to hear the small chirps of little birds that you hadn’t noticed before. Faint sounds from the road begin to come. The tiny tut-tut of birds begins to be heard. All around is a world—it is all the voice of the divine. All these sounds are of the divine. Who am I to resist? Accept—accept everything...
Acceptance... acceptance... Let only this remain in the mind: everything is acceptable to me. No resistance, no refusal. Everything is acceptable. Then silence from all sides begins to enter within; from all sides peace begins to pour in. I will be silent for five minutes now. Accept, keep listening, keep knowing: birds are calling, there is some noise from the street, someone passes, a sound arises—accept... and the mind will take a plunge into deep silence... accept... notice how sweet the bird’s voice is...
For five minutes, sink into acceptance. It is a deep necessity of meditation... Everything is accepted, everything is accepted... With each breath let only this feeling remain—everything is accepted. I consent. As it is, whatever is—I consent. All is beautiful, all is accepted... all is accepted, all is accepted... and the mind will become deeply quiet. If all is accepted, what unrest can there be? If all is accepted, there is no obstacle. Then the mind quiets by itself...
All is accepted... let go, let go—dive wholly in; no resistance—everything is accepted... As it is, it is beautiful... as it is, I consent... whatever is, I consent... birds call; the sun’s warm rays fall on the head—I consent... whatever is, I consent; with all that belongs to the divine, I am in consent... and the very feeling of consent quiets everything...
I consent, I consent, I consent, I consent... all is accepted, all is accepted, all is accepted... the mind has become utterly quiet... quiet... Recognize this feeling well—it is a necessary step in meditation. The mind has become quiet... all is accepted, all is accepted, all is accepted... the mind has gone into emptiness... all is accepted, all is accepted...
Recognize this feeling well. Then slowly open your eyes. We will sit for the final experiment... open your eyes gently... the mind has become utterly quiet...
These are the three sutras that create the situation into which meditation can descend. The day these three are fulfilled, the tuning happens. That very day we connect with the infinite. We are always connected, just as a radio is surrounded by broadcasts from around the world at every moment—yet tuning is needed; your radio must be centered on the precise point where something can be received.
Meditation is only tuning. The rain of the infinite is falling in every moment on all sides; the divine passes everywhere. Life is present every moment, everywhere. But when at some point we align completely with it, we come to know it. Otherwise we remain unaware.
We will keep these three sutras in mind and experiment with them a little. At night, as you go to sleep, practice all three—and let sleep come as you practice. Slowly, the whole sleep turns into meditation. Now we will do a combined experiment with all three for ten minutes—and then we will part. We will do the three together, at once.
Leave the body loose. If anyone feels like lying down, lie down—because it is easier to let go. At night, do it lying in bed. Leave the body utterly loose; close your eyes. Yes—if you want to lie down, lie down fully—do not worry about others. No one minds your lying down; no one has any concern. Lie or sit as you wish. For ten minutes we have to let go totally and do the three together.
Let the body be loose, eyes closed... leave the body loose, utterly loose... drop the body... float in looseness as if you were floating in a river... For a minute or two I will suggest—feel these and keep letting the body relax.
The body is becoming lax, relaxed... let it go completely loose... the body is becoming lax, becoming lax... let go... the body is becoming lax... if it bends, let it... becoming lax... becoming lax... becoming lax... let go—allow the body to be completely lax, just as you floated in the river—let it, float... the body is becoming lax, becoming lax, utterly lax...
Let the breath be loose as well; the breath is quieting... quieting... do not hold—let it be... come and go as it will... the breath is quieting... quieting... quieting... moving very quietly now... quieting... let go completely... the breath is quieting... as if you had died, as if you had dissolved, as if you had burned on the pyre—let go utterly, as if you were only a heap of ashes—no longer here, already gone... the breath has become quiet... quiet...
Now for ten minutes, drown in total acceptance. Whatever is, is accepted. Whatever is, is accepted. Whatever is, is accepted... Through this door of acceptance, much will come—accept it all. Whatever is, is accepted... Accept and keep knowing, keep listening—whatever is, is accepted... Drop all inner resistance. For ten minutes, become one with this entire world... The sounds are ours; the street’s uproar is ours; the winds are ours; the rays of the sun are ours. All is ours. Become one with it...
All is accepted... I remain only the knower, the mere witness—I am knowing everything, recognizing everything—but all is accepted; there is no resistance... I am only the knower, seeing, recognizing, remaining a witness... and the mind will descend into peace—deeper and deeper; the mind will become utterly quiet... the mind has become quiet, the mind has become quiet... let go, totally let go—accept everything; all is accepted... the mind has become utterly quiet... within, a lamp of unique silence will begin to glow—a peace never known before will begin to arise; in every hair, in every breath, a new kind of peace will spread... all is accepted... all is accepted...
The mind has become utterly quiet... there is hush; emptiness has descended within... a completely new experience begins—like never before—everything is quiet... In this silence, sometimes meditation descends; in this silence, sometimes the divine comes near... all is quiet, all is quiet... all is accepted; I remain only the knowing witness—just a witness... all is accepted... no resistance, no resistance. I consent to all. What is, as it is, is beautiful... the mind has become utterly quiet... the mind has become blank... the mind has become light and fresh... all is accepted... all is accepted... in every breath, in every hair, let only this remain: all is accepted... all is accepted... and the mind completely descends into the deepest silence—it has descended...
Recognize this silence well. Each night, go to sleep practicing this—who knows when its arrival will be; one has to wait, to watch with patience.
Now slowly take two or three deep breaths—each breath will feel very blissful. Slowly take two or three deep breaths—each will feel very peaceful. Slowly take two or three deep breaths. Then just as slowly open your eyes. What is within is also without. Open your eyes gently; to a quiet mind, the outside too appears different. Open your eyes slowly; what is within is also without. Within is peace; without is peace. Within is the divine; without is the divine.
Regarding this—any questions about meditation—write them and give them to me tomorrow morning. These three days we will only do what helps you understand. But do not think: “We did it here for three days—finished.” Here we only learn what is to be done; then keep it going. At night, as you go to sleep, do it for ten or fifteen minutes and fall asleep in it. In three or four months you will begin to feel: the night has changed; a different person wakes in the morning; during the day a different person lives. But a little waiting—and patience—is needed.
Osho's Commentary
There are two or three things to understand about meditation. The most difficult, and the most essential, is this: because of the word itself it seems meditation must be some action, some doing, something you will have to do. But the higher we go, the less our words remain meaningful. So “meditation” sounds like something to do. In truth, meditation is not something you do; it is something that happens. You can be in meditation; you cannot do meditation.
Understand it as you would the word “love.” The same confusion arises there too: it seems you must “do” love. You cannot do love—you can be in love. And there is a great difference between being and doing. If you do love, it will turn false. How can a fabricated love be true? Done love becomes performance and acting.
This is the greatest difficulty. If something can be done, we can tackle it. Let there be hardship, a mountain to climb, difficulty—we will manage. But when something is to happen, what are we to do?
Once a great emperor in Japan heard that a monk on a nearby mountain was teaching meditation. Many reported that they felt deep peace, great joy, a glimpse of the divine. The emperor also went. The ashram stretched far across the hills. In the center stood a large building, a temple with a golden spire; around it were the monks’ quarters. The emperor said to the old monk, “Please explain, point by point, what seekers do here. And show me the places where whatever is done is done. I have come to understand the whole matter.”
The monk took the emperor around. He showed the place where the monks took their meals: “Here they eat.”
The emperor said, “I am not interested in dining and such. Tell me the real thing.”
He showed where they bathed: “Here they bathe.”
“Don’t waste my time,” the emperor said.
“Here the monks study; here they sleep.”
“Leave these little things,” the emperor insisted. “That building in the middle with the golden spire—what do you do there?”
A strange thing: whenever the emperor mentioned that central temple with the golden spire, the monk suddenly became deaf—he heard everything else but not that! They toured the whole ashram and left the one building that seemed most worth seeing. At the gate the monk bid the emperor farewell. The emperor said, “Either I am mad or you are. The very building that seems worth seeing—you did not even take me near it. You showed useless things—where they bathe, where they eat. What do you do in the central hall? Why do you go deaf when I ask about it?”
The monk said, “Your question puts me in a great difficulty. You asked me to show you where we do what we do. That building is for the time when we have nothing at all to do—then we go there. That is our meditation hall. There we do nothing. As long as there is doing to be done, we are in these other places. When someone is ready to enter non-doing, he goes to that hall. And you ask—what do you do there? I am stuck. If I say, ‘We meditate there,’ that would be wrong. Meditation means precisely this: a state of mind in which we are not doing anything.”
So the first thing to grasp is that meditation is not your doing. Remember too: wherever there is doing, there will be tension. Only in non-doing can there be rest and peace. But we have completely forgotten non-doing. For twenty-four hours we are doing something or other. Even at night we dream; if nothing is left to do, we do something in dreams. To be empty is difficult. To pause in non-doing even for a moment is hard.
Yet, it is a great paradox: by doing you can obtain anything in the world—but by doing you cannot obtain the divine. To come upon the divine, you have to descend into non-doing. Its dimension is different. Its path is very different. Why?
Whatever we achieve by doing cannot be greater than us. How can what we have made be greater than the maker? Build as vast a house as you like—it cannot be greater than its owner. Climb to the loftiest post—it will still be beneath you; you will be above the post. Truly, no one can do anything greater than himself—how could you? What you do will always be less than you. The divine is not less than you; therefore it remains beyond the reach of your doing—you cannot do God.
Also remember: whenever we do something, our ego is strengthened. “I did it!”—and the “I” grows stronger. Those who are moving toward God must have their ego melt, not harden. The stronger it becomes, the harder the meeting. So through doing you will never arrive at the divine, because doing fortifies the me. Build a grand house—the me swells: “I built it!” Pile up wealth—the me consolidates. Accumulate knowledge—the me becomes more solid. Those who would go toward the divine cannot carry the ego along; hence there is no path there through doing.
This is the greatest difficulty. We are habituated to doing, and we have no clue how to not-do. It should have been simple: doing should be difficult, non-doing easy; because in non-doing there is nothing to be done—how can that be hard? But habit! Our whole life is entangled in doing. We have lost the knack of not-doing.
So here, for these three mornings, for this one hour, we will take a small dip into the journey of non-doing. It is not certain you will manage, because if you go on doing, you will stall. What can I do then? How to get you into non-doing? You can see the difficulty. One can teach doing; how can one teach not-doing? The teaching of non-doing can only be negative. All we can say is: don’t do this, don’t do that, and then leave it—whatever happens, let it happen.
A farmer sows a seed. He waters it, manures it, fences it. But he cannot pull out the sprout. The sprout will come by itself. What I am calling meditation—you cannot pull it out; it will sprout on its own. You can only create the situation in which nothing hinders its emergence.
As I was saying yesterday: each night you go to bed and you sleep. If someone asks you, “Please tell me precisely how you sleep,” you will be at a loss. Sleep too seems like an action. The word gives the impression that you did something. In the morning you say, “I slept.” So it appears you did something. If I ask, “How did you sleep? What did you do to sleep?” whatever you say will have nothing to do with sleep. You will say, “I lay down.” But lying down is not sleep. You will say, “I used pillows.” But pillows are not sleep. Sleep can come without pillows, and with pillows it may not come. You will say, “I shut the doors and made it dark.” But making it dark is not sleep; one can be awake in darkness. Then I will tell you: all this was preparation for sleep; it was not sleep. Yes, after all the preparation, what did you do then? How did sleep come? You will say, “I just lay there.” But lying there is not sleep; lying is waiting—just awaiting that sleep may come. You cannot bring sleep; you can only wait. You can arrange things so that you may lie in ease and wait, watching for sleep to arrive.
For meditation too, you have to wait. We can make the outer arrangements. Even those outer arrangements are only needed on the first steps; slowly they become unnecessary, once you learn in what mood-state meditation descends. Meditation is not something you do; you do something else, and meditation settles in between your doings. So for meditation you must wait, and create a situation in which obstacles are removed.
Understand it a little more. Suppose we tell someone: “You may be angry, but you are not allowed to redden your eyes, not allowed to clench your teeth, not allowed to make a fist; do nothing with your body—just be angry.” He will be in trouble. Anger needs a situation into which it can descend. If you say, “Don’t clench your hands, don’t press your teeth, don’t redden your eyes, don’t let a line come to your face—otherwise, be angry,” he will be stuck. Anger is not clenched hands, nor pressed teeth, nor bloodshot eyes; anger is something else. Yet only when that situation is there does anger descend.
In America there was a thinker, James. He even stated the matter upside down and, with Lange, propounded a theory—the James–Lange theory. There is much juice in it. What he said is not literally true, but it is alive. We ordinarily say a man runs because he is afraid. James said he is afraid because he runs. For who can demonstrate fear without running? We say, “He got frightened and ran.” James and Lange said, “No, it’s the other way: he ran, therefore he became afraid. For let him stand still and show fear!” Their point is: if it doesn’t express through the body, then show us the fear!
Fear has its situation in which it descends. Anger has its situation. Love has its situation. Meditation too has a situation—a context—into which it descends. You cannot bring meditation; you can only create the situation. But even if you have arranged the situation and meditation does not descend, you cannot complain. You must understand that somewhere a mistake remains in the situation. Then wait.
I open the door of my house and the sun does not come in—then I must understand it is still night; I will have to wait till sunrise. Keep the door open; when morning comes, the sun will enter. You cannot tie sunlight into bundles and carry it in, but you can, if you wish, keep even so great a sun out by closing a door.
This is delightful. We are unable to bring meditation, but we are perfectly able to prevent it. We can stop the light; we cannot bring it. And to bring it, all that is needed is that the door not be shut, that it be open. Still, if the door is open at the wrong time and the light does not come, whom will you complain to? No one is there to hear. You will have to wait. The sun will rise; the light will come in.
So, as I see it, first: meditation is non-action. Second: meditation is awaiting. In truth, non-action can only wait. Action can demand: “Come!” But one who is doing nothing can only wait: if you come, thank you; if you do not, there is no complaint. It is not in my power; I cannot drag you here.
What does a farmer do? He sows the seed and waits. He has provided the situation—watered and manured. Now he sits and watches for the seed to break. And beware: if the farmer is impatient, like small children. Children plant a mango pit and, an hour later, dig it up—“Has the sprout not come yet?” Then they put it back, and an hour later they return. No waiting—great impatience—“Let the plant sprout quickly!” That mango seed will never sprout—remember that. Because if you pull it out each hour, that hour is lost; put it back and it starts all over again.
The seed must be left in the soil, in solitude, in darkness—the sprout will break silently; it will grow; you will have to wait. And remember, the weaker the seed, the more seasonal, the sooner it will appear. The greater the tree, the longer-lived, the longer it will take. So do not be in a hurry.
Many come to me and say, “It’s been two days now I’ve been meditating, and still no vision of God!”
It is useless to say anything to them; they have no idea what they are saying. They have sat with eyes closed for fifteen minutes and think they are claimants, entitled to God. If God had a supreme court, they could file a case: “For two days I sat fifteen minutes with eyes closed—and you did not come!”
Life requires great patience. The deeper the treasure you seek, the more patience is needed. And the wonder is: the more patience, the sooner it comes; the more impatience, the longer it takes. If patience is infinite, it can happen this very instant. If there is no patience at all, even after infinite births it will not.
How to create the situation? We cannot create meditation; we cannot produce it. But how to make the door through which meditation comes? I will give you three sutras. We will practice these three and wait. The day these three are fulfilled, you won’t even notice when your life changed—meditation will have arrived.
And meditation does not come gradually, by degrees. It comes like an explosion. When your door is open and the sun rises, it is not that one ray comes, then a second, then a third. No—if the door is open and the sun has risen, the whole sun is present; all the rays flood in at once. There is an explosion. When love comes into life, it does not arrive step by step; it appears all at once. Heat water to a hundred degrees—at once the droplets leap and become steam. It is not that one droplet is half steam and half water. Here is water, there is steam—between them there is no degree. Yes, in heating water, there are degrees—up to a hundred.
So when meditation comes, it comes all at once. But building the situation can take time. Those are the degrees—the long warming up to a hundred. And it is a curious thing: even at ninety-nine degrees, water is still water. At ninety-eight, still water. At ninety, still water. At ninety-nine and a half, still water. Just a hair’s breadth more and—jump!—it crosses over. Half a degree earlier, it was still water. Only hot water—no real difference yet. What is the difference between cold water and hot water? Only this: if that last half degree completes, the water that had reached ninety-nine and a half becomes steam, while the water at ten degrees does not. Otherwise, both are water. And from ninety-nine and a half one can still slip back. There is no inevitability that, having reached ninety-nine and a half, you must reach a hundred. You can fall back. Half a degree—and everything can be lost. And my own understanding is: we lose God from very close, not from far away—just by the corner—we miss.
I have heard of a blind man in a palace with a thousand doors. He was feeling each door to find a way out. He had tried nine hundred and ninety-nine; only one door remained—the open one. When he came to it, his head began to itch. He scratched—then walked on. Now he would search again among the closed doors—nine hundred and ninety-nine doors of wandering—then perhaps he would again come to the thousandth. Who knows, he might miss again. Let a small itch arise, take two steps forward—and it is a wall.
We miss from that close—not from far. Just as we are about to turn, we turn away. A small thing—and everything is lost.
Three sutras for this preparation. These are only the prologue. In this prologue meditation can descend. The first sutra I call: the feeling of floating.
Go to a riverbank and watch. One man enters the water and swims—he fights the current, he tries to get somewhere. Right beside him, a dry leaf drifts by. It does not swim, it aims nowhere; it simply floats along. See: the leaf’s mind is utterly at ease—because there is no effort to swim. Just floating, no fight with the river. The dry leaf has mounted the river’s shoulders: “Where you take me, I go. Why should I bother to swim? The river itself is flowing so strongly; I go along.” It does not fight; it becomes one with the river. The waves lift it—it rises; the current carries it—it goes.
Another man is swimming—he exerts all his strength; he is fighting the river.
The mind too has two states: swimming and floating. If you are in the swimming state, you will move into action, into karma. Without the urge to swim, no one enters karma. The more active the mind, the more it will be swimming—against rivers, against life’s current, against people, against circumstances—fighting all the time.
But I am saying meditation is non-action. So drop fighting; float. Take a dry leaf into your meditation—that dry leaf floating in the river. For a few moments, become that dry leaf: flowing along, not fighting. This feeling of floating is an essential condition for meditation. If it is there, meditation can descend.
But even for meditation we will sit as if for an inner fight: “I must meditate!” Hands clenched, teeth tight. Are you going to war? Are you swimming?
No—relax, let go, become loose. Do not fight anything—just float. For five minutes we will do this experiment to taste the feeling of floating. Once you have tasted it, we will do the second, then the third. We will understand each sutra separately, and then sit for meditation—the sum of all three.
For the feeling of floating, the body must be utterly relaxed. Floating needs no tension. Everyone should sit a little apart—no one touching anyone. Make sure no one is touching you; another’s touch will never allow you to arrive at floating. Another’s touch fills you with a deep tension. Touch is a distant thing—even another’s mere presence fills you with inner strain.
You are alone in your sitting room—you are a different person. The bell rings—immediately you are someone else. A man enters—you change. Every fiber tightens. You are no longer the one who was resting a moment ago. In the bathroom you are another person, in the sitting room another. In the bathroom you are relaxed—no question of anyone’s presence. So sometimes even an old man behaves like a child there—making faces in the mirror. But if he learns someone is peeking through the keyhole, everything changes—the child is gone; the old man is again stiff. So even another’s presence is a hindrance. Another’s touch is a hindrance. So no one should be touching anyone. And then we will close the eyes, so that others can be forgotten. You are alone—only then can you relax completely.
Here we are experimenting. Once you have understood this, do it at night when you lie in bed. Darkness has fallen, the world is closed, the door is shut, you are lying silently. Do this experiment just before sleep. Let sleep come while doing it.
You will find the quality of sleep in the morning has changed. You will wake different—fresher, more quiet, more joyous. The possibility of anger will lessen, tension will lessen. And this is the condition—when it reaches a hundred degrees, meditation will also happen.
So first, for five minutes, we will do the floating experiment.
Close your eyes. No—let them close on their own. Let the lids relax. Sit with the body loose. Let the eyes fall shut, leave the body relaxed. Let the lids droop—do not press them; even that effort is not right. Just let them fall, and they close. Leave the body loose and sit utterly at ease. We are not going to work; we are going to float—so sit completely relaxed. There is no difficulty at all—just prepare rightly and floating will happen.
Let the body be loose, eyes closed—and begin to see a small picture in imagination: it is morning, the sun has risen, two mountains shine in its light, and between them a river runs. Just imagine this, so the feeling of floating can be understood. Between two hills, in the glittering sunlight, a river is racing. The river is running, flowing. See it clearly, because soon we too will enter it and float in it. The river flows; it will become clear. Two shining hills; between them the river runs. The river flows—now gently leave yourself in it; step in softly. Do not swim—let go like a dry leaf; just begin to float, flow with the river. The river runs; you too flow with it. Keep seeing yourself drifting, drifting, drifting. Leave yourself completely loose; the river will carry you—there is nothing to do. For five minutes let only one feeling be present: I am flowing, I am flowing. Do not move your hands, do not swim, do not try to reach anywhere. The river runs; I am flowing, I am flowing. Let a single feeling remain: I am flowing, I am being carried; I am not doing anything—just flowing. As you float, the mind will grow light and quiet; a new freshness will fill within. Floating, all tension will drop. In five minutes, when you come out of the river, the whole inner climate will have changed.
Now I will be silent for five minutes. Flow, and keep letting go. If the body bends, let it; if it slumps, let it. Do not worry about the body—just loose, no tension. It will lean forward, it will sway back; it may slide—let it. Be completely loose, and float...
Watch: keep no tension on the face—because you are floating. Do not knit the brow—because you are floating. You are not doing heavy work; you are not doing anything—just flowing... the face becomes light and calm, each line softens; inside, the mind settles... I am flowing, I am flowing... with every breath, only this remains—I am flowing, I am flowing, I keep flowing... the mind grows light and peaceful... I am flowing, the river runs... the mind becomes utterly fresh, new, quiet... I am flowing—I am doing nothing, just drifting along like a dry leaf... I am flowing... the mind grows light and calm...
Let go, totally let go—be carried, become a dry leaf... the river runs, I am being carried... I am flowing, I am flowing... I am doing nothing—everything is happening: the river flows, the sun has risen, and I too am flowing... I am not doing anything—just flowing... and the mind grows utterly quiet, lighter and lighter... a deep silence is born within—as if a burden has dropped... I am flowing, I am flowing... I have been carried away like a dry leaf; I am doing nothing—I am just flowing... See yourself drifting; recognize clearly the inner feel, the flavor of floating. This is the first link of meditation... I am flowing, I am flowing... Let go, totally let go—do not hold even a little; keep no tension... I am flowing, I am flowing, I am flowing... The mind becomes utterly quiet and light... Where can restlessness be in floating? Restlessness can be in swimming. Where can tension be in floating? Tension can be in swimming. Let go—recognize this feeling well: I am flowing...
Now slowly come out of the river... you are standing on the bank... the river still flows on... but see how five minutes of floating have changed things—the mind is lighter...
Now slowly open your eyes. Understand the second experiment. Then we will sit for it. Open your eyes gently.
When the idea of floating arises, the mind’s burdens drop. When the idea of swimming arises, they grow. With the idea of swimming, this world begins to look like an enemy—we are fighting, fighting with everything. With the idea of floating, this world becomes like a mother’s lap—we lie down in it, we sleep, we drift. Those who would enter meditation must learn the art of floating—there is no other way.
The second sutra is the feeling of not-being, of disappearing, of dissolving.
There was a fakir, Nasruddin. One day he asked his wife, “People die, but how does the one who dies come to know that he has died?”
His wife said, “What silly notions arise in you! When you die, you will know—why worry now?”
Nasruddin said, “When I die, perhaps I will not come to know. While I still have awareness, let me find out what happens upon dying!”
Just to put him off, his wife said, “Your hands and feet will grow cold—then you will know.”
One cold morning Nasruddin went to the forest to cut wood. He began to feel his hands and feet turn cold. He thought, “Looks like I am dying.” He had seen dead people—never saw any of them standing. He thought, “Since I am dying, I should lie down, because all corpses are lying.” He quickly dropped the axe and lay down. It was cold; while he swung the axe there was some warmth. Now the axe lay aside and he lay down; he grew colder. Colder still—“Now the matter is finished; nothing can be done.” Soon he was quite cold. He thought, “The dead do not speak, nor get up, nor shout, nor tell anyone they are dead. Others must figure it out, because never have I heard a dead man say, ‘I am dead.’” So he lay there, stiff as a board.
Some travelers passed by and saw him. “Looks like someone is dead.” They stopped to talk. Nasruddin thought, “People always gather when someone dies.” They made a bier. “Let us at least carry him to the cremation ground.” They tied him to the bier and set off. But they were strangers and didn’t know the village paths. At a crossroads, one way led to the cremation ground, another to another village. “Which way leads to the cremation ground?” they asked. Nasruddin knew. But he thought, “The dead never tell which way the cremation ground is.” The men said, “This is trouble—no one is around to ask. If someone came by, we could inquire.” They grew quite anxious; they needed to reach the other village soon. “What a nuisance we have taken on! We should at least take this man to the cremation ground, but no one is in sight,” they said. Nasruddin many times thought of telling them, “I know.” But the dead never say. Finally they began to abandon him. “In an emergency at least, I should tell them,” he thought. He said, “Listen—when I used to be alive, people went to the cremation ground by the left road.” And quickly he lay still on the bier again. They said, “What a madman you are! If you can talk, get up—why are you troubling us?” They pulled him up. He returned home.
He told his wife, “What a thing you told me—that when hands and feet grow cold a man dies! I got into great trouble! Not only I, but four others too were troubled. But I thank you—because something very wonderful happened.”
His wife asked, “What happened?”
He said, “When I accepted that I was dead, I became as peaceful as I have never been—even though I was alive. Once I accepted, ‘I am dead,’ I thought, ‘Now what restlessness can there be?’ When I lay under that tree, when they bound me to the bier, the peace I knew—I had never known before. Though you were wrong that cold hands mean death, it is good you told me—otherwise I would never have known this peace. Now I will live as if I am already dead.”
His wife said, “What madness!”
He said, “I am no longer willing to carry the burden of being alive on my head. In those few moments I knew such bliss. I realized this notion ‘I am’ is the root of all my trouble. I am dead now—do not consider me alive.”
From that day Nasruddin’s life was a different life.
So the second deep condition for meditation is the feeling of dissolving. As long as the thought “I am” is there, you cannot be silent. This “I am” is our unrest. And the fun is: it echoes because we go on striking the note; if we stop, it fades. Still, we are; but in a very different sense. We are no longer in the sense of “I.” Nasruddin too was, no one dies because hands get cold. In truth, no one dies. Those whom you have burned on the bier—they too did not die. No one dies. Even if they had burned him, nothing essential would have changed. What burns is not our being. What remains even after burning—that is what we are.
But we come to know it only when the sense of “I” drops. Because we have identified this “I” with the body, mind, thoughts, ego—as if this is me. All this is mortal; it will end. Before it ends on its own, if someone sees it ending—he attains the ultimate peace.
So the second sutra is the feeling of dissolving—of not-being, of nothingness.
We will practice it for five minutes so its flavor is clear. Once it is clear, you begin to live differently. If someone abused Nasruddin, he would say, “Ah, you are abusing that Nasruddin who died? Had he been here, my son, he would have taught you a lesson. But he is gone.” And he would walk on.
People said, “Have you lost your wits? We are abusing you.”
He said, “I heard—but you are abusing the Nasruddin who is already dead.”
Certain—it is impossible to abuse such a man. The one who catches the abuse—the “I”—is not there. In truth, the abuse does nothing; what matters is the knack of catching it. If I abuse you and you don’t catch it, it is wasted. The question is of catching. And if I don’t even abuse, and you are skilled at catching, then seeing my eyes, you will catch it; seeing my gait, you will catch it—“This man looks as if he is abusing!” A skillful catcher will find abuse where none is given; and if he forgets how to catch, even where it is given, he will not catch it. Then what can abuse do?
So Nasruddin laughed. “You abuse a dead man—someone who is no longer there! Have some shame—why abuse one who is gone?” And he remained unhurt. For the one who used to be hurt had died. Within us there is a string that grieves—that is the “I.” It keeps getting hurt.
Close your eyes—not forcefully, let them close. Leave the body loose, and try to understand the second sutra. Become Nasruddin. Eyes closed, body loose... let it be loose, eyes closed... utterly loose—we are not going to do anything; we are going to die... totally loose—as if the body is not... eyes closed, body released... if it bends, let it; if it falls, let it; if it lies down, let it... leave it completely loose...
Now see a second picture: we are at the cremation ground; not standing—lying, tied to the bier. You have often gone there to carry others—sometimes it is good to go to carry yourself. This time, you have come to carry yourself. The cremation ground, friends and relatives, acquaintances—they are all around. The bier is there; it is you who are tied—not someone else. The mind will say, “See someone else.” No— it is you. No one else is tied to this bier—you are. Recognize the face well—you have seen it in the mirror many times; it is the same face. It is you on the bier. It is me—on the bier. Recognize clearly: I am tied to the bier.
Even this thought—“I am on the bier”—will bring a great peace within. The thought that this bier is mine—everything changes. They lift the bier onto the pyre, the heap of wood; now they are lighting the fire. It has caught. See: dark night; the fire rises, tongues of flame run toward the sky; the pyre is burning; smoke spreads... not only the wood burns—I burn... see, I am burning... friends and loved ones step back—the heat is intense; the fire is roaring; soon everything will be ash... flames shoot toward the sky and I am burning, dissolving... Let one feeling remain within: I am dissolving, I am dissolving, I am coming to an end... As the flames grow, as the body turns to ash, an unparalleled peace will enter within, a profound hush will descend. If I have dissolved, what unrest can remain?
For five minutes, keep watching: I am dissolving. The friends have gone; silence spreads over the cremation ground; the fire burns on... soon all will be ash... all is becoming ash... I am dissolving, I am dissolving... let go completely—dissolve. What can burn will burn; what cannot burn will stand across, watching—watching itself burn and dissolve. Let what burns burn; what does not burn will not.
Everything dissolves; I am dissolving, I am dissolving... the mind grows calm and light... I am dissolving, I am dissolving... I am completely gone... I am gone... silence—everything is quiet; the flames too begin to die; a heap of ashes and embers remains... I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... The cremation ground is silent; the darkness is deep; the embers fade; only a mound of ash remains... Look at this mound carefully; recognize it well—this recognition is precious... a heap of ash remains; I am completely gone... I am gone... I am gone... And see what peace, what stillness surrounds within...
I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... I am gone... all is gone... I am gone... I am gone... completely gone... The mind is silent, utterly light—no burden, no weight, no tension. I am gone—then what burden? What tension? What unrest? I am completely gone...
I am gone... I am gone... Let only one feeling remain—I am gone... I am gone... I am not... I am not... I am not... Recognize this feeling well—it is the necessary step into the temple of meditation. No one can enter meditation while the “I” remains. I am gone... I am not... Recognize this fully... I am not... the mind has become utterly quiet...
Now slowly open your eyes. Understand the third experiment, and do it. The deeper this feeling “I am not” goes, the more it creates the situation into which meditation can descend. Beyond the “I,” perhaps there is no other stone that blocks its coming. When “I am not,” the door opens—space appears—through which meditation can enter.
The third sutra is total acceptance.
In life we are full of refusals. Our life is resistance through and through. And we do not see how much unrest we have gathered through resistance and denial.
I was a guest at a small rest house. The state’s chief minister was also staying there that night. I returned at about half past ten; he returned around quarter to eleven. A small village, a small rest house. For some reason a dozen dogs had gathered around, quarreling and barking. I fell asleep. The chief minister came to me after a while and said, “Seeing you asleep makes me envious. I chased those dogs away several times—but they return. They make such a racket—how can sleep be possible!”
I said, “The dogs won’t even know you are a guest here. They don’t read newspapers, they don’t listen to the radio. How would they know the chief minister is staying here? What interest would they have in troubling you? They wouldn’t even imagine they must harm your sleep. Perhaps there was some relationship from a past life—otherwise there seems no link in this one that they should come to bother you. You go to sleep; let them bark.”
He said, “How can it be—that dogs bark and I sleep?”
I said, “Dogs barking causes no disturbance. The feeling ‘dogs should not bark’ causes the disturbance. Let’s try an experiment. The dogs won’t run away; even if you chase them, they’ll return. How long will you go on—through the night? Take my advice—lie down on your bed and accept the barking. Accept that dogs bark. Listen quietly. Agree: dogs bark and I sleep. Don’t create a conflict between the two. There is no real opposition between dogs barking and your sleeping. Let the dogs bark; accept it. Their sound will echo within and pass. Just listen silently. Do not resist. Do not carry the feeling ‘dogs should not bark.’”
He said, “What will that do? Dogs will keep barking. How will my acceptance stop the dogs?”
I said, “The dogs won’t stop—you will stop.”
There was no other way. He chased them once or twice more; they came back. Then with no choice, he followed my suggestion—he lay down. Who knows when he fell asleep.
At six in the morning he woke me and said, “This is astonishing. I lay down and accepted: ‘All right, dogs bark; I have no quarrel.’ I listened to their barking peacefully. I don’t know when I fell asleep. And not only did I sleep—I slept more deeply than in years.”
For sleep that comes in non-resistance is very deep. In meditation, non-resistance—a complete lack of quarrel—is essential. Ordinarily, when someone sits to meditate, he becomes very disturbed: dogs bark, crows caw, a child cries, a vessel clatters in the house. If a man in a house begins his prayer, his worship, his meditation, he starts harassing the whole household. He entered to meditate somewhat disturbed; he emerges even more disturbed—because he has picked a fight with the whole world.
Will the world stop for your meditation? Nor is there any need. The world will go on: cars will pass on the road; horns will blow; people will talk. What has your meditation to do with others?
But the very attitude of meditation is wrong if you think “all this should stop.” There is no greater disturbance than this thought: “There should be no disturbance.” The world will continue. Buddhas will be born, Mahaviras will be born, Krishnas, Christs will be born—the world will go on. If Krishna is to become Krishna, he will have to accept the world as it is. If Buddha is to be at peace, these dogs will go on barking, the crows will caw—he will have to be peaceful in their midst. If any Buddha were to insist, “Let all be still; then I will be still,” then that stillness is impossible—never in any life will it happen.
So the greatest obstacle for meditation is our expectations: this should not be, that should not be, then meditation will happen. None of your expectations will be fulfilled. In fact, you will have to drop expectation and enter meditation. And there is a very strange sweetness when we begin to accept.
For five minutes we will do this third experiment. Now there are street sounds, birds are calling. We will listen and accept. We will let them enter us in a friendly way. No resistance will remain in between. We do not refuse. That crow will caw; the sound will echo and pass. And here is the curious thing: as when you walk on a dark night, a car comes, its headlight falls into your eyes, then the car goes—and the darkness seems even deeper. If you accept the crow’s caw, the horn on the road, you will be surprised to discover: the horn will sound and cease, and you will enter a silence deeper than the one you had before the horn. Acceptance carries you deeper.
Close your eyes. Leave the body loose. Let the eyes close, and let the body be utterly relaxed. Why be an enemy of the body? Leave it loose. If the head droops, let it; if the body slumps, let it. Release completely; relax. Now for five minutes, sink into a single feeling: everything is accepted.
Notice—once you accept, you begin to hear the small chirps of little birds that you hadn’t noticed before. Faint sounds from the road begin to come. The tiny tut-tut of birds begins to be heard. All around is a world—it is all the voice of the divine. All these sounds are of the divine. Who am I to resist? Accept—accept everything...
Acceptance... acceptance... Let only this remain in the mind: everything is acceptable to me. No resistance, no refusal. Everything is acceptable. Then silence from all sides begins to enter within; from all sides peace begins to pour in. I will be silent for five minutes now. Accept, keep listening, keep knowing: birds are calling, there is some noise from the street, someone passes, a sound arises—accept... and the mind will take a plunge into deep silence... accept... notice how sweet the bird’s voice is...
For five minutes, sink into acceptance. It is a deep necessity of meditation... Everything is accepted, everything is accepted... With each breath let only this feeling remain—everything is accepted. I consent. As it is, whatever is—I consent. All is beautiful, all is accepted... all is accepted, all is accepted... and the mind will become deeply quiet. If all is accepted, what unrest can there be? If all is accepted, there is no obstacle. Then the mind quiets by itself...
All is accepted... let go, let go—dive wholly in; no resistance—everything is accepted... As it is, it is beautiful... as it is, I consent... whatever is, I consent... birds call; the sun’s warm rays fall on the head—I consent... whatever is, I consent; with all that belongs to the divine, I am in consent... and the very feeling of consent quiets everything...
I consent, I consent, I consent, I consent... all is accepted, all is accepted, all is accepted... the mind has become utterly quiet... quiet... Recognize this feeling well—it is a necessary step in meditation. The mind has become quiet... all is accepted, all is accepted, all is accepted... the mind has gone into emptiness... all is accepted, all is accepted...
Recognize this feeling well. Then slowly open your eyes. We will sit for the final experiment... open your eyes gently... the mind has become utterly quiet...
These are the three sutras that create the situation into which meditation can descend. The day these three are fulfilled, the tuning happens. That very day we connect with the infinite. We are always connected, just as a radio is surrounded by broadcasts from around the world at every moment—yet tuning is needed; your radio must be centered on the precise point where something can be received.
Meditation is only tuning. The rain of the infinite is falling in every moment on all sides; the divine passes everywhere. Life is present every moment, everywhere. But when at some point we align completely with it, we come to know it. Otherwise we remain unaware.
We will keep these three sutras in mind and experiment with them a little. At night, as you go to sleep, practice all three—and let sleep come as you practice. Slowly, the whole sleep turns into meditation. Now we will do a combined experiment with all three for ten minutes—and then we will part. We will do the three together, at once.
Leave the body loose. If anyone feels like lying down, lie down—because it is easier to let go. At night, do it lying in bed. Leave the body utterly loose; close your eyes. Yes—if you want to lie down, lie down fully—do not worry about others. No one minds your lying down; no one has any concern. Lie or sit as you wish. For ten minutes we have to let go totally and do the three together.
Let the body be loose, eyes closed... leave the body loose, utterly loose... drop the body... float in looseness as if you were floating in a river... For a minute or two I will suggest—feel these and keep letting the body relax.
The body is becoming lax, relaxed... let it go completely loose... the body is becoming lax, becoming lax... let go... the body is becoming lax... if it bends, let it... becoming lax... becoming lax... becoming lax... let go—allow the body to be completely lax, just as you floated in the river—let it, float... the body is becoming lax, becoming lax, utterly lax...
Let the breath be loose as well; the breath is quieting... quieting... do not hold—let it be... come and go as it will... the breath is quieting... quieting... quieting... moving very quietly now... quieting... let go completely... the breath is quieting... as if you had died, as if you had dissolved, as if you had burned on the pyre—let go utterly, as if you were only a heap of ashes—no longer here, already gone... the breath has become quiet... quiet...
Now for ten minutes, drown in total acceptance. Whatever is, is accepted. Whatever is, is accepted. Whatever is, is accepted... Through this door of acceptance, much will come—accept it all. Whatever is, is accepted... Accept and keep knowing, keep listening—whatever is, is accepted... Drop all inner resistance. For ten minutes, become one with this entire world... The sounds are ours; the street’s uproar is ours; the winds are ours; the rays of the sun are ours. All is ours. Become one with it...
All is accepted... I remain only the knower, the mere witness—I am knowing everything, recognizing everything—but all is accepted; there is no resistance... I am only the knower, seeing, recognizing, remaining a witness... and the mind will descend into peace—deeper and deeper; the mind will become utterly quiet... the mind has become quiet, the mind has become quiet... let go, totally let go—accept everything; all is accepted... the mind has become utterly quiet... within, a lamp of unique silence will begin to glow—a peace never known before will begin to arise; in every hair, in every breath, a new kind of peace will spread... all is accepted... all is accepted...
The mind has become utterly quiet... there is hush; emptiness has descended within... a completely new experience begins—like never before—everything is quiet... In this silence, sometimes meditation descends; in this silence, sometimes the divine comes near... all is quiet, all is quiet... all is accepted; I remain only the knowing witness—just a witness... all is accepted... no resistance, no resistance. I consent to all. What is, as it is, is beautiful... the mind has become utterly quiet... the mind has become blank... the mind has become light and fresh... all is accepted... all is accepted... in every breath, in every hair, let only this remain: all is accepted... all is accepted... and the mind completely descends into the deepest silence—it has descended...
Recognize this silence well. Each night, go to sleep practicing this—who knows when its arrival will be; one has to wait, to watch with patience.
Now slowly take two or three deep breaths—each breath will feel very blissful. Slowly take two or three deep breaths—each will feel very peaceful. Slowly take two or three deep breaths. Then just as slowly open your eyes. What is within is also without. Open your eyes gently; to a quiet mind, the outside too appears different. Open your eyes slowly; what is within is also without. Within is peace; without is peace. Within is the divine; without is the divine.
Regarding this—any questions about meditation—write them and give them to me tomorrow morning. These three days we will only do what helps you understand. But do not think: “We did it here for three days—finished.” Here we only learn what is to be done; then keep it going. At night, as you go to sleep, do it for ten or fifteen minutes and fall asleep in it. In three or four months you will begin to feel: the night has changed; a different person wakes in the morning; during the day a different person lives. But a little waiting—and patience—is needed.
Our morning sitting is complete.