Dhyan Darshan #10

It is said we do not know the Lord. But is it really true that we do not know the Lord? The moment we take up some image of the Lord—some Rama, some Krishna, some Buddha—the difficulty begins. For me, “the Lord” means the totality of existence, the total existence.

These winds that blow—are they unknown to you? This sky—is it not known? This earth—is it not known? You are—are you not known to yourself? Is being itself unknown? This very totality of being, this great ocean of existence—the name of this whole ocean is God.

So when you invoke the name of God, you are not taking the name of any particular god—of the Hindus or the Muslims or the Christians. You are making your resolve with this total existence as your witness.

Do it. If it were possible, it would already have happened. By all means, try—if it works, excellent. But if it doesn’t? Then try it while keeping the witness. If it happens, wonderful.

But you are no more than a wave. What resolve can a wave make? It will not be able to, and it will be gone. The moment the wave is rising, it is already beginning to fall. While we watch it rise, it has started to decline. What resolve can a wave make? A wave’s resolve cannot be more than the ego’s, and ego is a great falsity. But if the wave understands itself as one with the ocean, then resolve is possible. The wave may not remain, yet the resolve will remain. Even when the wave was not, the resolve was. And when the wave makes its resolve with the ocean before it, the entire power of the ocean becomes available to it. But when the wave thinks, “I alone am enough—what have I to do with the ocean?” then it becomes powerless, impotent; it loses everything.

Try and see. From the standpoint of the person, your resolve cannot be of much value—because as a person you yourself are hardly there, no more than a forming-and-dissolving wave. Therefore it is fitting to remember the Ocean. And the Ocean is all around. If I had spoken of a God as an idol, then this would be a different question. In the winds, in the stars, in the moon and stars, in the people sitting around you, in you—within all, the vastness of existence: that is the name we give to God.

It is a leap in the dark. But what we call our familiar life—is it any less dark? One has to descend into the unknown, the unknowable. If God were already known, what would be left to know? He is not known. We grope, we search, we call out.

One thing is certainly known: perhaps there is no sign of the lake, but there is a clear sign of thirst. Even if it is a desert—there is thirst. And thirst says: there must be some way to quench. There may be no sign of God, but there is the thirst to seek God, the thirst to seek Truth. The word “God” is not necessary; say Truth, say Life, say Existence—whatever name you prefer. The name is your choice; it makes no difference. But there is a thirst to know what life is. If you know that thirst, that is enough. Let resolve arise from that very thirst, and let it be surrendered to the Whole. The moment someone makes a resolve taking the Whole along, the power of that resolve becomes infinitely multiplied—because he makes the Infinite his witness, remembers the Infinite, feels himself connected with the Infinite.

From the moment man began to think, “I am enough,” he became weak, poor, miserable. And whoever thinks “I am enough” will remain utterly impoverished. No one is enough. Before union with the Infinite, everything is insufficient. Until there is meeting with the All, contentment cannot be.

He has said, “If I make a resolve on your suggestion, it will be imitation; and imitation isn’t right.”
Why have you come here? Imitation has already happened. If you listen to me—that too will be imitation. If you understand my words—that too, imitation.
No—imitation does not mean this. The blind, crazed attempt to become like someone else is imitation. Understanding is not imitation. And when I tell you to make a resolve, do so out of your own understanding. If you cannot, then step aside—stand in the back, join the onlookers, move away from the doers. Understand what the value of resolve is, what its meaning is, what its purpose is. Understand what will happen. If there is thirst, then do it. You are not imitating me—you have come here following your own thirst. And if you do not find it here, you will go elsewhere; if not there, then elsewhere; if not in this life, then you will seek in another life. You are following your thirst. If you have wandered by so many wells, it is because of your thirst, not because of any particular well. And if you have searched so many riverbanks, it is because of your thirst, not for the sake of any river.

You have not come for me—you have come because of your thirst. Follow your own thirst. There is no need to imitate me. And when I offer a suggestion, I do so only to enable you to make an experiment. If you are already able on your own, then there is no need for suggestions.

But you are not able. Therefore try the suggestion. From tomorrow morning you will be completely free; I will not be there to give suggestions—then you do it. Do not hold back now thinking, “It might become imitation,” otherwise tomorrow you will again be troubled—how will you imitate then? For now, put in your strength. Make one experiment. When I speak, I am not reading something written on paper. Whatever I am saying, I am saying what I see.

We have a word: shraddha. From the day its meaning became “belief,” from that day the word became useless. From the day we took shraddha to mean belief, a great mistake began. Shraddha does not mean belief. Shraddha means trust. And when I say I am speaking what I have seen with my eyes, then trust a little; walk two steps with me and see. If I were to say, “Stay seated where you are; outside there is the sun; just believe it while sitting here,” then belief would become mere belief.

I am saying to you: outside there is the sun; I have seen it; come with me and see for yourself. If you find the sun, fine; if not, say it is false.

But you say, “No, we cannot go outside merely on your suggestion. And inside, where you are with us, there is no sun visible.” You will have to go outside. Your thirst will work in the search for the sun. And the reports of those who say they have seen it will also be of help.

I am saying only this much: there is a path to what I have seen; walk two steps on that path with me and see. If I say, “Close your eyes and accept my word,” that is wrong. If I say, “Open your eyes, come with me, and see,” what more can a scientist do? If he says hydrogen and oxygen together make water—and you say, “We won’t imitate; we won’t even try mixing them, because we cannot imitate”—then what can the scientist do? You say, “We cannot believe; we cannot have shraddha.” The scientist says, “We are not asking you to believe.” In science there is a word: hypothesis. It is very close to shraddha. Shraddha is hypothetical trust. The scientist says, “Hypothetically assume that hydrogen and oxygen make water. I have made it and seen. You too come into the laboratory, mix them, and see. If water forms, accept it; if it does not, go away and say the claim was wrong.”

I too ask only for such scientific, hypothetical trust—nothing more. But our ego aches even to walk two steps with someone. That ache is not because of imitation. For the clothes you wear you have looked to others. Did you invent your clothes? Where have you placed your buttons? Exactly where others have. How do you wear your pants? Just as others do. What did you study? What others studied. What kind of house did you build? What others built. Which film do you watch? What others watch. Which book do you read? What others read. What are you doing?

The whole life is imitation! Only in the matter of God does imitation become an obstacle. The whole life you are doing what others are doing. Which work is there that you do that is unique, individual? In what is there truly you? Nothing at all! But when the talk of God arises, the question arises—imitation? “No, that we will not do.”

Then don’t do it! I do not say do it. I only say: think and understand what you are saying, and what the consequence might be.

It is not imitation; it is trust. Look into my eyes; be a little considerate; of what I am saying, walk two steps with me and see. If it does not happen, say I spoke wrongly; if it does, I will not even ask you to thank me—there is no need for that either. But walk two steps and see.

No—do not become dependent on me. For four days we have done an experiment. If you have understood the experiment, you will be able to do it without me. And if you have not understood it, you would not be able to do it even with me. I am utterly irrelevant. Do not become dependent on me. From tomorrow morning, begin your own experiment.
If it has happened here, it will happen there too. Do not worry in the least. You have done it; at most my presence was a challenge for you—a call, an invitation, a push. But if you have tasted even a little, that experience has become your own wealth. From tomorrow you will be able to rediscover it again and again. That experience will go on growing day by day. There is no need to depend on me for it.

It is the last day, so let me tell you two or four things which may be needed from tomorrow. First: for meditation, continuity is absolutely essential. The deeper the continuity, the deeper the intensity of experience will be. Often it happens that you do it for two days and skip one, and then you are back where you were before those two days. For at least three months there must be unbroken continuity. It is like digging a well—you go on digging in the same spot. If today you dig in one place, then stop for two days, then on the third day dig in another place, then stop for four days and dig elsewhere—the well will never be made. It will not be made.

Jalaluddin Rumi, a Sufi mystic, once took his students, who were learning meditation, to a field. He said to them, “Look carefully at the field!” There were eight big pits. The students said, “The whole field is ruined. What is this?” Rumi said, “Ask the owner.” The owner said, “I am digging a well.” The students said, “You have dug eight pits. If you had put the strength of those eight into one place, who knows how deep a well you would have reached! What are you doing?” He said, “Sometimes the work falls behind; it stops. Then I think, who knows whether there is water there or not? Then I start in another place. There too it doesn’t come, so I start in a third place, then a fourth. I have dug eight pits, but no well has been dug yet.”
Rumi said, “Look, remember this farmer when you dig the well of meditation. He is very instructive. Do not make such a mistake. He has not suffered much—only the field is spoiled. You can suffer far more; your whole life can be spoiled.”

Often this happens—often this happens. Many of you must have started meditation countless times, then left it. Then you start again, then leave again.
No. At least three months absolutely unbroken. And why do I say three months? Is it that in three months everything will happen?
Not necessary! But one thing is certain: in three months enough flavor will arise that then it will be impossible to miss even a single day. The happening can also occur in three months. I do not say it will not. It can happen in three days, in three hours, even in three moments. It depends on how intensely you have taken the leap. But I say three months because for any deep imprint to form in the human mind, three months is the necessary limit.

You may not know: if you go to live in a new house, it takes at least three weeks for you to forget that it is new. Scientists have done many experiments; they say it takes at least twenty-one days to make the new feel familiar. In a new house, on the first night, sleep does not come properly. They say to return to normal sleep takes at least twenty-one days—three weeks.
If a change of house takes three weeks, then to change consciousness, three months is not too much, is it? Three months is not much; it is a very small thing. Go with the resolve that for three months there will be continuity.

But there is such fun in excuses! Someone says, “No, today a little urgent work came up.” Someone says, “Today I have to see a friend off at the airport.” Someone says, “Today I must go to the station.” Someone says, “Today a court case came up.”
Yet you do not leave your food, you do not leave your sleep, you do not leave reading the newspaper, you do not leave watching cinema, you do not leave smoking. When something has to be dropped, meditation is the first thing you drop—then it is very surprising. Because you have many other things you could drop. You never drop those. It seems that in the list of life, meditation and God are the last items. Whenever there is need, this “useless” item is the first to be set aside; all else is allowed to continue.
No. Meditation will succeed only for those for whom, on the list of life, meditation becomes number one. Otherwise it cannot succeed. Drop everything else, but do not drop meditation. If you skip a meal for a day, it will be fine; there will be a little benefit, not harm. Doctors say fasting one day a week is beneficial. If you sleep two hours less one night, it will not make much difference. There will be many hours to sleep in the grave.

And how much do you sleep anyway? If a man lives sixty years, he sleeps twenty. If you count by eight hours, he sleeps twenty years. If you calculate the whole account of a man who lives sixty years, it becomes very difficult to know when he lives. Twenty years are spent sleeping, some years eating, some smoking, some watching films, some reading newspapers, some wasted in chatter about whether the weather is good or not. Who knows in what all he wastes it! And at the end, what capital remains in the hand? At the moment of death the hands are utterly empty—emptier than a child’s.

Have you ever noticed? Children are born with fists clenched, and the old die with their hands open. Children come with fists clenched—potentially, with great hopes; the fists are still closed. In the old, all hopes are exhausted; everything is spent, the hands open.

Continuity—this I want to say to you: go with the resolve of three months unbroken. Second, remember in meditation: unique, unprecedented experiences will happen—do not be scared. Sometimes even new joy makes one tremble. If suddenly a rain of bliss descends, the very life-force trembles. It takes time to hold the new. It takes time to understand the new. And it takes a long time for the new to take root within us, to spread its roots. Sometimes you will become so ecstatic, so overjoyed, so full of happiness that your feet will not touch the ground—do not be afraid. Let me tell you a little about what kinds of unusual experiences can happen, so that they remain in your awareness.

Sometimes there can be so much light that you may feel your eyes might go blind. Do not be afraid. Sometimes in meditation there can be so much light that sleep is lost for a day or two. Do not be afraid. There is nothing to worry about. Sometimes, at some moment, it seems the breath has stopped. Do not be afraid. In truth, when the mind becomes absolutely silent, the breath becomes so slow, so close to stillness, that it seems to have stopped. It does not stop—but it seems so. Do not be afraid. This happens. And there is no danger. Sometimes it may even seem that within meditation a moment is coming when I might die. Do not jump up in fear. That moment is very precious—do not miss it. Only after that does meditation become samadhi. When in meditation it seems within that now I am dying, dying—there is a sinking experience, as if I am drowning; that I may be lost somewhere in an abyss, in some pit, in some ravine, fall into some infinite expanse—do not return in fear. That moment is very precious. This is exactly what we are working for. Consent to it. Say to the divine: As you wish—drown me, annihilate me.

And the moment you consent, for the first time you will know that meditation has become samadhi, and you have gone beyond death. Without knowing death, no one goes beyond death. In meditation, too, a death happens; and on that very day, meditation becomes samadhi.

Other things may also occur—different people will have different happenings—so do not worry. There is no cause for concern. No one has ever been harmed by meditation; and outside meditation no one’s true good has ever happened—remember this as well.

Now, as this is the last day, we have to put our total strength into meditation. Some friends may be new, so let me give two minutes of instruction. Friends who have come only to watch and do not wish to participate should stand only in front of me—that is, behind the practitioners—at a little distance, and help us by not creating any obstruction or talking.
Friends who have been doing it standing, and those who have been sitting until now but wish to do it standing today, should spread out behind me and on both my sides. Friends who wish to do it sitting may do it sitting. But remember: those whose bodies begin to move strongly should stand up.

Do not talk. Be silent. Those who want only to watch should move to the front row before me; that place is reserved for viewers. No onlooker should remain seated in the middle—it will harm them and harm others too. Move to the back if you want to watch; if you want to do it standing, spread out behind me and on both sides.

Do not delay and do not waste time. No onlooker should stand on either side. And onlookers, please remain at your place, standing or seated, but do not wander about, and do not create any obstacle for those who are doing. Watch happily, but watch silently; do not talk. Those who are sitting—I must tell you—do not just remain sitting; complete the experiment. Recall the morning’s experiment, and if what happened in the body in the morning wants to happen again, let it happen. Shouting, crying, swaying, trembling—whatever happens in the body, allow it even while sitting. Even while sitting, do not think of stopping it. Do not repress it. And today is the last day; about ten to fifteen percent of friends are still empty. I would not want them to go empty—let them carry at least a ray of the experience. So today, put in your total strength.

Two or three more points. The experiment is forty minutes. You have to gaze at me steadily. Do not blink; keep the eyelids completely open. Whatever begins to happen to the body, let it happen. When the energy within you begins to awaken, I will signal with my hand; I will not speak. Then give your energy full rein and allow it to work totally. When I feel that the power from above, from the divine, can descend into you, I will move my hand from above downward. Then if screaming, crying, falling, dancing start happening strongly, do not stop them—let them happen totally. Surrender yourself wholly into the hands of the divine.

Now, for two minutes, close your eyes and fold your hands, and take the resolve. Then we will enter the experiment.
Close your eyes, fold your hands.

(After this, the meditation experiment continued for forty minutes.)