Dhyan Darshan #2

Keep the focus on intensity; if depth happens on its own, that is another matter. Do not worry about depth. Attend only to intensity, to speed—as forcefully, as fast as you can! Fast, so that there can be an impact. That sleeping energy within can be roused and awakened. For hammering—so a hammer-like blow can fall on the Kundalini—therefore keep speed in mind.

The second thing you have asked:
Must the breath be taken only through the nose, or can it be taken through the mouth as well?
As far as possible, inhale through the nose and exhale through the nose. If someone finds it difficult, then inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. If there is a cold or nasal congestion and nose-breathing is not possible, in that condition you may inhale and exhale through the mouth.

The third thing you have asked:
Throughout the meditation a corner of the mind keeps saying, “What are you doing? What are you doing?”
Of course someone will keep saying it—and that someone is you. No one else; it is you. Your mind has never meditated. You have never meditated. Your entire past, your whole memory, is empty and barren of meditation. That very mind keeps saying, “What are you doing?” You are doing something completely outside its comprehension. It cannot understand it. Nor will it at first, because the mind is unfamiliar with it. Once it becomes familiar, it will no longer ask, “What are you doing?” If it gets even a glimpse of joy, it will never ask again.

The mind’s rule is: it agrees with what it knows; it retreats from what is unfamiliar. The unfamiliar seems like an enemy. And another rule of the mind is that it flows only toward joy—even if the joy is false. Wherever it sees the appearance of pleasure, it goes. Whether it actually gets it or not is another matter; but even a hint of joy, and the mind moves there. We have never known the joy of meditation. It is an unfamiliar realm, an unknown territory; we have never entered that world. So the mind asks, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” Let it ask; its asking is perfectly natural. Do not fight it, do not suppress it. Let it go on asking, and you continue the meditation.

As soon as a taste, a glimpse of juice and bliss begins to arise in meditation, the mind itself will say: “You’re doing right, you’re doing right.” The mind itself will say fifty times a day: “Meditate—again, and again.” The mind does not obstruct once there is even a small experience of joy; it begins to flow in that direction. As water flows downhill, so the mind flows toward bliss. If it can flow even toward false pleasures, there is no reason to think it will not flow toward true bliss.

But allow the experience of joy to form. If you stop at the mind’s prompting—“What are you doing?”—you will stop. Let the mind speak. It is new for it; let it ask, let it keep asking. You keep going deeper into meditation. The moment even a small ray of bliss breaks forth, the mind will agree and begin to flow. There is no need to make any effort to make it flow.

In the language and the world we are familiar with, everything is somewhere. If someone asks, “Where is Benares?” we can point it out on the map. If someone asks, “Where are the Himalayas?” we can tell. “Where is the West? Where is the East?” we can tell. But if someone asks, “Where is God?” it doesn’t occur to us that he is asking a wrong question—and the answer given will be even more wrong. The one who asks can be forgiven for asking wrongly; the one who answers cannot be forgiven.

When we ask, “Where is God?” we are asking a fundamentally wrong question. Why? The real question should be: Where is God not!

That which is somewhere and not elsewhere we can indicate—“It is there.” But how can we indicate where that is which is everywhere? The question “where” is valid only in relation to objects, not in relation to existence.

So either we may say “everywhere.” Or, if we prefer, we may say “nowhere.” Both will be right. If you ask Buddha—he prefers negative language—he will say “nowhere.” If you ask Shankara—he prefers positive language—he will say “everywhere.” But both mean the same. Only that can be everywhere which is not confined to any one place.

Everywhere. And therefore, the very moment you dissolve yourself like a drop into that All, joy begins to arise. Whoever tries to save himself will be lost, and whoever loses himself will attain. When a drop falls into the ocean—where is it? Nowhere! Everywhere! It has become the ocean. In just the same way, when we fall into meditation, when the drop of our consciousness falls into Brahman, then we are nowhere. And when we are nowhere, only then are peace born, bliss born, and the nectar of immortality born.

As long as we are, there is suffering. As long as we are, there is pain. As long as we are, there is trouble. Our very “being” is anguish, is torment. That “I,” that ego, is the root and support of all misery. When it is not—when we can truly say, “Right now I am either nowhere, or I am everywhere”—in that very instant the source of joy begins to spring.

The question is right. Our mind naturally asks: Where is the origin? Surely the Ganga has a source—Gangotri. The Ganga issues from Gangotri. But have you ever asked where the ocean’s source is? It has none. The limited can have an origin; the unlimited cannot. And even the ocean is limited. The Divine has no boundary. Bliss has no boundary. Amrit has no boundary. That has no origin.

It is better we understand it this way: we have an origin. Suffering has an origin. And the source of suffering is ourselves—the “I.” The ego is the Gangotri of sorrow; from there the Ganga of sorrow flows. And when the “I” is lost—when it dissolves into the void, the vast, into Brahman—what is born is bliss.

If you have further questions, we will talk in the morning. Now, about tonight’s meditation process, please understand two or three points, and then we will begin the experiment. In truth, understanding comes only in the experiment, but a few pointers are useful to keep in mind.

In the morning, those friends who participated went through four stages. In this night experiment there is only one stage. For forty minutes all these lights will be put out and it will be dark everywhere; a light will remain only on me here. For forty minutes, without blinking, forget everything else and look only at me. For forty minutes, let there be just two: you and I; let everyone else fade away. For forty minutes you are not to look at anything else. Your eyes and I—let the two be joined. And for forty minutes your eyelids must not blink.

In the morning you had to keep your eyes closed for forty minutes—no matter what. Still, five or ten friends opened their eyes. When keeping the eyes closed becomes so difficult, then keeping them open for forty minutes will seem even more difficult.

But nothing is difficult before resolve. Forty minutes will pass like four moments. If you decide firmly, the eye has no power to falter or shut. For forty minutes, even if tears flow from the eyes—even if there is burning or pain—do not worry. For forty minutes, continuously, you must look at me.

In this state of seeing, much will begin to happen within you—just as it began in the second stage this morning. It will happen on its own. Whatever happens, let it happen. You keep looking toward me, and let whatever happens, happen. Someone will begin to sway, someone to dance, someone to shriek, someone to shout—let it all happen.

Those friends who, standing in the morning, felt a very intense surge to dance, to jump, to laugh, to weep—I will say to all such friends, understand this now: those friends will stand around me at the edges; those who will remain seated will sit in the middle; those who need to stand should move to the outer ring. Those in whom a very strong force arises when standing will not be able to remain seated, so we will place them at the periphery from the start. Those who remain seated must remain seated. Whatever happens in the middle, they must not get up. If the body sways, let it sway while sitting. If there is shrieking, shouting, laughing, weeping—let it happen while sitting. Throughout this whole process, the gaze must remain toward me.

Why? For three reasons. First: if for forty minutes your eyes rest, unblinking, upon any single object, your mind will immediately come to rest within. The mind cannot keep moving inside unless our senses are restless; and especially, the eyes must be restless for the mind to run.

You will be surprised to know that at night when you dream your eyes move vigorously. In deep sleep they do not move; when you dream they move. Now we have ways to measure the eye’s movement. We can tell how long a person has dreamed in the night and how long he has been in deep sleep. For as long as there is movement of the eyes, the pupil keeps moving and the person is dreaming. When the pupil becomes still, dreams halt; sleep becomes deep—sushupti.

In the night, ordinarily, there are eight to ten dream cycles. In the whole night only a few moments are truly deep sleep; the rest are dreams. The speed of the dream is exactly the speed of the eye’s movement. If the eyes move slowly, it means you are dreaming of an ox-cart; if the eyes move very fast, it means you are dreaming of a car. The pace of your dream becomes the pace of your eyes.

What is true of night dreams is equally true of daytime thoughts. If your eyes are completely still, thoughts cannot continue for long within; they will stop, they will fall, they will die. Therefore for forty minutes you are to keep your eyes on me. I am only a device—to give you a single point for forty minutes where your eyes can rest. As soon as your eyes are steady, after about five minutes thoughts inside will begin to fade. By ten minutes, your thoughts will bid farewell. After those ten minutes, much will begin to happen within you. Let it happen; do not stop it. Whoever even slightly tries to stop it—his meditation is wasted. Whatever is happening, let it happen. When new energies descend into the body, the body reconfigures itself for them, readjusts itself. There will be movement.

Now understand: someone is dancing—why? The energy awakening within is stirring his whole body. If he suppresses that movement, the arising energy will be blocked. So give full opportunity to every movement. But keep one awareness: sway, shout, dance, weep, laugh—let whatever arises happen—but let your attention remain toward me. Do not let attention go anywhere else. Your neighbor is shouting—let him; someone is weeping—let him; someone is dancing—let him. You are not to look here and there. For forty minutes, keep looking only at me.

A third result of this seeing will be that, as you keep looking at me, through many unknown pathways I will become connected with you. You keep hearing my words; you have heard many of them. Words can be pleasing. But through words very much cannot happen. What I have never been able to say to you in words—if you keep looking at me silently for forty minutes, I will be able to say to you in silence. Thus a communication, a dialogue, can happen between us. What I try day and night to say in words, and cannot be said—even that, if you look silently for forty minutes, I will be able to say to you. It will be a very inner dialogue; a very telepathic communication. If you look silently toward me, much will begin to arise in your awareness that has never come through words. It would be wrong to miss this opportunity. It would be wrong to let this moment pass.

Third point: by gazing at me unblinking for forty minutes, there will remain here only two persons—you and I; all others will not remain. For all the rest, you will not remain. And when so many gazes flow one way—just as when the rays of the sun are collected and fire is born—when so many gazes and so many thoughts and so many resolves and so much feeling and so much attention flow in one direction, the results are very deep—of that concentration, of that concentrated energy. A pool of that power will gather here. And those who truly manage the experiment for forty minutes will also be able to experience that power. Someone may see that power like a pool of light.

Many friends who go deep into meditation—and at least more than fifty percent will—may find that many times I disappear; still do not move your eyes here or there. Many times it may seem that I am not present here; still do not shift your eyes. That is an auspicious sign. Many times it may seem I have become very large—do not be frightened. Many times it may seem I have become small—do not be frightened. Many times it may seem I have vanished and this platform is empty—do not be frightened. Many times it may seem that only a mass of light remains here and I am not—do not be frightened. And many friends who have long practiced with the support of an ishta—if their chosen form appears in my place, do not fall into worry or thought. If someone has loved Rama, or Krishna, or Christ, or Muhammad—or anyone—or Mahavira or Buddha—and if I disappear from here and Buddha begins to be seen, do not be concerned; keep on looking—I will return soon enough.

All this will happen. Much more can happen. Whatever happens, you can write it and ask me tomorrow evening. If you feel it is personal and private and cannot be asked in front of everyone, then meet me separately tomorrow afternoon between two-thirty and three-thirty.

Now let us get ready for the experiment. Two last instructions. First: anyone here inside who does not wish to participate should leave, because even one person will cause harm. Those friends who dance and jump intensely should stand at the edges—not too far—so that I remain in view. The rest will shift toward the middle and sit. Those who need to stand move outward. Do not hesitate. Whoever knows that he will jump and leap—those to whom this happened in the morning meditation—come out. It will happen again.

Yes, do not talk; come out silently. Come here near me—on both sides near the stage. Come at once, because if you have even a slight inkling and you stay back, later you will find yourself in difficulty; once you sit there you won’t be able to manage. Do it quietly; do not talk. Then the lights will be put out.

Those who are standing outside, come closer here so that you can see me clearly. I will assume that all who had even a little inkling have come out. But if anyone is still sitting inside out of embarrassment, come out first; otherwise you will become an obstacle to yourself and to others. Among those who are seated, no one should try to stand up midway, because by standing you will obstruct the people behind you. So whoever will be more at ease standing, come out now.

Shall I assume…? Be quick. What are you thinking so long—whether to sit or to stand! And come here near me; it will be convenient. If you stand too far and cannot see me, that will be difficult.

First of all, close your eyes for two minutes; with folded hands, take a resolve before the Divine. Close your eyes. Fold your hands. In your mind, make the resolve three times:

Keeping the Divine as witness, I resolve to put my total energy into meditation. Keeping the Divine as witness, I resolve to put my total energy into meditation. Keeping the Divine as witness, I resolve to put my total energy into meditation.

You remember your resolve, and the Divine will remember it. You are entering a very deep experiment. Put your whole energy into it. For forty minutes—until I tell you—you must not close your eyes. Open your eyes. Now I will remain silent. If I need to say anything to you, I will say it only through a hand gesture.

Turn your eyes toward me, unblinking. Now do not blink.
(After this, the meditation experiment continued for forty minutes. With gestures of his hands, Osho kept encouraging the seekers to put their total energy into it. After the forty-minute meditation experiment, Osho began to offer suggestions to the seekers.)
Take a few deep breaths and sit properly in your place.

Keep two or three things in mind. Some thirty to thirty-five percent of friends did the experiment properly; they have had results. From the rest I hope that tomorrow you will not merely sit in the experiment—dive in.

There are things in life that can never be known by sitting on the bank. You have to jump, you have to drown; only then can you know. Meditation is one of those deep elements: until you yourself are dyed in it, nothing will be known. Yes, one thing you may well know—that to others you may look mad. Those outside meditation may find meditators mad.

If they seemed mad to you, understand that you remained standing on the shore; you did not go in. As it is in love, so it is in meditation. One who is in love seems to others to have gone mad. But the madness of love is far more precious than the cleverness born of the absence of love.

So I say to you: descend, experience, taste, and then decide. The person who decides without experience is not very wise.

Thirty to thirty-five percent of friends went very deep. And today was only the first day; you didn’t even know the experiment yet. From tomorrow the momentum will increase. Even today there were some twenty to twenty-five friends who remained seated; had they stood up they would have benefited greatly. Sitting, that much momentum is not possible. And when energy awakens, if movement cannot happen, something inside remains incomplete.

So tomorrow, those friends who sat inside today and felt intensity, I say to you too: stand outside tomorrow. Those who are seated should not think they are seated merely to sit. Even sitting, you are there to do. If the eyes wander here and there, it will all be wasted. Sometimes you must test yourself with a little resolve. If you cannot keep your own eyes in one place for forty minutes, you do not have much right to call them your own.

And remember, if such mastery comes over any part of the body, then gradually mastery begins to come over the whole body. The eye is the most precious, the most delicate, the most valuable part of the body. One who becomes the master of the eyes becomes the master of the whole body. Perhaps you have never thought that the most precious words in the world we have formed from the eye. Darshan—vision, philosophy—comes from seeing. Drashta, the seer, comes from seeing. One who has mastery over the eyes becomes the master of vision. For the eyes are the most restless part of the body. And if mastery over the eyes is attained, then no other part of the body can remain outside your mastery; they are far more inert.

Therefore this forty-minute experiment with the eyes carries very deep meaning; its implications are far-reaching. Tomorrow, those friends who could not do the experiment properly today—if even once you slip and look here or there, do not think, “What harm if I missed once? I can bring the eyes back.” It is like saying, “There is a hole in the boat—what harm is there in one hole!”

There is harm: the boat will not return to shore. Even a single hole will not do. Through one hole everything will leak away, everything will be lost; all your effort will go to waste. Forty minutes means forty minutes. And when I say, “Toward me,” it means toward me; then you are not to look here and there even a little.

Some ten or fifteen friends even stood up just to watch. There is no great harm in watching, but there is nothing much in watching another either. If you must watch, watch yourself. So to those ten or fifteen who stood watching today, I invite you tomorrow to do the experiment yourselves. The joy you get watching someone else dance—only when you dance will you know that it was nothing at all. The joy of seeing yourself dance is beyond calculation. Sometimes a Meera knows it, sometimes a Kabir knows it. But you can know it too—unless you yourself become your own obstacle; that is another matter.

Between the divine and man there is no obstacle other than man himself. If you stubbornly choose to stop, you can stop. If you choose to go, no force in this world can stop you except you.

So tomorrow morning… And remember, those friends who came in the evening must certainly come in the morning, because if you do the morning experiment, the evening experiment will gain great momentum; and if you do the evening experiment, the morning experiment will gain great momentum. And tomorrow, let no one remain merely seated. In these five days I would like that not a single person leaves here empty-handed. And if you do leave empty-handed, it will not be my responsibility. If someone leaves empty-handed even from the bank of a river, it is not the river’s responsibility.

No—starting tomorrow, come with your vessel. From tomorrow you must take something with you. Today was the first day of the experiment, but from tomorrow, no. From tomorrow I do not consider anyone so weak that he will just sit and remain.

Tomorrow morning at exactly eight o’clock. If there are any questions, write them and pass them up.

Our night’s sitting is complete.