Dhyan Sutra #1

My beloved ones!

First, let me welcome you—for your eagerness toward the Divine—for your longing to step beyond the ordinary into the life of a seeker—for the thirst to discover the truth beyond the world.

Blessed are those who can become thirsty for truth. Many are born; very few become thirsty for truth. To find truth is a great blessing. To feel the thirst for truth is just as great a blessing. Even if truth is not attained, no real harm is done; but if the thirst for truth never arises, the loss is immense.

If truth is not found, as I said, there is no real loss. We desired it, we made the effort, we labored, we aspired, we made a resolve, and we did all that we could. If truth still does not happen, no harm. But if the thirst itself never awakens in us, life becomes filled with great misfortune.

And hear me: to attain truth is not as crucial as to become truly thirsty for truth. That, in itself, is a joy. One who thirsts for the trivial will not find joy even upon attaining the trivial. But one who thirsts for the vast—if he does not attain it—still becomes filled with joy.

Let me repeat it: whoever desires the petty—even if he attains it—finds neither peace nor joy. But one who becomes filled with longing for the immense—even if the immense does not become available—his life fills with joy. In the very measure that we begin to long for the highest, in that very measure something of the highest begins to take birth within us.

No God, no truth, will be bestowed upon us from the outside; their seeds are within us, and they will unfold. But they will unfold only if we can kindle the fire and the heat and the fever of thirst. The more greatly I aspire to the highest, the more the hidden seeds within my mind—seeds that can become vast and noble—begin to tremble, and the possibility of sprouting is born in them.

Whenever even a thought arises within you—“I must find the Divine”—whenever it arises—“I must come to peace and truth”—remember: a seed within you has grown eager to sprout. Remember: a long-buried aspiration in you is awakening. Remember: something important is moving within you.

We must protect that movement. We must support it. For it is not enough that a seed alone should sprout. Many protections are needed. Nor is the seed’s capacity alone sufficient; many supportive conditions are also necessary.

Countless seeds appear upon the earth, but very few become trees. They had the capacity; they could have developed. And in each single seed millions upon millions of seeds could have appeared again. In a tiny seed there is so much power that a whole forest could emerge. In a tiny seed there is so much power that it could carpet the land in green. And yet it can happen that such immense capacity, such immense power, is wasted—and nothing is born of it.

This is a seed’s capacity; a human being’s capacity is far greater. From one small seed a vast unfolding can happen. From a tiny piece of stone, if you split the atom, enormous energy is released. The atomic point of human soul and human consciousness—if it can unfold, if it can explode, if it can blossom—then the power and energy that arise is what we call “God.” We do not find God somewhere outside; rather, through our own explosion, our own unfolding, the power that is born—the experience of that power—is God. Because this thirst is in you, I welcome you.

But do not assume that simply gathering here means you are thirsty. You may have gathered merely as spectators. You may have come out of ordinary curiosity. You may have come out of a passing interest. But no doors open through curiosity. And one who stands as a mere onlooker finds no mysteries. In this world, whatever is found must be paid for—must be paid for. Curiosity pays nothing; therefore curiosity gains nothing. No one enters real practice through curiosity. Not curiosity, but mumuksha—a deep thirst!

Last evening I told someone: if you were in a desert, and water could not be found, and thirst went on increasing, and the moment arrived when you were about to die—if someone then said, “I will give you water, but after that I will take your life—in exchange for your life I will give water,” you would agree. Because death is certain; better to die quenched than to die parched.

When that much yearning, that much longing arises within you, under the pressure of that yearning the inner seed cracks and the sprout emerges. Seeds do not crack open by themselves; they need pressure. They need great pressure, great heat; only then does the hard shell split and the tender plant is born. We all carry a very hard shell within. Whoever wishes to come out of it will not succeed on curiosity alone. So remember, those who have gathered in mere curiosity will return with only curiosity. Nothing will happen for them. Those who have come as spectators will depart as spectators—nothing will happen for them.

Therefore, first each one must look within: Is there thirst? Each must inquire within: Am I thirsty? Feel it very clearly: Am I truly eager for the Divine? Do I have any real eagerness to attain truth, peace, and bliss?

If not, understand that in whatever you do there will be no life; it will be lifeless. And if from that lifeless effort there is no fruit, practice will not be responsible—you yourself will be responsible.

So the first thing is to search for your thirst within and make it clear. Do you truly want to attain something? If you do, there is a way.

Once it happened: Gautam Buddha was staying in a village. A man came and said, “You say every day that each person can attain liberation. Then why does each person not attain liberation?” Buddha said, “My friend, do one thing. Go into the village this evening and ask everyone what they want to attain. Make a list. Write each name and, in front of it, their aspiration.”

He went and asked each person. It was a small village; all answered. In the evening he returned and handed the list to Buddha. “How many people on this list long for liberation?” Buddha asked. The man was stunned. Not a single person had written “liberation” among their aspirations. Buddha said, “I say that each person can attain. But I do not say that each person wants to attain.”

“That each person can attain” is one thing. “That each person wants to attain” is quite another. If you want to attain, take this as an assurance: if you truly want it, no power on this earth can prevent you. And if you do not want it, no power on this earth can give it to you.

So the first thing, the first key to remember, is this: is there a genuine thirst within you? If there is, be assured—the path will open. If there is not, there is no path. Your thirst will become your path.

Second, I want to say at the outset: very often we are indeed thirsty for certain things, yet we are not filled with hope. We are thirsty, but not hopeful. We are thirsty, but we are dejected. And whoever takes the first step in despair will end his last step in despair. Remember this: if the first step is taken in hopelessness, the last will end in hopelessness. If the last step is to reach fulfillment and meaning, the first step must be taken in great hope.

So for these three days—indeed, for your whole life—I ask you to adopt a perspective filled with great hope. Much depends on the quality of your inner climate: do you approach your work filled with hope or with hopelessness? If you are already hopeless, you are sawing off the very branch on which you are sitting.

Therefore, in the matter of practice, being suffused with hope is of great importance. To be filled with hope means this: if on this earth any human being has ever found truth—if at any time in human history anyone has attained bliss and the ultimate peace—then there is no reason why I too cannot attain.

Do not look at the millions whose lives are filled with darkness, who see no ray, no glimmer, no light. Look at the few in history to whom truth has been revealed. Do not look at the seeds that rotted and never became trees. Look at the few that did develop and reached the Divine. And remember: whatever became possible for those seeds is possible for every seed. Whatever became possible for one human being is possible for every other human being.

I tell you: in seed form your power is the same as that of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Christ. In the realm of the Divine there is no injustice in the sense of unequal possibilities. The possibilities are equal; the realities are not. Because most of us never endeavor to turn our possibilities into reality.

So a fundamental insight: be filled with hope. Trust that if ever anyone has attained peace and bliss, it can be available to me as well. Do not insult yourself by being hopeless. Hopelessness is the greatest insult to oneself. It says, “I am not worthy to attain.” I tell you, you are worthy—certainly you can attain.

Look—some of you have walked all your life in hopelessness. For three days, walk in hope. Walk so filled with hope that an event must happen, surely it will happen. You may say: in the outer world, even with hope, a task may fail. But in the inner world, hope is a great path. When you fill with hope, each particle of you fills with hope—each hair, each breath. Light from hope fills your thoughts, and hope pervades the pulsation of your life, the beating of your heart.

When your entire being fills with hope, the ground is prepared for real work. Hopelessness, too, has a personality—each particle weeping, tired, sunken, lifeless—as if alive only in name, already dead. If such a person launches any effort, any expedition, what can he achieve? And the expedition of the inner life is the greatest of all. There is no higher peak a human has ever climbed; no ocean deeper than one’s own depth. The depth of the self is the greatest depth, the height of the self the greatest height.

Whoever sets out on this journey must be filled with great hopes.

So I ask you: for three days sustain a climate of hope. Tonight, when you sleep, sleep filled with hope. Sleep with the trust that when you rise in the morning, something will happen, something will become possible, something can be done.

Along with this attitude of hope, let me add—out of recent years of experience—that our despair runs so deep that when something does begin to happen, we fail to notice it.

Recently a man came to me with his wife. On the first day he said, “My wife cannot sleep—without medicine she doesn’t sleep at all; with medicine she sleeps only three or four hours. And she is terrified—unknown fears haunt her. She is afraid to step outside the house; inside the house she fears it might collapse. If no one is nearby she panics that she might die alone, so someone must be near. At night she sleeps with all her medicines beside her lest some danger arise.” He described her state of fear and dejection.

I suggested a small meditation experiment; I told them it would help. They began. After seven days I met them. “What happened?” I asked. He said, “Nothing much yet—only that sleep has started coming.” He said, “Nothing much yet—just that sleep has begun.”

Seven days later I asked again. “Nothing particularly yet—some fear has lessened.” Again after seven days: “Anything?” “Nothing special—just that some sleep comes, fear has decreased, she no longer keeps her medicines by her side. Nothing special.”

I call this the perspective of despair. Even if something happens to such a person, he won’t recognize it. This vision is wrong from the very foundation. For such a person, nothing can happen—and if it does, he will still never know that something has happened. And much that could have happened will be halted.

So, along with the hopeful outlook, I say this: in these three days, remember what does happen—and do not remember what does not.

Remember whatever happens in these three days; do not remember what does not happen. What is worth remembering is what has happened. If even a speck of peace seems to appear, hold onto it. It will give you hope and momentum. If you hold to what did not happen, your movement will be obstructed, and even what did happen will fade.

So in these three days, in these meditation experiments, whatever little you experience—remember it. Make it the basis for going forward. Do not build on what did not happen. People suffer their whole lives in just this way: they forget what they receive and remember what they do not. Such a person stands on a false foundation. Be the other kind—remember what you have received and stand upon that.

I was reading: a man said to another, “I have nothing. I am very poor.” The other said, “If you are poor, do this: I’ll take your left eye. I’ll give you five thousand rupees. Take the money and give me your left eye.” The man said, “That is difficult; I cannot give my left eye.” “I’ll give ten thousand—give me both eyes.” “Even for ten thousand, I cannot.” “I’ll give you fifty thousand—give me your life.” “Impossible. I cannot.” The other said, “Then you possess much of great value. You have two eyes you won’t sell even for ten thousand—and yet you say you have nothing.”

I am speaking of that understanding. Remember what you do have. And in practice, if even a grain is gained, remember it. Ponder it, speak of it. On that basis more will come, because hope will grow. And what you did not get…

A woman used to come to me—a college professor, learned in Sanskrit. She joined a seven-day meditation experiment. On the first day, after the session, she came out and said, “Forgive me—today I did not get a vision of God!” The first day she tried, and then: “Forgive me, I have had no vision of God.”

I said, “If a vision of God had occurred so easily, that would be dangerous—because you might not consider such a cheap God to be of any worth.” I also told her, “To think that because one sat with eyes closed for ten minutes one now deserves God—there is hardly a more foolish attitude.”

So I tell you: if even a tiny ray of peace touches you, take it as the sun. Take it as the sun because, following that very ray, you will reach the sun. If I sit in a room full of darkness and a sliver of light appears, I have two choices. I can say, “What is this ray? The darkness is so dense—what can this ray do?” Or I can say, “However great the darkness, a ray is available to me—and if I follow it in its own direction, I will reach the source from which it arises, where the sun is.”

So I do not ask you to brood over how thick the darkness is. Even if the ray is small, build your reflection upon it. From this, a hopeful vision is born.

Otherwise our lives are upside down. If I take you to a rosebush, you might say, “What is this? How unjust is God! Two or four flowers—and thousands of thorns.” That is one way of seeing. Another way, another angle, another approach: someone else might say at the same bush, “How wondrous is God! Among the thousands of thorns, even one flower blooms!” One can see it thus: “Amidst countless thorns, a flower still blossoms. The world is marvelous! Even among thorns, the possibility of a flower is astonishing!”

So I ask you to keep this second vision for these three days. Whatever small glimmer of hope you glimpse in practice, make it your foundation, your support.

Third: for these three days you are not to live exactly as you have lived until this evening. Man is largely a machine of habits. If he remains within the circle of his old habits, it becomes very difficult to open the new vision of practice. So I will ask you to make a few changes.

One change: in these three days, speak as little as possible. Talk is the greatest disease of this century. And you do not realize how much you talk. From morning to night, as long as you are awake, you talk—either with someone else, or, if no one is present, you are talking within yourself.

For these three days, make a very alert effort to break this mechanical habit of talking. It is our habit; it is very harmful in the life of a seeker.

I would like you to speak as little as possible. And even what you do say—let it not be the usual banal talk of daily life. What is the worth of what you keep saying each day? If you do not say it, what is lost? If you do not tell what you habitually tell, who is harmed?

Remember: we have nothing special to discuss with anyone these days. Great benefits will come from this. First, the energy wasted in idle speech will be conserved, and we can use that energy in practice. Second, you will detach from others a little and come into a measure of solitude. We have come to the mountains. There is no point coming if two hundred of us keep chatting and gossiping together. Then we remain in a crowd; we never arrive in solitude.

To come into solitude, it is not enough to come to the mountains; it is also necessary to loosen your ties with others and be alone. Keep only the most minimal contact. Feel as if you are alone on this mountain and there is no one else. Live as if you had come alone—walk alone, sit alone under a tree. Do not move about in a group. Do not go as four or six friends. For these three days, live one by one—alone.

Know this: in a crowd no great truth of life is ever born or experienced. Nothing essential ever happens in a crowd. All experiences of truth have happened in utter solitude and aloneness.

When we are not speaking to any person—when we stop all talk, outer and inner—nature, in some mysterious way, begins to speak to us. Perhaps nature is speaking to us constantly, but we are so busy with our chatter that her subtle voice is not heard. We must silence all our voices so that we can hear the voice of the inner consciousness that is sounding within everyone.

So for these three days, consciously thin out your talking. If out of habit a conversation begins and you notice, break it off right there; apologize—“I slipped”—and move to be alone. We will of course do the practices here, but also practice by yourself—go anywhere, sit under any tree.

We have forgotten that we have any relationship with nature. And we do not know that in nature’s company one approaches the Divine far more swiftly than anywhere else.

So take full advantage of these three extraordinary days. Go alone, and do not waste yourself in idle talk. After three days you will have plenty of time to talk—do it then.

Remember this third point: spend most of these three days in silence, in solitude, alone. Even if all are together, remain inwardly alone. The life of practice is a solitary life. We are many here and will sit to meditate—it will seem like group meditation. But every meditation is personal. There is no such thing as group meditation. We may sit together, but when each one moves within, he is alone. When he closes his eyes, he is alone. And when he enters peace, no one is with him. We may be two hundred, but each person will be only with himself—he will not be with the other one hundred ninety-nine.

There is no collective meditation, no collective prayer. All meditation, all prayer, is personal—alone. Here too we will remain alone; outside too we will remain alone. Spend most of the time in silence. Not speaking outwardly is not enough. Remember also the incessant inner chatter—where you yourself speak and you yourself answer—loosen that as well; let it go. If it does not loosen easily, give a very clear inner command: “Stop the nonsense. I do not like it.” Say it to yourself.

In the life of practice, giving some commands to oneself is very important. Try it. Sit alone and tell your mind, “Stop the babble. I do not like it.” You will be surprised: in a single instant the inner chatter will break.

For three days, consciously command within: “I am not going to indulge in this talk.” In three days you will feel the difference; the inner chatter will fade.

Fifth: some complaints may arise, some discomforts. For three days, pay them no attention. Minor aches, small obstacles—give them no attention. We have not come together here for comforts.

I was just reading about a Chinese nun. She entered a village at dusk and asked at the doors for shelter for the night. She was a stranger, and the villagers did not share her faith. They shut their doors. The next village was far; night had fallen; she was alone. She had to sleep in a field beneath a cherry tree.

At two in the morning she awoke from the cold. She saw the blossoms had opened, the tree was laden with flowers, the moon was high, the moonlight wondrous—and she tasted a moment of pure delight.

In the morning she went to the village to thank those who had shut their doors. “For what?” they asked. She said, “Out of compassion you closed your doors to me. I was granted a marvelous moment. I saw the cherry blossoms open; I beheld the full moon. I saw something I had never seen. Had you given me a room, I would have been deprived. I understood your compassion in closing your doors.”

This is a certain vision, a certain angle. You too might have been turned away that night, and perhaps you would have burned with anger, hatred, and resentment so much that you would not have seen the blossoms open, nor noticed the rising moon. Thanks would be unthinkable—you would have missed the entire experience.

There is another state in life when we become filled with gratitude toward everything. A seeker should remember: for these three days, be grateful for everything. For what you receive—give thanks. For what you do not receive—let it be of no concern. In that inner posture, meaning arises; a carefreeness and a simplicity are born within.

And finally, one more thing. In these three days we will constantly attempt the inward journey, meditation, samadhi. For that entry a very deep resolve is needed. A deep resolve means this: our mind has a very small portion—the conscious mind—in which all our thoughts move. But far deeper are nine parts—the unconscious, the non-conscious. If we divide the mind into ten parts, one part is conscious; nine parts are unconscious. We think and decide only in that one part. The nine parts receive no news of it.

Here we decide, “I will meditate; I will descend into samadhi,” but a large portion of our mind remains uninvolved. That unfamiliar portion will not support us. And without its support, success is very difficult. To win its support, a resolve is needed. I will explain how we will make this resolve. We will make it here now; at night, when you go to bed, repeat it for five minutes, and repeat it as you drift into sleep.

The method for planting resolve is this—and we will do it here and daily: let your whole mind—conscious and unconscious—imbibe the feeling: “I must become quiet; I must enter meditation.”

The night Gautam Buddha attained samadhi, he sat beneath the bodhi tree and said, “Now, until I attain the ultimate truth, I will not rise from here.” You might think: what has that to do with attaining truth? How will it help? But that thought—“until I attain the ultimate truth I will not rise”—echoed through his entire being. He did not rise until truth was attained. And the wonder is—truth was attained that very night. He had been striving for six years, but such a deep resolve had never arisen.

How to create such depth of resolve? A small experiment I will give you now; we will do it here, and then each night before sleep.

If you breathe all your breath out—and do not allow the breath to enter again—what happens? If I exhale completely, pinch the nose, not letting air in, what will happen? In a little while, your entire being will begin to crave breath. Every hair, every cell will cry: “Air! Air!” The longer you hold, the more deeply the unconscious layers will cry: “Air!” If you hold to the last moment, your whole being will demand air. It will no longer be an affair of the upper mind; it will be a matter of life and death, and the deepest layers will also cry out.

In that moment—when your whole being is crying for air—silently repeat within: “I will enter meditation.” In those moments, while your entire being demands breath, repeat within: “I will enter meditation. It is my resolve to enter meditation.” Let your mind keep repeating it. Your vital force will be demanding breath; your mind will be repeating the resolve. To the depth that your life-force vibrates, to that depth your resolve will penetrate. If you repeat this sentence when your whole being is shaken, your resolve will become deep—so deep it will reach the unconscious layers of the mind.

We will do this before each meditation. At night, do it and then slip into sleep. As you begin to doze, let this sound continue in the mind: “I will enter meditation. It is my resolve to enter meditation.” Let this sentence go on echoing—until you do not know when sleep has taken you.

In sleep the conscious mind is anesthetized and the gates of the unconscious open. If at that moment this statement goes on echoing, it will sink into the unconscious strata. You will see its result—even within these three days.

Understand the method for deepening resolve: first, slowly fill the breath to the full—fill the lungs, fill the life-force as much as possible. As the breath fills completely, let the feeling echo: “I resolve to enter meditation.” Keep the sentence ringing.

Then exhale; even as you exhale, let the sentence echo: “I resolve to enter meditation.” Keep repeating as you breathe out. A moment will come when you feel there is no breath left inside; even then, a little remains—throw that out too, and keep repeating. You will feel, “Now nothing is left.” Still a little is there—throw it out.

Do not panic. You can never expel all the breath. There is no cause for fear. You cannot expel it entirely. So whenever you feel, “Now there is nothing,” still there is a little—throw that out too. As long as you can, keep releasing—and let the inner echo continue: “I resolve to enter meditation.”

This is a wondrous process. Through it your thought, your resolve, will enter the unconscious strata—and you will see the results from tomorrow morning.

So first, deepen the resolve. When we disperse from here, we will do the experiment—five times. That is, exhale and hold five times; and throughout, repeat the feeling. Those with heart troubles or other ailments should not do it vigorously; do it gently, as feels easy and without discomfort.

I said this about resolve: each night for these three nights, do it as you lie down to sleep. Let yourself slip into sleep while repeating this feeling: “It is my resolve to become silent.” Let sleep overtake you while you are thinking it.

These few things I had to say today. You will, I trust, understand what is relevant. As I said: no unnecessary talk. Naturally, do not use newspapers or radio either—those too are forms of talk. I have asked you for silence and solitude. Naturally this means: stay as far from companions as possible. The times we meet here are separate. If you go to meals, go separately. There too, eat in great silence and tranquility—let there be such stillness that no one can tell you are there. Come here also in silence and peace.

Let us see what the experiment of three days of quiet brings! Walk quietly on the path. Sit, rise—quietly. Spend more time alone. Choose a beautiful spot and sit silently. If someone is with you, let them also sit quietly, without conversation. Otherwise the mountains are wasted; the beauty is wasted; what lies before you is not seen. You finish everything in talk. Go alone.

These are a few things necessary for each of you. If you feel no thirst at all within, then tomorrow ask me how to kindle it. If you feel, “I have no hope,” ask me in the morning how to awaken hope. If you feel that you find it difficult to make a resolve—or it does not take—then ask me all your difficulties in the morning.

Tomorrow morning, for these three days, ask me whatever difficulties may arise, so that no time is wasted. If anyone has a personal pain or sorrow he wishes to be free of—something that hinders meditation—recognize it. If a particular worry prevents you from entering peace, ask separately about it. Such things are not for everyone; they are personal and will need a personal experiment. Whatever the difficulty, state it clearly in the morning so that we are organized for the three days.

These few things I wanted to say so that a mood, a vision, may be born in you. Then we will begin our work tomorrow and understand further.

For now, let us sit at a little distance from one another—the hall is large—so that we can do the experiment of resolve and then depart.

…Not with jolts—very gently fill the lungs completely. As you fill, keep repeating within: “I resolve to enter meditation.” Repeat the sentence. When the breath is filled to its last limit, hold it briefly, and keep repeating within. Anxiety will rise; the mind will want to throw the breath out—still hold a little, and keep repeating. Then release the breath slowly, and keep repeating. Keep releasing until you feel you’ve reached the last limit; release even then, and keep repeating. When empty inside, hold the emptiness; do not let the breath in yet. Keep repeating the sentence until the final moment. Then slowly inhale. Do this five times. One time means one full inhalation and one full exhalation. Five such rounds. Do everything gradually, gently.

When the five rounds are complete, then, with the spine upright, sit very gently, breathing softly, and rest quietly for five minutes. We will do about ten minutes here. Then everyone will depart silently. Remember—not to talk. Begin from now. In this sense, the camp has begun. At bedtime, repeat this experiment five to seven times, as long as feels good, then sleep. As you fall asleep, keep thinking: “I will become silent; this is my resolve.” Let sleep take you while you are thinking it.

So, turn off the lights. When your five rounds are done, remain seated, breathing gently, with spine straight. Let the body be relaxed, the spine straight, eyes closed. Breathe in very quietly. Do the experiment as I have said, five times.

I will enter meditation. I will enter meditation. It is my resolve that I will enter meditation. It is my resolve that I will enter meditation. Let your whole being make this resolve—to enter meditation. Let it echo through your entire being. Let it descend into the inner consciousness.

When your five rounds are done, then sit very gently, spine straight, breathing slowly—watch the breath. Rest for five minutes. In that rest, the resolve we have made will sink of its own accord more deeply. Complete the five rounds of resolve, then sit quietly watching the breath for five minutes. Breathe very softly.