Regarding the introductory circle of practice, we have spoken of two stages: purification of the body and purification of thoughts. Deeper than body and thought lies the layer of feeling, of emotions. The purification of feeling is the most vital element. In this preliminary work and in practice itself, the purification of feeling is more useful than the purification of body and thought.
Why? Because a human being lives far less by thought and far more by feeling. We call man a rational animal, an intellectual creature—but it isn’t really true. You don’t do most of what you do by thinking. Most of what you do is shaped by feeling. Your hatred, your anger, your love—these belong to the realm of emotions, not ideas.
Most of life’s conduct emerges from the world of feeling, not from the world of thought. So you will have seen: you think one thing, and at the critical moment you do something else. The cause is the discrepancy between thought and feeling. You resolve, “I won’t be angry.” You think anger is bad. But when anger seizes you, your thought is thrown aside and anger happens.
Until a transformation takes place in the world of feeling, no revolution comes to one’s life by mere thinking in the realm of thought. Therefore, the most basic point in this preliminary practice is emotions, feelings. This morning, let us explore how feeling may be purified, how pure feelings may be set in motion.
Among the many directions of feeling, I would lay special emphasis on four. Four elements through which feeling can be purified; the same four, inverted, become the womb of impure emotions. These four are: first, friendliness (maitri); second, compassion (karuna); third, gladness or joyousness (pramudita); and fourth, gratitude.
If one cultivates these four in life, purity of feeling is attained. Opposed to these four: to friendliness, hatred and enmity; to compassion, cruelty, violence, and pitilessness; to gladness and cheer, sadness, melancholy, distress, anxiety; and to gratitude, ingratitude. A life and emotional state rooted in these opposites is impure. One who abides in the four is established in pure feeling.
Let us inquire what influences and directs the perimeter of our feeling. In our lives, has enmity and antagonism taken the place of friendliness? Are we moved more by hostility than by friendship? Are we more affected, more activated, does more power arise within us from enmity than from friendliness?
As I said before, there is power in anger—but there is power in friendliness too. If you know only how to generate the power of anger, you are deprived of a vast portion of life. One who has not learned to awaken the power of friendliness, who is strong only in hostility and becomes limp in friendliness...
You will have noticed: nations grow weak in times of peace and powerful in times of war. Why? Because we don’t know how to generate the power of friendship. Peace is not a power for us; it is powerlessness. And this is why countries like India, which have spoken so much of peace and love, became powerless—because the only commonly known way to generate power is hostility.
Hitler wrote in his autobiography: If you want to make a nation powerful, create true enemies or false ones. Convince your people that enemies surround them, even if they don’t. Once they feel besieged, energy and strength will be born. So Hitler conjured utterly false enemies—the Jews, who posed no threat—and for ten years he propagated this, until the whole nation believed the Jews were the enemy and must be defended against. And power arose.
Germany’s power arose from antagonism. Japan’s power arose from antagonism. Today the power of the Soviet Union or America rests on antagonism. So far, human history knows only how to generate the power of hostility. We do not know the power of friendship.
Mahavira, Buddha, and Christ laid the first foundations of the power of friendship. When they said nonviolence is power, or when Christ said love is power, or Buddha said compassion is power—we hear the words, but we do not know them.
So I ask you: reflect in your own life—when do you feel powerful? When you are in enmity with someone? Or when you are serene and filled with love toward someone? You will find you feel powerful in hostility; when you are calm and non-hostile you feel weak.
This means you are influenced by an impure feeling. The deeper the hold of such impurity, the less you will be able to enter within. Why can’t you go within? Understand this point well.
Enmity is always outward-centered. There must be someone outside toward whom enmity is directed; without an external other, you cannot be hostile. But love is not outward-centered. Even if there is no one outside, love can arise within. Love is inner-centered; friendliness is inner-centered. Hostility is other-centered—it relates to the other. Hatred is driven from outside; love wells up from within. Love’s spring flows from the inside; hatred’s reaction is generated from without. Impure feelings are driven by the outside; pure feelings flow from within. Grasp clearly the distinction between impure and pure feelings.
Any feeling driven from the outside is not pure. So the passion we commonly call love is not pure, because it is driven from without. Only that love is pure which streams from within and is not propelled by the outside. Hence in our tradition we distinguish love (prema) from attachment (moh), passion from lust (vasana). Lust is externally driven.
In the hearts of Buddha or Mahavira there is no lust, but there is love.
Christ was passing a village one noon. He was tired, the sun intense. He stopped to rest under a tree in a garden. The house and the garden belonged to a courtesan. She saw Christ resting beneath the tree. Such a being had never rested in her garden; she had never seen such a one. She had seen handsome men, healthy men—but this beauty was different, this health was of another order. Drawn, she found herself standing by the tree without knowing how. As she looked upon Christ, his eyes opened; he rose to leave. Christ thanked her, saying, “Thank you for the shade your tree has given me. Now I must go—the road ahead is long.”
The courtesan said, “If you do not step into my house for a moment, I will feel deeply hurt. Just two moments, please.” She added, “This is the first time in my life I am inviting someone. Men come to my door and are sent back; this is the first time I invite anyone.” Christ said, “Since you have asked, consider that I have already come. But my road is long, let me go.” Again he said, “Since you have asked, consider that I have already come.” She replied, “It will wound me that you cannot show even this much love—to step into my house!” Christ said, “Remember, I am the one person who can love you. All those who have come to your door have not loved you.” He said, “I am the one person who can love you, and those who came to your door did not love you—because they had no love; they came because of you. I have love within.”
Love is like the light of a lamp: even if no one is present, the light continues to fall into emptiness; if someone passes by, it falls on them. Passion and attachment are not like light; they are pulled only when something outside stimulates them. Hence lust is a tension, a strain. Love is not a tension; in love there is no strain. Love is an utterly tranquil state.
Impure feelings are those shaped from the outside—waves stirred in you by outer winds. Pure feelings are those that arise from you, which outer winds do not sway.
We seldom think of Mahavira and Buddha in this language—as lovers. I tell you, they alone are the ones who love. But their love and yours differ. Your love is a relationship with someone; theirs is not a relationship, it is a state of mind. Their love is not a bond with someone; it is the very climate of their consciousness. Which is to say: they are compelled to love—because they have nothing else to give.
People say Mahavira was insulted, stoned, iron nails driven into his ears—and he forgave everything. I say they are mistaken. Mahavira forgave no one—because forgiveness is for those who first feel anger. Mahavira had no pity either—because pity is for those who harbor cruelty. Nor did Mahavira reflect, “I must not treat them badly”—because such thinking belongs to those in whom the thought of retaliation has arisen.
Then what did Mahavira do? He is helpless—he has nothing to give but love. Whatever you do, the response can only be love. Throw stones at a tree laden with fruit, and only fruit can fall in return—there is no other way. The tree does nothing; it is simply compelled. Toss any kind of bucket into a spring full of water—dirty or clean, golden or iron—and the spring can only give you water. This is not the spring’s special virtue; it is its inevitability. When love becomes a state of consciousness, it is a kind of helplessness—you must give it; there is no other way.
So those feelings that rise from within—those you do not pull from outside, nor can they be pulled from outside—these are pure. The feelings that storms from without stir in you like waves—these are impure. What is generated from outside will create restlessness and trouble within; what flows from within will fill you with deep bliss.
Keep this first thing in mind about pure and impure feelings: pure feeling is a state of consciousness; impure feeling is a distortion of consciousness, not a state. Impure feeling is the imprint of the outside upon the mind; pure feeling is the unfolding of the inner. So consider in your life: Are the emotions that move me arising from within, or are others producing them in me?
I am walking down the road; you hurl an insult at me—and anger arises in me. That is an impure feeling, because you produced it in me. I am walking down the road; you praise me—and I feel pleased. That too is an impure feeling, because you produced it. If I am walking along and you either abuse me or praise me and my state remains just what it was before either—the feeling is pure, because you did not produce it; it is mine.
What is mine is pure; what comes from outside is impure. What comes from outside is reaction, an echo.
Recently we visited an echo point: you shout, and the mountains repeat your voice. I said most of us are echo points. You say something; they repeat it. They have nothing of their own; they are empty cliffs. You cry out; an echo returns—that echo is not theirs. You produced it. And what you produced wasn’t yours either—someone else produced it in you.
We are all echo points, with no voice of our own, no life of our own, no feeling of our own. Our feelings are impure because they’re borrowed—from others.
So remember the first maxim: let your feelings be yours; let them not be mere reactions. Let them be states of your consciousness. I divide such states into four. First, friendliness.
Friendliness must be cultivated. It must be cultivated because life gives very few opportunities for the power-center of friendliness within us to develop. It remains a seed lying dormant in the soil of the mind. Hostility, by contrast, sprouts instantly. Why? There are natural reasons—there is a need for it too. It may be needed for a time, but not as a lifelong companion. There is a day for it, and there is a day to drop it.
When a child is born, his earliest experiences are not of love. From the very start, what he experiences is fear. This is natural: a tiny being who, in the mother’s womb, lived in perfect order and ease—no obstacles, no trouble, no worry about getting food or water—floating in a blissful sleep. Emerging from the womb, he is utterly helpless. His first blow is fear. And when fear strikes, love does not arise toward those he sees; fear arises. From fear comes aversion toward those feared.
Understand this law: fear never gives birth to love. Whoever said “without fear there is no love” spoke falsely. If there is fear, love cannot be. If love is shown outwardly over fear, inwardly there is non-love.
Most of the love you see in this world rests on fear. Any love that stands on fear is false: on the surface there is love, underneath hatred keeps seeping. Those we “love,” we also hate—because love is on the surface and hate below, as we are afraid of them.
Remember: whoever instills fear in another forfeits the chance to receive their love. A father who frightens his son will never know his son’s love. A husband who frightens his wife will never receive her love. He may get a performance of love, not love itself. Love grows only in fearlessness, not in fear.
The newborn experiences fear, so the points of enmity get activated; the points of love cannot. For most people, those centers of love remain unawakened for an entire lifetime, because life gives them no chance. What you call love is not love either—it is sexuality, lust. Love grows only through practice.
So the seed-point of friendliness and love within us must be developed—developed against the grain of nature, because nature does not grant it an opportunity to grow. The life you receive does not give it a chance. In that life, only hostility develops. What we call friendliness is mere formality and etiquette—a device to avoid hostility, to not provoke it. It is not friendliness. Friendliness is something altogether different.
How to develop that point? How to kindle friendliness within? By practicing the feeling of friendship. Sustain a steady feeling of friendliness. Whoever is around you, send them a message of friendship, radiate rays of friendliness, and inside, keep that center continuously aroused and active.
When you sit by a river, send love to the river. I say river because sending love to a person may feel a little awkward at first. Send love to a tree—I say tree because sending it to a person may be difficult. First send love toward nature. The first sprouts of love can develop most easily toward nature. Why? Because nature does not wound you.
In olden days there were wondrous people who sent love-messages to the whole cosmos. At sunrise they folded their hands in greeting: “Blessed are you; your compassion is boundless—you give us light.”
This worship was not pagan foolishness. It had deep meaning. One who is filled with love for the sun, who calls the river “mother” with love, who remembers the earth as mother with love—such a person cannot remain without love toward people for long. It is impossible. Those remarkable ones sent love to all of nature, cultivating prayer and devotion everywhere.
This is needed. If you want the sprout of love to emerge within, first send its message toward nature. But we are such odd people: a full moon hangs overhead and we sit below playing cards, tallying our accounts—did I lose a rupee or win one? The moon stands above while a wondrous opportunity for love is wasted.
The moon could have awakened that center in you. If for two enchanted moments you had sat under the moon and sent a message of love, its rays might have stirred a point within you, and you would have been filled with love.
Opportunities are everywhere. This entire nature is overflowing with marvels. Love them. Do not let any opportunity for love pass by unused. For instance: you are walking along and see a stone in the path—remove it. This is a free opportunity that can change your life. What could be a simpler practice? You pass by, see a stone, and set it aside—who knows what stranger might pass and be hurt by it? You have done an act of love.
I say this because it is the little things that develop the element of love—very small things. A child is crying by the road—you walk past. Can you not pause for two moments to wipe his tears?
Abraham Lincoln was on his way to a session of the Senate. On the way, a pig got stuck in a ditch. He rushed over and said, “Delay the Senate a little—I’ll be right back.” It was astonishing; the American Senate is rarely halted like this. He returned, covered in mud, having lifted the pig out of the drain. People asked, “What happened? Why did you run off like that?” He said, “A living being was in danger.”
Such a simple act of love—and yet how wondrous. These small things… I see people who strain their water lest a tiny creature die, but in their hearts there is no love—then straining water is useless. It’s a mere mechanical habit: they strain water, they don’t eat at night lest insects die; they are vegetarians—but if their hearts hold no love, what does it matter?
It is not about straining water, or not eating at night, or abstaining from meat. A Brahmin, a Jain, a Buddhist may abstain from meat—do not assume his mind is filled with love. It may be only habit, inherited tradition—heard and adopted—but his heart may not be loving.
Yet if such conduct grows out of love, it becomes wondrous. Nonviolence is the supreme religion only when it flowers from love. If it comes from scriptures or sectarian conformity, it is no religion at all.
Life offers countless small acts—countless. We have simply forgotten. I say to you: when you put your hand on someone’s shoulder, let your whole heart’s love flow through your hand to them. Gather your life-breath, your entire heart into that hand and let it go. You will be amazed—that hand becomes magic. When you look into someone’s eyes, pour your whole heart through your eyes. You will be amazed—those eyes become magic, stirring something in the other. Not only will your love awaken; you may create the conditions for love to awaken in them. When one person appears who knows how to love rightly, love becomes active in thousands.
So to raise the center of friendliness and love—do not miss any chance. And to ensure chances arise, remember one rule: each day, consciously do one or two acts for which you expect absolutely nothing in return. For twenty-four hours we work, and we work because we want something back. Make it a rule to do some acts daily for which you want nothing whatsoever. Those acts will be of love, and they will generate love within you. If a person does even one such act a day, his reward will be immense—because the center of love within will be activated and will grow.
Do something for which you want nothing—nothing at all. Gradually, friendliness will develop. A time will come when you can be friendly only toward those who are not hostile to you. Then more growth—and a time will come when you can be friendly even toward those who are hostile to you. And then a time will come when you will not know who is friend and who is foe.
Mahavira said: “Mitti me sabba bhuesu, veram majjha na kevalai—All beings are my friends; I have enmity toward none.”
This is not a thought—it is a feeling. Not a mental conclusion, but a state of heart: “No one is my enemy.” And when does “no one is my enemy” happen? When I am no one’s enemy. It may be that there were people who considered Mahavira their enemy; but Mahavira says, “No one is my enemy.” What does this mean? “I am no one’s enemy.” He says, “I have enmity toward none.” What joy must have dawned!
You love one person and feel such joy—what of the one whose heart opens to love the whole world? How limitless his joy! This is no costly bargain. You lose nothing and gain so much.
That is why I do not call Mahavira and Buddha renouncers. The greatest enjoyment, the greatest ecstasy, is theirs. You may be the renouncers, not they. They opened the boundless gates of bliss. Whatever was most exalted, beautiful, auspicious—they drank it to the full. And what are you tasting? Nothing but poison. They knew the nectar.
So I tell you: for that ultimate, peak moment when love spreads to the whole world and rays flow ceaselessly from your heart, you must practice. Each day, perform at least one act of love, consciously. All day there are a thousand chances to express love. But our habits are bad: we miss every chance to express love and never miss a chance to express hate! The more chances of hate you can let pass, the better. The more chances of love you can seize, the better. Let opportunities for hate go by—consciously let one or two pass. Consciously seize one or two opportunities for love. This will bring astonishing momentum to your practice.
So the first maxim is friendliness. The second is compassion. Compassion is a form of friendliness; we mention it separately because a distinct flavor is present. If you look with a little awareness at the people around you, you will be filled with compassion for them.
We sit here, so many of us. Who can say—by evening, one of us may be gone. And one evening, all of us will be gone. Each one of us will be finished one day. If I keep in mind that the faces before me may never be seen again by me—will my heart not fill with compassion for them?
I entered a garden this morning. Flowers were in bloom, and by evening they will be withered. Their lives are so brief—blooming at dawn, fallen by dusk. Will remembering that these flowers, smiling now, will be dust by evening not kindle compassion for them? When, in the night sky, a star breaks and scatters—does that not evoke compassion for the stars? If there is awareness, wherever you look you will feel compassion for everyone. Our meeting is so short, life so difficult, this event so rare—and within each one, so much craving, so much thirst, so much pain—yet somehow we live, somehow we love, somehow create two beautiful acts. Will this not evoke compassion?
One day a man came and spat at Buddha—so furious that he spat on him. Buddha wiped it away and asked, “Anything more to say?” Ananda, the attendant monk, said, “Master, what are you saying? Has he said something? Give us leave to deal with him! This is too much—he spat on you!” Buddha said, “He wants to say something; language is inadequate. The surge is intense. He could not speak; he expressed it through an act.”
This is what I call compassion: Buddha felt pity for the inadequacy of language. The man wanted to say something—his rage was great—he wanted to convey it; words failed; he made it known by spitting.
When someone comes to me in love and places a hand upon my hand, how much compassion I feel! He wants to say something; language is inadequate; he tries to say it with his touch. When two people embrace, language is inadequate; man is so weak—he wants to say something—he brings hearts close; there is no other way.
Yesterday, as I was leaving here, some people bent to touch my feet. I felt deep compassion—how helpless man is! He wants to say something and cannot; so he holds someone’s feet. A dear friend behind me, a thoughtful man, said, “No, no—don’t do that.” He was right too. How bad it has become—those who want others to touch their feet have appeared. So he rightly said, “Don’t do it.” I agreed; yet I also did not agree. He is right that no one should make others touch their feet. But that world would also be wrong where there are no people whose hearts long to bow at someone’s feet. That world would also be wrong where no hearts remain that incline to someone’s feet. And that world would be wrong where we no longer feel emotions that cannot be expressed without holding someone’s feet.
Do you understand me? It would be a wrong world if we no longer felt those emotions that cannot be expressed without holding someone’s feet. Man would become very dry and meaningless.
Let me remind you too: I have been astonished that when I have seen someone bowing at my feet, I found he was not holding my feet. He saw something in them; perhaps he was holding the very feet of the Divine. Whenever anyone has bowed at anyone’s feet—if he has not been forced—he has bowed only at God’s feet, not at a person’s. What is there in anyone’s feet to bow to? There is some inner feeling for which there is no other outlet.
Yesterday evening, someone who loves me was in my room. As I turned on the light to bathe, he said, “Let there be light—allow me to hold your feet.” I was surprised. He held my feet, and the tears I saw in his eyes—nothing on earth is more beautiful than those tears that arise in a moment of love. If there is awareness of these, if they are seen, how could you not be filled with compassion?
But what do you see in people? You see that which does not evoke compassion but condemnation. You see that which does not evoke mercy but cruelty. You look at what is not their real being, not their heart—but their compulsions. A man abuses me—is that his heart? It is his helplessness. In even the worst man there is a heart; if we could reach it, we would be filled with compassion—filled with compassion.
Buddha said that morning, “Compassion arises; language is weak, Ananda. The human heart longs to say much and cannot.” He asked the man, “Anything more to say?” What more could he say now? He left. That night he repented, returned the next day to ask forgiveness, fell at Buddha’s feet, and wept. Buddha said, “Do you see, Ananda—language is weak. Even now he wants to say something and cannot. Yesterday he wanted to say something and could not. Then he performed an act; now he performs another. Language is very weak, Ananda—and man greatly to be pitied.”
And life is of four days—no, not even that, not even four hours. In this brief meeting, if we do not fill with compassion for one another, we were not human—we never knew life; we did not recognize it.
So spread compassion around you; be intimate with your surroundings. People are so miserable—do not increase their misery. Your compassion will ease their pain. A word filled with compassion will lessen their sorrow. Do not add to it.
We are all increasing one another’s suffering. Many people are at the heels of each one, ready to hurt. If compassion awakens, you will renounce all ways of hurting anyone; and if you can bring any happiness to someone’s life, you will find a way to give it.
Remember this: one who gives suffering to another ends up suffering himself. One who gives happiness ends up attaining deep happiness. Why? Because one who tries to give joy develops centers of joy within; one who tries to inflict pain develops centers of pain within.
Fruits do not arrive from outside; they are born within. We become receptive to what we practice. Whoever seeks love, let him spread love. Whoever seeks joy, let him shower joy. Whoever wants flowers to rain upon his own house, let him cast flowers into others’ courtyards. There is no other way.
So for entry into practice, each one must cultivate compassion.
The third is gladness—upliftedness, cheerfulness—a sense of joy; the absence of melancholy. We are all full of despondency—sad, tired people. Defeated, vanquished, we walk the roads and are finished. We move as if already dead today. There is no vitality in our steps, no life in our motions; we are sluggish, sad, shattered, defeated. This is wrong. However short life may be, however certain death, one with a little understanding will not be gloomy.
Socrates was dying; the hemlock was being given, and he was laughing. His disciple Crito asked, “You laugh? Our eyes are filled with tears. Death is near—this is a time for sorrow.” Socrates said, “Where is the sorrow? If I die and am utterly gone, then what sorrow?—there will be no one left to experience pain. If I die and something remains, then what sorrow?—what is lost was not me; what is me remains.” He said, “I am happy. Death can do only two things: either annihilate me utterly—in which case I am happy, for none will remain to suffer; or it will spare me—in which case I am happy, for what is not mine will perish, and I will remain. Death can only do these two things—so it is a matter to smile at.”
Socrates said, “I am glad. What can death take? If it annihilates me completely, what is taken? The one from whom it is taken will not be there—there will be no experience of grief. And if I remain—then all remains. If I remain, all remains; what is taken was not mine.” So Socrates said, “I am happy.”
Those who can be glad before death—while we, having life, sit sorrowing! We sit grieving in life, while there have been those who laughed before death.
Mansoor was given the gallows. They cut off his feet, then his hands, gouged out his eyes. Never in human history has anyone been tortured so cruelly. Christ was killed quickly; Gandhi was shot quickly; Socrates was given poison. Mansoor died with the greatest suffering in human history: first his feet cut off; as blood flowed, he smeared it on his hands. A crowd of a hundred thousand pelted stones. They asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “I perform wudu.” Muslims wash their hands before prayer; Mansoor washed his hands with his own blood. He said, “I perform wudu. Remember Mansoor’s word: the ablution of love is done with blood, not water. Only he who performs wudu with his own blood enters the prayer.”
People thought him mad. After his feet, they cut his hands; then they gouged his eyes. Surrounded by a sea of stones and severed limbs, when his eyes were taken he cried, “O God, remember—Mansoor has won!”
They asked, “In what have you won?” He said, “I say this to God: remember, Mansoor has won. I feared that amid such enmity love might not remain. So remember, O God—Mansoor has won. My love stands firm. What they have done to ‘me’ they could not do to me. What they have done to me they have not done to me; love remains.” And he said, “This is my prayer, this my worship.”
Mansoor laughed even then, intoxicated even then. There have been those who were joyous before death; we sit before life, sad and weeping. This is wrong. A gloomy path, a mind full of melancholy—such a one cannot undertake a great quest. For a great quest, exuberance is needed; for the adventure, a heart brimming with joy.
So cultivate upliftedness all day. These are only habits. Gloom is a habit you have formed; upliftedness is a habit you can form. To keep gladness alive, attend to the lit side of life, not the side filled with darkness.
If I tell you, “A friend of mine plays a wondrous flute,” you may say, “Him? What flute! I’ve seen him drinking in a tavern.” If I say, “My friend plays a wondrous flute,” you say, “What flute—he drinks!” This is seeing the darkness.
If I tell you, “My friend drinks,” and you say, “Perhaps—but he plays a wondrous flute”—that is seeing the illuminated side of life.
Whoever wishes to be happy should look at the light. He should see that between two nights there is one day. One who wishes to be sad should see that between two days there is one night. As we see life, something develops within accordingly. Do not dwell on life’s dark side; look to its bright side.
When I was small, my father was poor. With great difficulty he built a house—poor and inexperienced, never having built one before. Somehow it was put up. Before we could move in, the first rain brought it down. We children were very sad. He was away from the village; I sent word: the house has fallen, and our hopes of moving in are shattered. He came, distributed sweets in the village, and said, “Thank God! If it had fallen eight days later, not one of my children would be alive.” We were to move in eight days hence. All his life he rejoiced that the house fell eight days early—eight days later would have been disastrous.
Life can be seen like that too. Whoever looks so finds a great gladness arising. Everything depends on how you look. Life in itself is nothing fixed; your attitude, your grip, your understanding, your vision—these make and unmake everything.
Ask yourself: what do you see? Have you ever seen even the worst man without at least one quality which is rare even among saints? Have you ever seen the worst of men without at least one trait that is hard to find in holy men? If you can, then see that. That is the man’s real part. Seek rays and light everywhere; they will kindle rays and light within you.
This is pramudita: the third feeling is to be glad. Glad enough to make death and sorrow powerless. So joyful that death and grief shrink and die—so much so that you hardly notice they exist.
One who stores such cheer and joy within makes rapid progress in practice. It is very necessary—very.
There was a monk who remained so cheerful all his life that people were amazed; they never saw him sad or afflicted. When his final hour came he said, “I will die in three days. I tell you this so that you remember: let no one weep at the grave of a man who laughed all his life. I tell you so that when I die, no gloom falls upon this hut. Here there was always joy; therefore make my death a celebration. Do not turn it into sorrow—make it a festival.”
People were grieved—very. He was a wondrous man; the more wondrous a person, the deeper the grief at his passing. Those who loved him gathered over the three days. Up to the moment of death he was making people laugh—saying wondrous things, speaking of love. In the morning before he died, he sang a song, then said, “Remember—do not undress me. Place my whole body on the pyre as it is. Do not bathe me.”
It was his instruction. He died. They placed him on the pyre, clothed. As they set him there, sorrowful, they were astonished: hidden in his clothes were sparklers and firecrackers. As the flames rose, they began to crackle and sparkle; the pyre became a festival. People began laughing. “He made us laugh in life; he has made us laugh in death as well.”
Turn life into laughter. Turn death too into joy. Whoever succeeds in this attains great beatitude, great fulfillment. Entering practice from such a foundation, the momentum is beyond imagination—development like an arrow’s flight.
He who goes with a heavy heart has tied stones to the arrow; where will it go? The swifter the flight you desire, the lighter, more weightless the mind must be. The higher the mountain to climb, the more the burden must be left below. The greatest burden is sorrow, melancholy, gloom. None heavier.
Look at people—you see them bent, as if a great weight sits upon their heads. Throw it down. Give a shout of exuberance, a lion’s roar; declare to life: however it is, we can make it into joy, turn life into song. Life can be music. Remember this third, pramudita.
Fourth, gratitude. Gratitude is very divine. If anything has been lost in our century, it is gratitude.
Do you know—the breath you are taking, you are not taking. For if it does not come, you cannot take it. Do you know—you were born? You did not bring yourself. You had no conscious hand, no decision. Do you know this small body you have is wondrous—the greatest miracle on earth? You eat a little food and this small stomach digests it—what a miracle!
Even with all scientific progress, if we built a vast factory staffed by thousands of experts, we could not easily turn a piece of bread into blood. Yet this body performs that miracle twenty-four hours a day. This small body—some bones and flesh. Scientists say the material inside is worth hardly four or five rupees. Nothing of great value—and yet such a miracle accompanies you day and night. Do you feel no gratitude?
Have you ever loved your body? Kissed your hands? Loved your eyes? Ever felt what a marvel is happening? Perhaps none of you has loved your eyes, kissed your hands, felt gratitude that this amazing event is happening—and without our knowing or participating.
First, be grateful to your body. Only one who is grateful to his own body can be grateful to others’ bodies. First be filled with love for your body—only then can you truly love the bodies of others.
Those who teach you to be against the body are irreligious. Those who call the body the enemy, evil—irreligious. The body is nothing but a miracle—an astounding ally. Be grateful to it. What is in this body? It is made of the five great elements. Be grateful to the body; be grateful to the five elements.
One day the sun will go out—where will you be? Scientists say in some billions of years the sun will exhaust itself. He has given light so long; he will empty and one day go dark. We live daily assuming the sun will rise—one day people will go to sleep assuming dawn, and it will not come. Then what?
Not only the sun will go out—life itself will go out, for our life-breath comes from it; all warmth, all heat is received from it.
When you sit by the sea—do you ever consider that seventy percent of your body is sea-water? The first life-form on earth—the earliest microbe—was born in the ocean. You will be amazed to know: the ratio of salt to water in your body is the same as in the sea—even now. When that ratio shifts, you fall ill.
Sitting by the sea, have you felt that a part of the ocean lives in me? For that part within, I should be grateful to the sea. The sun’s light lives in me—I should be grateful to the sun. The winds move my breath—I should be grateful to the winds. Sky and earth form me—I should be grateful to them.
I call this gratitude divine. Without it, no one can be religious. How can an ungrateful person be religious? Feel this gratitude continuously and you will be astonished—it will fill you with such peace, such mystery. You will realize: What power did I have to deserve all this—and yet all this has been given. Your mind will be filled with thankfulness, with a sense of being blessed.
So practice expressing and developing gratitude; it will accelerate your practice. And not only practice—life will be utterly different, wholly other.
Christ was nailed to the cross. As he began to die, he said, “Father, forgive them.” His compassion spoke there. “Forgive them for two reasons: they know not what they do—and also because they have dissolved the distance between you and me. They have brought you and me together; for that I am grateful to them.”
So live with a constant remembrance of gratitude. Your life will become marvelous.
Thus I have given four keys for pure feeling: friendliness, compassion, gladness, and gratitude. There is more—but these four are enough. If you work with them, the rest will follow on their own. In this way feeling will be purified.
I have told you how the body is purified, how thought is purified, how feeling is purified. If even these three happen, you will enter a wondrous realm. Even these three will accomplish much.
We will later discuss three central elements: body-emptiness, thought-emptiness, and feeling-emptiness. For now we have discussed purification; then we will discuss emptiness. When purification and emptiness meet, samadhi arises. When purification and emptiness meet, samadhi arises—and samadhi is the door to the Divine. We will speak of this.
Now let us sit for the morning meditation. I have already explained it. In the beginning we will make a resolve five times. Then for a little while we will evoke feeling. Then, keeping the spine erect, eyes closed, we will watch the breath—mindfully—at the point near the nose where it enters and leaves.
Everyone please sit at a distance so that no one feels another’s touch.
Osho's Commentary
Regarding the introductory circle of practice, we have spoken of two stages: purification of the body and purification of thoughts. Deeper than body and thought lies the layer of feeling, of emotions. The purification of feeling is the most vital element. In this preliminary work and in practice itself, the purification of feeling is more useful than the purification of body and thought.
Why? Because a human being lives far less by thought and far more by feeling. We call man a rational animal, an intellectual creature—but it isn’t really true. You don’t do most of what you do by thinking. Most of what you do is shaped by feeling. Your hatred, your anger, your love—these belong to the realm of emotions, not ideas.
Most of life’s conduct emerges from the world of feeling, not from the world of thought. So you will have seen: you think one thing, and at the critical moment you do something else. The cause is the discrepancy between thought and feeling. You resolve, “I won’t be angry.” You think anger is bad. But when anger seizes you, your thought is thrown aside and anger happens.
Until a transformation takes place in the world of feeling, no revolution comes to one’s life by mere thinking in the realm of thought. Therefore, the most basic point in this preliminary practice is emotions, feelings. This morning, let us explore how feeling may be purified, how pure feelings may be set in motion.
Among the many directions of feeling, I would lay special emphasis on four. Four elements through which feeling can be purified; the same four, inverted, become the womb of impure emotions. These four are: first, friendliness (maitri); second, compassion (karuna); third, gladness or joyousness (pramudita); and fourth, gratitude.
If one cultivates these four in life, purity of feeling is attained. Opposed to these four: to friendliness, hatred and enmity; to compassion, cruelty, violence, and pitilessness; to gladness and cheer, sadness, melancholy, distress, anxiety; and to gratitude, ingratitude. A life and emotional state rooted in these opposites is impure. One who abides in the four is established in pure feeling.
Let us inquire what influences and directs the perimeter of our feeling. In our lives, has enmity and antagonism taken the place of friendliness? Are we moved more by hostility than by friendship? Are we more affected, more activated, does more power arise within us from enmity than from friendliness?
As I said before, there is power in anger—but there is power in friendliness too. If you know only how to generate the power of anger, you are deprived of a vast portion of life. One who has not learned to awaken the power of friendliness, who is strong only in hostility and becomes limp in friendliness...
You will have noticed: nations grow weak in times of peace and powerful in times of war. Why? Because we don’t know how to generate the power of friendship. Peace is not a power for us; it is powerlessness. And this is why countries like India, which have spoken so much of peace and love, became powerless—because the only commonly known way to generate power is hostility.
Hitler wrote in his autobiography: If you want to make a nation powerful, create true enemies or false ones. Convince your people that enemies surround them, even if they don’t. Once they feel besieged, energy and strength will be born. So Hitler conjured utterly false enemies—the Jews, who posed no threat—and for ten years he propagated this, until the whole nation believed the Jews were the enemy and must be defended against. And power arose.
Germany’s power arose from antagonism. Japan’s power arose from antagonism. Today the power of the Soviet Union or America rests on antagonism. So far, human history knows only how to generate the power of hostility. We do not know the power of friendship.
Mahavira, Buddha, and Christ laid the first foundations of the power of friendship. When they said nonviolence is power, or when Christ said love is power, or Buddha said compassion is power—we hear the words, but we do not know them.
So I ask you: reflect in your own life—when do you feel powerful? When you are in enmity with someone? Or when you are serene and filled with love toward someone? You will find you feel powerful in hostility; when you are calm and non-hostile you feel weak.
This means you are influenced by an impure feeling. The deeper the hold of such impurity, the less you will be able to enter within. Why can’t you go within? Understand this point well.
Enmity is always outward-centered. There must be someone outside toward whom enmity is directed; without an external other, you cannot be hostile. But love is not outward-centered. Even if there is no one outside, love can arise within. Love is inner-centered; friendliness is inner-centered. Hostility is other-centered—it relates to the other. Hatred is driven from outside; love wells up from within. Love’s spring flows from the inside; hatred’s reaction is generated from without. Impure feelings are driven by the outside; pure feelings flow from within. Grasp clearly the distinction between impure and pure feelings.
Any feeling driven from the outside is not pure. So the passion we commonly call love is not pure, because it is driven from without. Only that love is pure which streams from within and is not propelled by the outside. Hence in our tradition we distinguish love (prema) from attachment (moh), passion from lust (vasana). Lust is externally driven.
In the hearts of Buddha or Mahavira there is no lust, but there is love.
Christ was passing a village one noon. He was tired, the sun intense. He stopped to rest under a tree in a garden. The house and the garden belonged to a courtesan. She saw Christ resting beneath the tree. Such a being had never rested in her garden; she had never seen such a one. She had seen handsome men, healthy men—but this beauty was different, this health was of another order. Drawn, she found herself standing by the tree without knowing how. As she looked upon Christ, his eyes opened; he rose to leave. Christ thanked her, saying, “Thank you for the shade your tree has given me. Now I must go—the road ahead is long.”
The courtesan said, “If you do not step into my house for a moment, I will feel deeply hurt. Just two moments, please.” She added, “This is the first time in my life I am inviting someone. Men come to my door and are sent back; this is the first time I invite anyone.” Christ said, “Since you have asked, consider that I have already come. But my road is long, let me go.” Again he said, “Since you have asked, consider that I have already come.” She replied, “It will wound me that you cannot show even this much love—to step into my house!” Christ said, “Remember, I am the one person who can love you. All those who have come to your door have not loved you.” He said, “I am the one person who can love you, and those who came to your door did not love you—because they had no love; they came because of you. I have love within.”
Love is like the light of a lamp: even if no one is present, the light continues to fall into emptiness; if someone passes by, it falls on them. Passion and attachment are not like light; they are pulled only when something outside stimulates them. Hence lust is a tension, a strain. Love is not a tension; in love there is no strain. Love is an utterly tranquil state.
Impure feelings are those shaped from the outside—waves stirred in you by outer winds. Pure feelings are those that arise from you, which outer winds do not sway.
We seldom think of Mahavira and Buddha in this language—as lovers. I tell you, they alone are the ones who love. But their love and yours differ. Your love is a relationship with someone; theirs is not a relationship, it is a state of mind. Their love is not a bond with someone; it is the very climate of their consciousness. Which is to say: they are compelled to love—because they have nothing else to give.
People say Mahavira was insulted, stoned, iron nails driven into his ears—and he forgave everything. I say they are mistaken. Mahavira forgave no one—because forgiveness is for those who first feel anger. Mahavira had no pity either—because pity is for those who harbor cruelty. Nor did Mahavira reflect, “I must not treat them badly”—because such thinking belongs to those in whom the thought of retaliation has arisen.
Then what did Mahavira do? He is helpless—he has nothing to give but love. Whatever you do, the response can only be love. Throw stones at a tree laden with fruit, and only fruit can fall in return—there is no other way. The tree does nothing; it is simply compelled. Toss any kind of bucket into a spring full of water—dirty or clean, golden or iron—and the spring can only give you water. This is not the spring’s special virtue; it is its inevitability. When love becomes a state of consciousness, it is a kind of helplessness—you must give it; there is no other way.
So those feelings that rise from within—those you do not pull from outside, nor can they be pulled from outside—these are pure. The feelings that storms from without stir in you like waves—these are impure. What is generated from outside will create restlessness and trouble within; what flows from within will fill you with deep bliss.
Keep this first thing in mind about pure and impure feelings: pure feeling is a state of consciousness; impure feeling is a distortion of consciousness, not a state. Impure feeling is the imprint of the outside upon the mind; pure feeling is the unfolding of the inner. So consider in your life: Are the emotions that move me arising from within, or are others producing them in me?
I am walking down the road; you hurl an insult at me—and anger arises in me. That is an impure feeling, because you produced it in me. I am walking down the road; you praise me—and I feel pleased. That too is an impure feeling, because you produced it. If I am walking along and you either abuse me or praise me and my state remains just what it was before either—the feeling is pure, because you did not produce it; it is mine.
What is mine is pure; what comes from outside is impure. What comes from outside is reaction, an echo.
Recently we visited an echo point: you shout, and the mountains repeat your voice. I said most of us are echo points. You say something; they repeat it. They have nothing of their own; they are empty cliffs. You cry out; an echo returns—that echo is not theirs. You produced it. And what you produced wasn’t yours either—someone else produced it in you.
We are all echo points, with no voice of our own, no life of our own, no feeling of our own. Our feelings are impure because they’re borrowed—from others.
So remember the first maxim: let your feelings be yours; let them not be mere reactions. Let them be states of your consciousness. I divide such states into four. First, friendliness.
Friendliness must be cultivated. It must be cultivated because life gives very few opportunities for the power-center of friendliness within us to develop. It remains a seed lying dormant in the soil of the mind. Hostility, by contrast, sprouts instantly. Why? There are natural reasons—there is a need for it too. It may be needed for a time, but not as a lifelong companion. There is a day for it, and there is a day to drop it.
When a child is born, his earliest experiences are not of love. From the very start, what he experiences is fear. This is natural: a tiny being who, in the mother’s womb, lived in perfect order and ease—no obstacles, no trouble, no worry about getting food or water—floating in a blissful sleep. Emerging from the womb, he is utterly helpless. His first blow is fear. And when fear strikes, love does not arise toward those he sees; fear arises. From fear comes aversion toward those feared.
Understand this law: fear never gives birth to love. Whoever said “without fear there is no love” spoke falsely. If there is fear, love cannot be. If love is shown outwardly over fear, inwardly there is non-love.
Most of the love you see in this world rests on fear. Any love that stands on fear is false: on the surface there is love, underneath hatred keeps seeping. Those we “love,” we also hate—because love is on the surface and hate below, as we are afraid of them.
Remember: whoever instills fear in another forfeits the chance to receive their love. A father who frightens his son will never know his son’s love. A husband who frightens his wife will never receive her love. He may get a performance of love, not love itself. Love grows only in fearlessness, not in fear.
The newborn experiences fear, so the points of enmity get activated; the points of love cannot. For most people, those centers of love remain unawakened for an entire lifetime, because life gives them no chance. What you call love is not love either—it is sexuality, lust. Love grows only through practice.
So the seed-point of friendliness and love within us must be developed—developed against the grain of nature, because nature does not grant it an opportunity to grow. The life you receive does not give it a chance. In that life, only hostility develops. What we call friendliness is mere formality and etiquette—a device to avoid hostility, to not provoke it. It is not friendliness. Friendliness is something altogether different.
How to develop that point? How to kindle friendliness within? By practicing the feeling of friendship. Sustain a steady feeling of friendliness. Whoever is around you, send them a message of friendship, radiate rays of friendliness, and inside, keep that center continuously aroused and active.
When you sit by a river, send love to the river. I say river because sending love to a person may feel a little awkward at first. Send love to a tree—I say tree because sending it to a person may be difficult. First send love toward nature. The first sprouts of love can develop most easily toward nature. Why? Because nature does not wound you.
In olden days there were wondrous people who sent love-messages to the whole cosmos. At sunrise they folded their hands in greeting: “Blessed are you; your compassion is boundless—you give us light.”
This worship was not pagan foolishness. It had deep meaning. One who is filled with love for the sun, who calls the river “mother” with love, who remembers the earth as mother with love—such a person cannot remain without love toward people for long. It is impossible. Those remarkable ones sent love to all of nature, cultivating prayer and devotion everywhere.
This is needed. If you want the sprout of love to emerge within, first send its message toward nature. But we are such odd people: a full moon hangs overhead and we sit below playing cards, tallying our accounts—did I lose a rupee or win one? The moon stands above while a wondrous opportunity for love is wasted.
The moon could have awakened that center in you. If for two enchanted moments you had sat under the moon and sent a message of love, its rays might have stirred a point within you, and you would have been filled with love.
Opportunities are everywhere. This entire nature is overflowing with marvels. Love them. Do not let any opportunity for love pass by unused. For instance: you are walking along and see a stone in the path—remove it. This is a free opportunity that can change your life. What could be a simpler practice? You pass by, see a stone, and set it aside—who knows what stranger might pass and be hurt by it? You have done an act of love.
I say this because it is the little things that develop the element of love—very small things. A child is crying by the road—you walk past. Can you not pause for two moments to wipe his tears?
Abraham Lincoln was on his way to a session of the Senate. On the way, a pig got stuck in a ditch. He rushed over and said, “Delay the Senate a little—I’ll be right back.” It was astonishing; the American Senate is rarely halted like this. He returned, covered in mud, having lifted the pig out of the drain. People asked, “What happened? Why did you run off like that?” He said, “A living being was in danger.”
Such a simple act of love—and yet how wondrous. These small things… I see people who strain their water lest a tiny creature die, but in their hearts there is no love—then straining water is useless. It’s a mere mechanical habit: they strain water, they don’t eat at night lest insects die; they are vegetarians—but if their hearts hold no love, what does it matter?
It is not about straining water, or not eating at night, or abstaining from meat. A Brahmin, a Jain, a Buddhist may abstain from meat—do not assume his mind is filled with love. It may be only habit, inherited tradition—heard and adopted—but his heart may not be loving.
Yet if such conduct grows out of love, it becomes wondrous. Nonviolence is the supreme religion only when it flowers from love. If it comes from scriptures or sectarian conformity, it is no religion at all.
Life offers countless small acts—countless. We have simply forgotten. I say to you: when you put your hand on someone’s shoulder, let your whole heart’s love flow through your hand to them. Gather your life-breath, your entire heart into that hand and let it go. You will be amazed—that hand becomes magic. When you look into someone’s eyes, pour your whole heart through your eyes. You will be amazed—those eyes become magic, stirring something in the other. Not only will your love awaken; you may create the conditions for love to awaken in them. When one person appears who knows how to love rightly, love becomes active in thousands.
So to raise the center of friendliness and love—do not miss any chance. And to ensure chances arise, remember one rule: each day, consciously do one or two acts for which you expect absolutely nothing in return. For twenty-four hours we work, and we work because we want something back. Make it a rule to do some acts daily for which you want nothing whatsoever. Those acts will be of love, and they will generate love within you. If a person does even one such act a day, his reward will be immense—because the center of love within will be activated and will grow.
Do something for which you want nothing—nothing at all. Gradually, friendliness will develop. A time will come when you can be friendly only toward those who are not hostile to you. Then more growth—and a time will come when you can be friendly even toward those who are hostile to you. And then a time will come when you will not know who is friend and who is foe.
Mahavira said: “Mitti me sabba bhuesu, veram majjha na kevalai—All beings are my friends; I have enmity toward none.”
This is not a thought—it is a feeling. Not a mental conclusion, but a state of heart: “No one is my enemy.” And when does “no one is my enemy” happen? When I am no one’s enemy. It may be that there were people who considered Mahavira their enemy; but Mahavira says, “No one is my enemy.” What does this mean? “I am no one’s enemy.” He says, “I have enmity toward none.” What joy must have dawned!
You love one person and feel such joy—what of the one whose heart opens to love the whole world? How limitless his joy! This is no costly bargain. You lose nothing and gain so much.
That is why I do not call Mahavira and Buddha renouncers. The greatest enjoyment, the greatest ecstasy, is theirs. You may be the renouncers, not they. They opened the boundless gates of bliss. Whatever was most exalted, beautiful, auspicious—they drank it to the full. And what are you tasting? Nothing but poison. They knew the nectar.
So I tell you: for that ultimate, peak moment when love spreads to the whole world and rays flow ceaselessly from your heart, you must practice. Each day, perform at least one act of love, consciously. All day there are a thousand chances to express love. But our habits are bad: we miss every chance to express love and never miss a chance to express hate! The more chances of hate you can let pass, the better. The more chances of love you can seize, the better. Let opportunities for hate go by—consciously let one or two pass. Consciously seize one or two opportunities for love. This will bring astonishing momentum to your practice.
So the first maxim is friendliness. The second is compassion. Compassion is a form of friendliness; we mention it separately because a distinct flavor is present. If you look with a little awareness at the people around you, you will be filled with compassion for them.
We sit here, so many of us. Who can say—by evening, one of us may be gone. And one evening, all of us will be gone. Each one of us will be finished one day. If I keep in mind that the faces before me may never be seen again by me—will my heart not fill with compassion for them?
I entered a garden this morning. Flowers were in bloom, and by evening they will be withered. Their lives are so brief—blooming at dawn, fallen by dusk. Will remembering that these flowers, smiling now, will be dust by evening not kindle compassion for them? When, in the night sky, a star breaks and scatters—does that not evoke compassion for the stars? If there is awareness, wherever you look you will feel compassion for everyone. Our meeting is so short, life so difficult, this event so rare—and within each one, so much craving, so much thirst, so much pain—yet somehow we live, somehow we love, somehow create two beautiful acts. Will this not evoke compassion?
One day a man came and spat at Buddha—so furious that he spat on him. Buddha wiped it away and asked, “Anything more to say?” Ananda, the attendant monk, said, “Master, what are you saying? Has he said something? Give us leave to deal with him! This is too much—he spat on you!” Buddha said, “He wants to say something; language is inadequate. The surge is intense. He could not speak; he expressed it through an act.”
This is what I call compassion: Buddha felt pity for the inadequacy of language. The man wanted to say something—his rage was great—he wanted to convey it; words failed; he made it known by spitting.
When someone comes to me in love and places a hand upon my hand, how much compassion I feel! He wants to say something; language is inadequate; he tries to say it with his touch. When two people embrace, language is inadequate; man is so weak—he wants to say something—he brings hearts close; there is no other way.
Yesterday, as I was leaving here, some people bent to touch my feet. I felt deep compassion—how helpless man is! He wants to say something and cannot; so he holds someone’s feet. A dear friend behind me, a thoughtful man, said, “No, no—don’t do that.” He was right too. How bad it has become—those who want others to touch their feet have appeared. So he rightly said, “Don’t do it.” I agreed; yet I also did not agree. He is right that no one should make others touch their feet. But that world would also be wrong where there are no people whose hearts long to bow at someone’s feet. That world would also be wrong where no hearts remain that incline to someone’s feet. And that world would be wrong where we no longer feel emotions that cannot be expressed without holding someone’s feet.
Do you understand me? It would be a wrong world if we no longer felt those emotions that cannot be expressed without holding someone’s feet. Man would become very dry and meaningless.
Let me remind you too: I have been astonished that when I have seen someone bowing at my feet, I found he was not holding my feet. He saw something in them; perhaps he was holding the very feet of the Divine. Whenever anyone has bowed at anyone’s feet—if he has not been forced—he has bowed only at God’s feet, not at a person’s. What is there in anyone’s feet to bow to? There is some inner feeling for which there is no other outlet.
Yesterday evening, someone who loves me was in my room. As I turned on the light to bathe, he said, “Let there be light—allow me to hold your feet.” I was surprised. He held my feet, and the tears I saw in his eyes—nothing on earth is more beautiful than those tears that arise in a moment of love. If there is awareness of these, if they are seen, how could you not be filled with compassion?
But what do you see in people? You see that which does not evoke compassion but condemnation. You see that which does not evoke mercy but cruelty. You look at what is not their real being, not their heart—but their compulsions. A man abuses me—is that his heart? It is his helplessness. In even the worst man there is a heart; if we could reach it, we would be filled with compassion—filled with compassion.
Buddha said that morning, “Compassion arises; language is weak, Ananda. The human heart longs to say much and cannot.” He asked the man, “Anything more to say?” What more could he say now? He left. That night he repented, returned the next day to ask forgiveness, fell at Buddha’s feet, and wept. Buddha said, “Do you see, Ananda—language is weak. Even now he wants to say something and cannot. Yesterday he wanted to say something and could not. Then he performed an act; now he performs another. Language is very weak, Ananda—and man greatly to be pitied.”
And life is of four days—no, not even that, not even four hours. In this brief meeting, if we do not fill with compassion for one another, we were not human—we never knew life; we did not recognize it.
So spread compassion around you; be intimate with your surroundings. People are so miserable—do not increase their misery. Your compassion will ease their pain. A word filled with compassion will lessen their sorrow. Do not add to it.
We are all increasing one another’s suffering. Many people are at the heels of each one, ready to hurt. If compassion awakens, you will renounce all ways of hurting anyone; and if you can bring any happiness to someone’s life, you will find a way to give it.
Remember this: one who gives suffering to another ends up suffering himself. One who gives happiness ends up attaining deep happiness. Why? Because one who tries to give joy develops centers of joy within; one who tries to inflict pain develops centers of pain within.
Fruits do not arrive from outside; they are born within. We become receptive to what we practice. Whoever seeks love, let him spread love. Whoever seeks joy, let him shower joy. Whoever wants flowers to rain upon his own house, let him cast flowers into others’ courtyards. There is no other way.
So for entry into practice, each one must cultivate compassion.
The third is gladness—upliftedness, cheerfulness—a sense of joy; the absence of melancholy. We are all full of despondency—sad, tired people. Defeated, vanquished, we walk the roads and are finished. We move as if already dead today. There is no vitality in our steps, no life in our motions; we are sluggish, sad, shattered, defeated. This is wrong. However short life may be, however certain death, one with a little understanding will not be gloomy.
Socrates was dying; the hemlock was being given, and he was laughing. His disciple Crito asked, “You laugh? Our eyes are filled with tears. Death is near—this is a time for sorrow.” Socrates said, “Where is the sorrow? If I die and am utterly gone, then what sorrow?—there will be no one left to experience pain. If I die and something remains, then what sorrow?—what is lost was not me; what is me remains.” He said, “I am happy. Death can do only two things: either annihilate me utterly—in which case I am happy, for none will remain to suffer; or it will spare me—in which case I am happy, for what is not mine will perish, and I will remain. Death can only do these two things—so it is a matter to smile at.”
Socrates said, “I am glad. What can death take? If it annihilates me completely, what is taken? The one from whom it is taken will not be there—there will be no experience of grief. And if I remain—then all remains. If I remain, all remains; what is taken was not mine.” So Socrates said, “I am happy.”
Those who can be glad before death—while we, having life, sit sorrowing! We sit grieving in life, while there have been those who laughed before death.
Mansoor was given the gallows. They cut off his feet, then his hands, gouged out his eyes. Never in human history has anyone been tortured so cruelly. Christ was killed quickly; Gandhi was shot quickly; Socrates was given poison. Mansoor died with the greatest suffering in human history: first his feet cut off; as blood flowed, he smeared it on his hands. A crowd of a hundred thousand pelted stones. They asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “I perform wudu.” Muslims wash their hands before prayer; Mansoor washed his hands with his own blood. He said, “I perform wudu. Remember Mansoor’s word: the ablution of love is done with blood, not water. Only he who performs wudu with his own blood enters the prayer.”
People thought him mad. After his feet, they cut his hands; then they gouged his eyes. Surrounded by a sea of stones and severed limbs, when his eyes were taken he cried, “O God, remember—Mansoor has won!”
They asked, “In what have you won?” He said, “I say this to God: remember, Mansoor has won. I feared that amid such enmity love might not remain. So remember, O God—Mansoor has won. My love stands firm. What they have done to ‘me’ they could not do to me. What they have done to me they have not done to me; love remains.” And he said, “This is my prayer, this my worship.”
Mansoor laughed even then, intoxicated even then. There have been those who were joyous before death; we sit before life, sad and weeping. This is wrong. A gloomy path, a mind full of melancholy—such a one cannot undertake a great quest. For a great quest, exuberance is needed; for the adventure, a heart brimming with joy.
So cultivate upliftedness all day. These are only habits. Gloom is a habit you have formed; upliftedness is a habit you can form. To keep gladness alive, attend to the lit side of life, not the side filled with darkness.
If I tell you, “A friend of mine plays a wondrous flute,” you may say, “Him? What flute! I’ve seen him drinking in a tavern.” If I say, “My friend plays a wondrous flute,” you say, “What flute—he drinks!” This is seeing the darkness.
If I tell you, “My friend drinks,” and you say, “Perhaps—but he plays a wondrous flute”—that is seeing the illuminated side of life.
Whoever wishes to be happy should look at the light. He should see that between two nights there is one day. One who wishes to be sad should see that between two days there is one night. As we see life, something develops within accordingly. Do not dwell on life’s dark side; look to its bright side.
When I was small, my father was poor. With great difficulty he built a house—poor and inexperienced, never having built one before. Somehow it was put up. Before we could move in, the first rain brought it down. We children were very sad. He was away from the village; I sent word: the house has fallen, and our hopes of moving in are shattered. He came, distributed sweets in the village, and said, “Thank God! If it had fallen eight days later, not one of my children would be alive.” We were to move in eight days hence. All his life he rejoiced that the house fell eight days early—eight days later would have been disastrous.
Life can be seen like that too. Whoever looks so finds a great gladness arising. Everything depends on how you look. Life in itself is nothing fixed; your attitude, your grip, your understanding, your vision—these make and unmake everything.
Ask yourself: what do you see? Have you ever seen even the worst man without at least one quality which is rare even among saints? Have you ever seen the worst of men without at least one trait that is hard to find in holy men? If you can, then see that. That is the man’s real part. Seek rays and light everywhere; they will kindle rays and light within you.
This is pramudita: the third feeling is to be glad. Glad enough to make death and sorrow powerless. So joyful that death and grief shrink and die—so much so that you hardly notice they exist.
One who stores such cheer and joy within makes rapid progress in practice. It is very necessary—very.
There was a monk who remained so cheerful all his life that people were amazed; they never saw him sad or afflicted. When his final hour came he said, “I will die in three days. I tell you this so that you remember: let no one weep at the grave of a man who laughed all his life. I tell you so that when I die, no gloom falls upon this hut. Here there was always joy; therefore make my death a celebration. Do not turn it into sorrow—make it a festival.”
People were grieved—very. He was a wondrous man; the more wondrous a person, the deeper the grief at his passing. Those who loved him gathered over the three days. Up to the moment of death he was making people laugh—saying wondrous things, speaking of love. In the morning before he died, he sang a song, then said, “Remember—do not undress me. Place my whole body on the pyre as it is. Do not bathe me.”
It was his instruction. He died. They placed him on the pyre, clothed. As they set him there, sorrowful, they were astonished: hidden in his clothes were sparklers and firecrackers. As the flames rose, they began to crackle and sparkle; the pyre became a festival. People began laughing. “He made us laugh in life; he has made us laugh in death as well.”
Turn life into laughter. Turn death too into joy. Whoever succeeds in this attains great beatitude, great fulfillment. Entering practice from such a foundation, the momentum is beyond imagination—development like an arrow’s flight.
He who goes with a heavy heart has tied stones to the arrow; where will it go? The swifter the flight you desire, the lighter, more weightless the mind must be. The higher the mountain to climb, the more the burden must be left below. The greatest burden is sorrow, melancholy, gloom. None heavier.
Look at people—you see them bent, as if a great weight sits upon their heads. Throw it down. Give a shout of exuberance, a lion’s roar; declare to life: however it is, we can make it into joy, turn life into song. Life can be music. Remember this third, pramudita.
Fourth, gratitude. Gratitude is very divine. If anything has been lost in our century, it is gratitude.
Do you know—the breath you are taking, you are not taking. For if it does not come, you cannot take it. Do you know—you were born? You did not bring yourself. You had no conscious hand, no decision. Do you know this small body you have is wondrous—the greatest miracle on earth? You eat a little food and this small stomach digests it—what a miracle!
Even with all scientific progress, if we built a vast factory staffed by thousands of experts, we could not easily turn a piece of bread into blood. Yet this body performs that miracle twenty-four hours a day. This small body—some bones and flesh. Scientists say the material inside is worth hardly four or five rupees. Nothing of great value—and yet such a miracle accompanies you day and night. Do you feel no gratitude?
Have you ever loved your body? Kissed your hands? Loved your eyes? Ever felt what a marvel is happening? Perhaps none of you has loved your eyes, kissed your hands, felt gratitude that this amazing event is happening—and without our knowing or participating.
First, be grateful to your body. Only one who is grateful to his own body can be grateful to others’ bodies. First be filled with love for your body—only then can you truly love the bodies of others.
Those who teach you to be against the body are irreligious. Those who call the body the enemy, evil—irreligious. The body is nothing but a miracle—an astounding ally. Be grateful to it. What is in this body? It is made of the five great elements. Be grateful to the body; be grateful to the five elements.
One day the sun will go out—where will you be? Scientists say in some billions of years the sun will exhaust itself. He has given light so long; he will empty and one day go dark. We live daily assuming the sun will rise—one day people will go to sleep assuming dawn, and it will not come. Then what?
Not only the sun will go out—life itself will go out, for our life-breath comes from it; all warmth, all heat is received from it.
When you sit by the sea—do you ever consider that seventy percent of your body is sea-water? The first life-form on earth—the earliest microbe—was born in the ocean. You will be amazed to know: the ratio of salt to water in your body is the same as in the sea—even now. When that ratio shifts, you fall ill.
Sitting by the sea, have you felt that a part of the ocean lives in me? For that part within, I should be grateful to the sea. The sun’s light lives in me—I should be grateful to the sun. The winds move my breath—I should be grateful to the winds. Sky and earth form me—I should be grateful to them.
I call this gratitude divine. Without it, no one can be religious. How can an ungrateful person be religious? Feel this gratitude continuously and you will be astonished—it will fill you with such peace, such mystery. You will realize: What power did I have to deserve all this—and yet all this has been given. Your mind will be filled with thankfulness, with a sense of being blessed.
So practice expressing and developing gratitude; it will accelerate your practice. And not only practice—life will be utterly different, wholly other.
Christ was nailed to the cross. As he began to die, he said, “Father, forgive them.” His compassion spoke there. “Forgive them for two reasons: they know not what they do—and also because they have dissolved the distance between you and me. They have brought you and me together; for that I am grateful to them.”
So live with a constant remembrance of gratitude. Your life will become marvelous.
Thus I have given four keys for pure feeling: friendliness, compassion, gladness, and gratitude. There is more—but these four are enough. If you work with them, the rest will follow on their own. In this way feeling will be purified.
I have told you how the body is purified, how thought is purified, how feeling is purified. If even these three happen, you will enter a wondrous realm. Even these three will accomplish much.
We will later discuss three central elements: body-emptiness, thought-emptiness, and feeling-emptiness. For now we have discussed purification; then we will discuss emptiness. When purification and emptiness meet, samadhi arises. When purification and emptiness meet, samadhi arises—and samadhi is the door to the Divine. We will speak of this.
Now let us sit for the morning meditation. I have already explained it. In the beginning we will make a resolve five times. Then for a little while we will evoke feeling. Then, keeping the spine erect, eyes closed, we will watch the breath—mindfully—at the point near the nose where it enters and leaves.
Everyone please sit at a distance so that no one feels another’s touch.