In these three days there has been a rain of much love, much peace, much joy upon our hearts. And I am one of those birds who have no nest. You gave me space in your hearts; you welcomed my thoughts and the utterances that rose from my heart; you listened in silence, tried to understand, and expressed much love toward them. For all of that I am grateful. I am grateful, too, for what I saw in your eyes, in your happiness, and in the tears that came with your happiness.
I have been deeply delighted—delighted that I might succeed in kindling in you a thirst for bliss. Delighted that I might succeed in making you discontent. This seems to be the very work in life: to make those who are quietly content become discontent. And to awaken those who are walking on in silence, and to tell them that what they call life is not life—that what they take for life is a deception, a form of death. Whatever ends in death is not to be called life. Only that which leads into Life Vast is true.
So in these three days we have tried to live the true life, to lift our eyes in that direction. If our resolve becomes intense and our longing deep, it is not impossible that we reach the fulfillment of the thirst that has been awakened in us.
On this last night, the night of farewell, let me say a few small things more. First, if the thought of attaining the divine has become a flame within you, bring that thought into action quickly. He who delays in doing the auspicious misses. And he who rushes to do the inauspicious also misses. He who delays in the auspicious misses; he who hastens in the inauspicious misses.
This is the formula of life: when it comes to the inauspicious, stop and delay; when it comes to the auspicious, do not delay—do not stop.
If any wholesome thought arises, begin at once. Tomorrow is not to be relied upon. The coming moment is not to be relied upon. Whether we will be or not be cannot be said. Before death catches us, we must decisively prove that we were not fit for death to be our destiny. Before death takes hold, we must prove that we were not fit for death to be our destiny. We must have developed the capacity to attain that which is beyond death—before death arrives. And death can come at any moment; it can come this very instant. Even as I am speaking, it could come this instant. So I need to be always ready for it—ready each moment.
Do not put it off till tomorrow. If anything has seemed right, begin it today. Last night by the lake I told a story of a Tibetan monk. A man went to meet him and inquire about truth. There, the custom was to circumambulate the monk three times, touch his feet, and then ask your question. The young man neither circumambulated nor touched the feet. He walked in and said, “I have a question—please answer it.” The monk said, “First, observe the formal rule.” The young man replied, “Three rounds? I can make three thousand. But if, in just those three rounds, my life were to end and I have not known truth, who would be responsible—you or I? So answer my question first, then I will complete as many rounds as you like.” He said, “How do I know that I will not die in those three rounds?”
The greatest awareness for a seeker is the awareness of death. He should know at every instant that any moment may be the last. This evening I will sleep—perhaps this is the last evening, and I will not rise in the morning. Then tonight, when I lie down, I should sleep in such a way that I have settled all my accounts and now I rest at ease. If death comes, she is welcome.
So do not postpone anything noble till tomorrow. And the ignoble—postpone it as much as you can. Death may come in between and save you from doing the ignoble. If a person succeeds in putting off a few vices for ten or twenty years, life can become divine. Death is not far away. If for a few years one succeeds in postponing one’s evils, life can become pure. And death will not wait to hold back the auspicious; if you delay what is good, nothing will be attained.
Therefore I want to remind you of all possible urgency in doing the good. If something appears auspicious, begin it. Do not think, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” The person who thinks, “I’ll do it tomorrow,” does not want to do it. The one who says, “Tomorrow,” does not want to do it. “Tomorrow” is a device for postponing. If you do not want to do it, then be clear and say, “I do not want to do it”—that is another matter. But postponing to tomorrow is dangerous. Those who put it off till tomorrow often put it off forever. Those who leave it for tomorrow often leave it for always.
If something seems right in life, then the very moment it seems right is the moment to do it. Begin in that very moment.
So keep this in mind: swiftness in doing the auspicious, and stopping when it comes to the inauspicious. And also remember: the formulas I have given for practicing the good and for realizing truth are not intellectual theories. I have no interest in filling you with theories. I have no academic appetite. I gave them so that if you consent to do them—if you consent to practice them—those formulas will do something for you.
If you agree to practice them, those formulas will do something for you. If you use them, they will transform you. They are very alive. They are like living fire. If you rouse it even a little, you may experience the birth of a new person within.
One birth we receive from our parents. That is hardly a birth; it is the arrival of another death. It is just another turn of the wheel at whose end death awaits. It is not a birth; it is only the acquiring of another body. There is another birth which does not come from parents but from practice—that is the real birth. Through it a person becomes a dvija, twice-born. That birth each must give to himself.
Do not rest in peace until you have attained that second birth within. Let not a single power in you lie idle. Gather all your energies and commit them.
If you work with effort and resolve on these few formulas, very soon you will find a new person is being born within you, a wholly fresh person. And to the extent that the new is born within you, to that extent this world becomes new, becomes other.
There is much joy in this world, much light, much beauty. If only we had eyes to see and a heart to receive. That receiving heart and seeing eye can be created. For that I have spoken these three days.
In one sense, they are not many things; they are few. I have said only two things: let life be pure and the mind be empty. Only two things: let life be pure and the mind be empty. In truth, only one thing: let the mind be empty. The purification of life is merely its preparation.
When the mind is empty, from that emptiness arises the eye that opens the hidden mystery of existence. Then you do not see leaves as leaves, but you behold the life within the leaves. And on the ocean you no longer see waves as waves, but you behold that which makes the waves quiver. And in human beings you do not see bodies, but you experience the life throbbing within those bodies. The wonder and the miracle of it cannot be said.
I have invited you to that mystery and called you toward it. And I have given you small formulas to reach it. They are eternal. They are not mine, nor anyone else’s. They belong to no religion, to no scripture; they are timeless. When there were no scriptures and no religions, they were. If tomorrow all scriptures are destroyed and every temple and mosque falls, they will still be.
Dharma is eternal; sects arise and pass away. Dharma is eternal; scriptures arise and pass away. Dharma is eternal; tirthankaras and prophets are born and dissolve.
A time may come when we forget that there ever were a Krishna, a Mahavira, a Christ, a Buddha. But dharma will not be destroyed. Dharma will not be destroyed so long as, within man, there is a thirst for joy and a longing to rise beyond suffering.
If you are unhappy—if you are aware that there is sorrow—do not go on bearing it. Do not go on enduring it. Stand in opposition to it and find the way to dissolve it.
The difference between what an ordinary person does with sorrow and what a seeker does is small but crucial. When sorrow stands before an ordinary person, he seeks ways to forget it. When sorrow stands before a seeker, he seeks ways to end it.
There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who are trying to forget their sorrow, and those who are trying to dissolve it. May the divine bring you out of the first line and into the second.
Forgetting sorrow is a kind of stupor. You spend your twenty-four hours trying to forget: talking to people, listening to music, drinking, playing cards, gambling, or getting involved in some other disturbance where you can forget yourself so that you don’t remember the pain within.
We are busy day and night with ways to forget ourselves. We do not want our sorrow to show; if it does, we panic. So we are engaged in forgetting and dissolving into distractions. But sorrow is not erased by forgetting. A wound does not heal by hiding it. Covering it with fine clothes makes it more toxic and dangerous.
So do not hide your wounds. Expose them and face your sorrow. Do not forget it; uncover it, know it, and commit yourself to the work of dissolving it. Only those who set about ending sorrow will know the secret of life—never those who set about forgetting it.
And as I said, there are only two types of people. I call religious those who are searching for ways to end sorrow, and irreligious those who are searching for ways to forget it. Remember—what are you doing? Are you seeking ways to forget sorrow? Do you think that if all your devices were taken away you would not be deeply miserable?
Once, a king’s vizier said to him, “If we lock a man completely alone, he will go mad in three months.” The king asked, “How will that be? We will provide good food and fine clothes—still?” The vizier said, “He will. Why? Because in that aloneness he will be unable to forget his sorrow.” The king said, “We shall see. Bring the healthiest, youngest, happiest man in the village.”
They found a young man renowned for beauty and health. He was locked in a room. He was given every comfort—good food and fine clothes—but nothing to help him forget time. Only blank walls and a room. The guard posted there did not speak a language he understood. Bread would be passed in, water brought—and that was all.
For a day or two he shouted, “Why have you locked me up?” He flailed and beat the door. For a day or two he didn’t eat. Slowly he began to eat, and he stopped shouting. After five or seven days, they saw him sitting and talking to himself.
The vizier showed the king through a window: “See, now he is attempting the final device—talking to himself.”
When no one is with you, you begin to talk to yourself. As people grow old, they do this more and more. In youth the lips remain closed; with age, the lips tremble—they talk to themselves. You’ve seen people talking along the road—what are they doing? They are trying to forget themselves.
He was kept three months. When they brought him out, he had gone mad. What does madness mean? It means he built a completely imaginary world in order to forget himself: friends and enemies with whom to fight and converse. The real world was unavailable—who to fight, who to talk to? So he built an imaginary world and lost himself in it.
He went mad. Any of you would go mad. If you did not have to go to the shop or to work in the morning; if you did not have to quarrel and argue; if you were not allowed your escape into senseless chatter and pointless business—if there was no daily entanglement and you were left empty—you would go mad. Because through entanglement, the sorrow within remains unseen. If it becomes fully visible, you will either commit suicide or find ways to become imaginatively insane, so that you can forget.
A religious person is one who, if left utterly alone—utterly alone—will still have no sorrow and will invent no device.
In Germany there was a mystic, Eckhart. One day he went to the forest and sat alone beneath a tree. Some friends who were also out walking saw him there, went up to him and said, “Friend, we saw you sitting alone and thought we would give you company.”
Eckhart looked at them and said, “Friends, until now I was with God. You have come and made me alone.” He said, “I was with God, because I was with myself. You have come and made me alone.” Astonishing words.
We are the opposite. We are with someone or other twenty-four hours a day lest we be with ourselves. We are afraid of ourselves. In this world everyone is afraid of himself. This fear of oneself is dangerous.
The formulas I have given will acquaint you with yourself and dissolve that fear. You will stand in a state where, if you were utterly alone on this earth—with no one at all—you would be just as blissful as when the earth is crowded. You will be as blissful in aloneness as in the crowd. Only one who has delighted in being alone does not fear death. For what does death do but make you alone? You fear death because you yourself were not there—there was only the crowd. Death will take the crowd, snatch away every relationship, and you will be left alone. Loneliness frightens.
What we have discussed in these three days about meditation are, at root, experiments in total aloneness—going utterly alone within. To go to that center where only you are and no one else is.
And that center is wondrous. To experience it is to experience the depths beneath the sea. We are only floating on the waves. We do not know the infinite depths below, where no wave has ever gone, where no wave has ever entered.
Within you are great depths. The more you walk away from others into aloneness, into yourself—leaving others and entering yourself—the deeper you will go, and deeper still. And here is the great secret: the deeper you go within, the higher your life attains without.
This is the rule of life’s mathematics: as much depth as you find within, just so much height will appear without. The less deep within, the lower without. Where there is no inner depth, there can be no outer height. Those we call great are those who have depth within; in that measure, height appears without.
So if you want height in life, you must want depth in yourself. The way to depth is samadhi. Samadhi is the final depth. I have told you a few small things about how to set your steps for that samadhi, how to train and tend yourself, how to sow the seeds that can blossom into the divine. If even a few of those things take hold of your memory, if any seed falls into the soil of your heart, there is no reason that sprouts should not appear and you should not experience a new life.
Abandon the desire to go on living as you have been living. There is no meaning in it. Make room for something new, for the novel. If you continue living as you have lived, the only result will be death.
Let this longing and dissatisfaction arise—that is all I wish. Usually people say, “Religion is contentment.” I say the religious are deeply discontented. Only when a person is discontented with the whole pattern of life does he become eager for religion.
So I do not ask you to be content. I ask you to be discontent—totally discontent in your very soul. Let every atom of your being be discontent. Discontent for the divine, discontent for truth. In the fire of that discontent, your new birth will take place.
Do not lose even a moment for this new birth. Let no interruption of time be placed in its way. And remember, too...
Yesterday someone asked me, “If we practice in this way, will we have to leave the world? Will we have to become renunciates? If we cultivate this emptiness, what will become of our worldly life, of our family?”
On this final day it is necessary to say something about this as well. Religion is not opposed to family or to the world. This notion that has formed in our minds over recent centuries has harmed us and our religion greatly.
Religion is not the enemy of the world or the family. Religion is not about leaving everything and running away. Religion is an inner transformation. It has nothing to do with circumstances; it has to do with the state of mind. It speaks of changing the mind, not the situation. Change yourself.
Leaving the outer world does not change anything. If I am filled with hatred, what will I do in the forest? I will still be filled with hatred. If I am filled with ego, what will I do in the mountains? I will still be filled with ego. There is one danger: in society, in the crowd, the ego reveals itself every day; in the cool solitude of the Himalayas, with no one present, the ego may not be detected. Not detecting the ego is one thing; its dissolution is entirely another.
I heard of a monk who lived thirty years in the Himalayas. He felt that in those thirty years he had become perfectly peaceful; his ego had disappeared. Once his disciples said to him, “There is a fair in the plains—come.” He came down. As he entered the crowd, an unknown man stepped on his foot, and at once his ego and anger arose. He was astonished: what thirty years in the Himalayas could not show him, one foot upon his foot revealed!
So running away makes no difference. Do not flee; transform. Do not take escape to be the key to life; take transformation to be the key. Since religion came to depend on flight, it has become lifeless. When religion again depends on transformation, life will return to it.
Remember this: change yourself, not your place. Changing places means nothing. In changing places there is a deception, because in a new, quiet environment you may be fooled into thinking you have become peaceful.
Peace that cannot abide in adverse conditions is no peace. Therefore the wise cultivate peace in adversity; having mastered it in the adverse, they keep it forever in the favorable.
So the point is not to run from life. Consider life an examination. Remember that all those around you are collaborators. The man who abuses you in the morning is your collaborator—he has given you an opportunity; if you wish, you can cultivate love within. The man who vents anger upon you collaborates. The one who slanders you collaborates. The one who throws mud at you collaborates. Even the one who strews thorns on your path collaborates—for he too gives you an opportunity and a test. If you wish and pass beyond it, your debt to him is beyond accounting. What saints cannot teach in this world, enemies can.
I say it again: what saints cannot teach, enemies can. If you are alert and have the understanding to learn, you can make every stone into a step. Otherwise, the unwise take even steps to be stones and stop because of them. With understanding, every stone can become a step.
Consider this a little. Take those things in your home and family that feel like stones—because of which you cannot be peaceful—and make them the very center of your practice. You will see that they themselves become your allies in attaining peace. What is it that does not allow you to be? In the family, what is the obstacle? What is it that stops you? Whatever stops you—reflect whether there is a way to turn it into a step. There are certainly ways. With reflection and discernment, the path will appear.
What is the reason that tells you, “Leave the family; then you will be peaceful and attain truth”? There is no real reason. Understand your life and your mind rightly, and use the whole of your circumstances.
What do we do? We do not use circumstances; circumstances use us. We remain in loss because we only react; we never act.
You abuse me; at once I return a heavier abuse—one for one, or two for one. I do not consider that I have merely reacted. This is no action.
Look at the twenty-four hours of your day—you will find that all is reaction. Others do something; in response, you do something. Are you doing anything that is not a response to someone else? Anything that is not born of someone’s act, not a reaction? That which is not a reaction—that is action. And action alone is sadhana.
Think about this and you will see that you are reacting all day. Others act; you answer. Have you done anything yet that arose purely from you? See this, and cultivate it. Then, right within the family and the world, renunciation will bear fruit.
Renunciation is not opposition to the world; renunciation is the purification of the world. If you go on becoming pure in the world, one day you will find you have become a renunciate. Renunciation is not a change of costume—that we changed our clothes and became sannyasins. Renunciation is the transformation of the entire interior, a growth. Renunciation is a growth—slowly, very slowly, a growth.
If a person rightly uses his life—whatever the circumstances—he will gradually discover that the renunciate is being born within. It is a matter of examining your tendencies and purifying them into emptiness.
Look within: which tendencies make you worldly? Remember, no one else makes you worldly. In the house where I live, it is not my father who makes me worldly—how could he? It is the attachment I have toward my father. In your house, how will your wife make you worldly? It is your feelings toward your wife that make you worldly.
What will be achieved by running away from your wife? Those feelings will go with you. No one can run away from his feelings. If we could run away from feelings, life would be easy. You run—and like a shadow, all your feelings run with you. They will plant themselves in the new place, and you will build a new household there.
Even great renunciates build great households. Their households take shape, their attachments arise, their dependencies form, their joys and sorrows return—because they carried their feelings along, and in the new place those feelings stand up again. It makes no difference; the people will change, the inner patterns will remain.
So I do not ask you to leave things; I ask you to leave feelings. Let things remain where they are; let the feelings fall away and you will be free.
In Japan there was a king. Just outside his town there lived a renunciate for many years beneath a tree—wondrous in dignity, radiant with light, fragrant in life. Drawn by that fragrance, the king was slowly pulled to him. He saw him lying under that tree many times, sat at his feet many times, and the influence deepened. One day he said, “Would it not be good to leave this tree and come to my palace?” The renunciate said, “As you wish—we can go wherever you like.”
The king was taken aback. His long-held reverence was jolted. He had thought the renunciate would say, “A palace! What would I, a renunciate, do there?” That is the set phrase of the learned renunciate. But this renunciate said, “As you wish—we can go wherever you like.”
The king felt a shock—what kind of renunciate is this! But having invited him, he could not withdraw the invitation. He had to bring him along. The renunciate went. The king arranged everything for him as for himself. The renunciate lived at ease with it all. Great couches were spread—he slept on them. Fine carpets were laid—he walked on them. Delicious foods were served—he ate them. The king’s suspicion was no longer suspicion; it became certainty. He thought: What kind of renunciate is this! Not once did he say, “I cannot sleep on these cushions, I sleep on boards.” Not once did he say, “I cannot eat such delicacies; I eat coarse fare.” The king found his presence very troubling.
After a few days he said, “Forgive me—I have a doubt.” The renunciate said, “What is happening now happened that very day. Still, say it—what is your doubt?” The king said, “My doubt is: What kind of renunciate are you? What is the difference between me, a worldly man, and you, a renunciate?”
The renunciate said, “If you want to see the difference, come with me outside the village.”
“I want to know,” said the king. “My mind is distressed; I have lost sleep. When you were under the tree, I had reverence. Now, with you in the palace, my reverence has gone.”
The renunciate took the king outside the village. They crossed the river that marked the boundary. “Now tell me,” said the king. The renunciate said, “Let us go a little further.” The sun rose; noon came. “Now at least tell me,” said the king. The renunciate said, “This is what I want to show: now I go forward; I do not return. Do you come with me?” The king said, “How can I go? Behind me are my family, my wife, my kingdom!” The renunciate said, “If you can see the difference, see it now. I go on, and behind me there is nothing. And when I was in your palace, I was in your palace—but your palace was not within me. I was inside your palace, but your palace was not inside me. Therefore, now I go.”
The king fell at his feet. His illusion broke. “Forgive me,” he said, “I will repent all my life. Come back.” The renunciate said, “I can turn back even now—but your doubt will return. As compassion to you, let me go straight on.” Remember the words he spoke: “As compassion to you, let me go straight on. My compassion says: let me go straight.”
And I remind you: in Mahavira’s nakedness there was less insistence on nakedness and more compassion for you. When a true renunciate lives in the forest, it is less attachment to the forest and more compassion for you. When he wanders naked begging from door to door, there is less insistence on begging and more compassion for you. Otherwise he could eat in your house without begging, and sleep in a palace rather than on the road. It makes no difference to a true renunciate—though it will to a false one.
It makes no difference because nothing enters his mind. Things are in their place: the palace walls in their place, the cushions on which we sit in their place. If they do not enter my mind, I remain untouched and far.
So I do not tell you to leave where you are; I tell you to change who you are. I do not tell you to run from your place; the weak may run. I ask you to transform yourself—and transformation is the essential thing.
Be alert to your state of mind, and set about changing it. Take one point and work on it. Drop by drop, the ocean can be filled. Drop by drop, the divine can be attained. Go drop by drop; I do not ask you to go farther. One drop at a time, and the divine can be reached. Do not overthink that your capacity is small—“How will I reach?”
Someone said to me, “We are weak; our capacity is small. How will we reach?”
However weak, everyone has the capacity to take one step. And tell me, has even the mightiest ever taken more than one step at a time? The greatest have never taken more than one step at once. The capacity to take one step is everyone’s—always.
So take one step. And then one more. And then one more. It is always only one step. But the one step taken again and again covers infinite distances. The one who stops, thinking, “Where will one step get me?” reaches nowhere.
I invite you to take that one step. In these days you have listened to my words with such love, such silence—how much joy, how much grace I have felt! I am deeply obliged. For the space you have given me in your hearts, I am deeply grateful. For that, many, many thanks—and accept my love.
Now we will sit for today’s final meditation experiment. And then we will part. I take leave with the hope that when we meet again I will find your peace has grown and your joy has grown; that you have taken the step I asked you to take; that a few drops of nectar have come close to you and you have come close to nectar.
May the divine grant you the capacity to take one step—at least one step. The remaining steps then take themselves.
After tonight’s meditation we will walk in silence. In the morning I may not meet you; I leave at five. So take this as my final farewell. And let each person accept my salutations offered to the divine seated within. Accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
In these three days there has been a rain of much love, much peace, much joy upon our hearts. And I am one of those birds who have no nest. You gave me space in your hearts; you welcomed my thoughts and the utterances that rose from my heart; you listened in silence, tried to understand, and expressed much love toward them. For all of that I am grateful. I am grateful, too, for what I saw in your eyes, in your happiness, and in the tears that came with your happiness.
I have been deeply delighted—delighted that I might succeed in kindling in you a thirst for bliss. Delighted that I might succeed in making you discontent. This seems to be the very work in life: to make those who are quietly content become discontent. And to awaken those who are walking on in silence, and to tell them that what they call life is not life—that what they take for life is a deception, a form of death. Whatever ends in death is not to be called life. Only that which leads into Life Vast is true.
So in these three days we have tried to live the true life, to lift our eyes in that direction. If our resolve becomes intense and our longing deep, it is not impossible that we reach the fulfillment of the thirst that has been awakened in us.
On this last night, the night of farewell, let me say a few small things more. First, if the thought of attaining the divine has become a flame within you, bring that thought into action quickly. He who delays in doing the auspicious misses. And he who rushes to do the inauspicious also misses. He who delays in the auspicious misses; he who hastens in the inauspicious misses.
This is the formula of life: when it comes to the inauspicious, stop and delay; when it comes to the auspicious, do not delay—do not stop.
If any wholesome thought arises, begin at once. Tomorrow is not to be relied upon. The coming moment is not to be relied upon. Whether we will be or not be cannot be said. Before death catches us, we must decisively prove that we were not fit for death to be our destiny. Before death takes hold, we must prove that we were not fit for death to be our destiny. We must have developed the capacity to attain that which is beyond death—before death arrives. And death can come at any moment; it can come this very instant. Even as I am speaking, it could come this instant. So I need to be always ready for it—ready each moment.
Do not put it off till tomorrow. If anything has seemed right, begin it today. Last night by the lake I told a story of a Tibetan monk. A man went to meet him and inquire about truth. There, the custom was to circumambulate the monk three times, touch his feet, and then ask your question. The young man neither circumambulated nor touched the feet. He walked in and said, “I have a question—please answer it.” The monk said, “First, observe the formal rule.” The young man replied, “Three rounds? I can make three thousand. But if, in just those three rounds, my life were to end and I have not known truth, who would be responsible—you or I? So answer my question first, then I will complete as many rounds as you like.” He said, “How do I know that I will not die in those three rounds?”
The greatest awareness for a seeker is the awareness of death. He should know at every instant that any moment may be the last. This evening I will sleep—perhaps this is the last evening, and I will not rise in the morning. Then tonight, when I lie down, I should sleep in such a way that I have settled all my accounts and now I rest at ease. If death comes, she is welcome.
So do not postpone anything noble till tomorrow. And the ignoble—postpone it as much as you can. Death may come in between and save you from doing the ignoble. If a person succeeds in putting off a few vices for ten or twenty years, life can become divine. Death is not far away. If for a few years one succeeds in postponing one’s evils, life can become pure. And death will not wait to hold back the auspicious; if you delay what is good, nothing will be attained.
Therefore I want to remind you of all possible urgency in doing the good. If something appears auspicious, begin it. Do not think, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” The person who thinks, “I’ll do it tomorrow,” does not want to do it. The one who says, “Tomorrow,” does not want to do it. “Tomorrow” is a device for postponing. If you do not want to do it, then be clear and say, “I do not want to do it”—that is another matter. But postponing to tomorrow is dangerous. Those who put it off till tomorrow often put it off forever. Those who leave it for tomorrow often leave it for always.
If something seems right in life, then the very moment it seems right is the moment to do it. Begin in that very moment.
So keep this in mind: swiftness in doing the auspicious, and stopping when it comes to the inauspicious. And also remember: the formulas I have given for practicing the good and for realizing truth are not intellectual theories. I have no interest in filling you with theories. I have no academic appetite. I gave them so that if you consent to do them—if you consent to practice them—those formulas will do something for you.
If you agree to practice them, those formulas will do something for you. If you use them, they will transform you. They are very alive. They are like living fire. If you rouse it even a little, you may experience the birth of a new person within.
One birth we receive from our parents. That is hardly a birth; it is the arrival of another death. It is just another turn of the wheel at whose end death awaits. It is not a birth; it is only the acquiring of another body. There is another birth which does not come from parents but from practice—that is the real birth. Through it a person becomes a dvija, twice-born. That birth each must give to himself.
Do not rest in peace until you have attained that second birth within. Let not a single power in you lie idle. Gather all your energies and commit them.
If you work with effort and resolve on these few formulas, very soon you will find a new person is being born within you, a wholly fresh person. And to the extent that the new is born within you, to that extent this world becomes new, becomes other.
There is much joy in this world, much light, much beauty. If only we had eyes to see and a heart to receive. That receiving heart and seeing eye can be created. For that I have spoken these three days.
In one sense, they are not many things; they are few. I have said only two things: let life be pure and the mind be empty. Only two things: let life be pure and the mind be empty. In truth, only one thing: let the mind be empty. The purification of life is merely its preparation.
When the mind is empty, from that emptiness arises the eye that opens the hidden mystery of existence. Then you do not see leaves as leaves, but you behold the life within the leaves. And on the ocean you no longer see waves as waves, but you behold that which makes the waves quiver. And in human beings you do not see bodies, but you experience the life throbbing within those bodies. The wonder and the miracle of it cannot be said.
I have invited you to that mystery and called you toward it. And I have given you small formulas to reach it. They are eternal. They are not mine, nor anyone else’s. They belong to no religion, to no scripture; they are timeless. When there were no scriptures and no religions, they were. If tomorrow all scriptures are destroyed and every temple and mosque falls, they will still be.
Dharma is eternal; sects arise and pass away. Dharma is eternal; scriptures arise and pass away. Dharma is eternal; tirthankaras and prophets are born and dissolve.
A time may come when we forget that there ever were a Krishna, a Mahavira, a Christ, a Buddha. But dharma will not be destroyed. Dharma will not be destroyed so long as, within man, there is a thirst for joy and a longing to rise beyond suffering.
If you are unhappy—if you are aware that there is sorrow—do not go on bearing it. Do not go on enduring it. Stand in opposition to it and find the way to dissolve it.
The difference between what an ordinary person does with sorrow and what a seeker does is small but crucial. When sorrow stands before an ordinary person, he seeks ways to forget it. When sorrow stands before a seeker, he seeks ways to end it.
There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who are trying to forget their sorrow, and those who are trying to dissolve it. May the divine bring you out of the first line and into the second.
Forgetting sorrow is a kind of stupor. You spend your twenty-four hours trying to forget: talking to people, listening to music, drinking, playing cards, gambling, or getting involved in some other disturbance where you can forget yourself so that you don’t remember the pain within.
We are busy day and night with ways to forget ourselves. We do not want our sorrow to show; if it does, we panic. So we are engaged in forgetting and dissolving into distractions. But sorrow is not erased by forgetting. A wound does not heal by hiding it. Covering it with fine clothes makes it more toxic and dangerous.
So do not hide your wounds. Expose them and face your sorrow. Do not forget it; uncover it, know it, and commit yourself to the work of dissolving it. Only those who set about ending sorrow will know the secret of life—never those who set about forgetting it.
And as I said, there are only two types of people. I call religious those who are searching for ways to end sorrow, and irreligious those who are searching for ways to forget it. Remember—what are you doing? Are you seeking ways to forget sorrow? Do you think that if all your devices were taken away you would not be deeply miserable?
Once, a king’s vizier said to him, “If we lock a man completely alone, he will go mad in three months.” The king asked, “How will that be? We will provide good food and fine clothes—still?” The vizier said, “He will. Why? Because in that aloneness he will be unable to forget his sorrow.” The king said, “We shall see. Bring the healthiest, youngest, happiest man in the village.”
They found a young man renowned for beauty and health. He was locked in a room. He was given every comfort—good food and fine clothes—but nothing to help him forget time. Only blank walls and a room. The guard posted there did not speak a language he understood. Bread would be passed in, water brought—and that was all.
For a day or two he shouted, “Why have you locked me up?” He flailed and beat the door. For a day or two he didn’t eat. Slowly he began to eat, and he stopped shouting. After five or seven days, they saw him sitting and talking to himself.
The vizier showed the king through a window: “See, now he is attempting the final device—talking to himself.”
When no one is with you, you begin to talk to yourself. As people grow old, they do this more and more. In youth the lips remain closed; with age, the lips tremble—they talk to themselves. You’ve seen people talking along the road—what are they doing? They are trying to forget themselves.
He was kept three months. When they brought him out, he had gone mad. What does madness mean? It means he built a completely imaginary world in order to forget himself: friends and enemies with whom to fight and converse. The real world was unavailable—who to fight, who to talk to? So he built an imaginary world and lost himself in it.
He went mad. Any of you would go mad. If you did not have to go to the shop or to work in the morning; if you did not have to quarrel and argue; if you were not allowed your escape into senseless chatter and pointless business—if there was no daily entanglement and you were left empty—you would go mad. Because through entanglement, the sorrow within remains unseen. If it becomes fully visible, you will either commit suicide or find ways to become imaginatively insane, so that you can forget.
A religious person is one who, if left utterly alone—utterly alone—will still have no sorrow and will invent no device.
In Germany there was a mystic, Eckhart. One day he went to the forest and sat alone beneath a tree. Some friends who were also out walking saw him there, went up to him and said, “Friend, we saw you sitting alone and thought we would give you company.”
Eckhart looked at them and said, “Friends, until now I was with God. You have come and made me alone.” He said, “I was with God, because I was with myself. You have come and made me alone.” Astonishing words.
We are the opposite. We are with someone or other twenty-four hours a day lest we be with ourselves. We are afraid of ourselves. In this world everyone is afraid of himself. This fear of oneself is dangerous.
The formulas I have given will acquaint you with yourself and dissolve that fear. You will stand in a state where, if you were utterly alone on this earth—with no one at all—you would be just as blissful as when the earth is crowded. You will be as blissful in aloneness as in the crowd. Only one who has delighted in being alone does not fear death. For what does death do but make you alone? You fear death because you yourself were not there—there was only the crowd. Death will take the crowd, snatch away every relationship, and you will be left alone. Loneliness frightens.
What we have discussed in these three days about meditation are, at root, experiments in total aloneness—going utterly alone within. To go to that center where only you are and no one else is.
And that center is wondrous. To experience it is to experience the depths beneath the sea. We are only floating on the waves. We do not know the infinite depths below, where no wave has ever gone, where no wave has ever entered.
Within you are great depths. The more you walk away from others into aloneness, into yourself—leaving others and entering yourself—the deeper you will go, and deeper still. And here is the great secret: the deeper you go within, the higher your life attains without.
This is the rule of life’s mathematics: as much depth as you find within, just so much height will appear without. The less deep within, the lower without. Where there is no inner depth, there can be no outer height. Those we call great are those who have depth within; in that measure, height appears without.
So if you want height in life, you must want depth in yourself. The way to depth is samadhi. Samadhi is the final depth. I have told you a few small things about how to set your steps for that samadhi, how to train and tend yourself, how to sow the seeds that can blossom into the divine. If even a few of those things take hold of your memory, if any seed falls into the soil of your heart, there is no reason that sprouts should not appear and you should not experience a new life.
Abandon the desire to go on living as you have been living. There is no meaning in it. Make room for something new, for the novel. If you continue living as you have lived, the only result will be death.
Let this longing and dissatisfaction arise—that is all I wish. Usually people say, “Religion is contentment.” I say the religious are deeply discontented. Only when a person is discontented with the whole pattern of life does he become eager for religion.
So I do not ask you to be content. I ask you to be discontent—totally discontent in your very soul. Let every atom of your being be discontent. Discontent for the divine, discontent for truth. In the fire of that discontent, your new birth will take place.
Do not lose even a moment for this new birth. Let no interruption of time be placed in its way. And remember, too...
Yesterday someone asked me, “If we practice in this way, will we have to leave the world? Will we have to become renunciates? If we cultivate this emptiness, what will become of our worldly life, of our family?”
On this final day it is necessary to say something about this as well. Religion is not opposed to family or to the world. This notion that has formed in our minds over recent centuries has harmed us and our religion greatly.
Religion is not the enemy of the world or the family. Religion is not about leaving everything and running away. Religion is an inner transformation. It has nothing to do with circumstances; it has to do with the state of mind. It speaks of changing the mind, not the situation. Change yourself.
Leaving the outer world does not change anything. If I am filled with hatred, what will I do in the forest? I will still be filled with hatred. If I am filled with ego, what will I do in the mountains? I will still be filled with ego. There is one danger: in society, in the crowd, the ego reveals itself every day; in the cool solitude of the Himalayas, with no one present, the ego may not be detected. Not detecting the ego is one thing; its dissolution is entirely another.
I heard of a monk who lived thirty years in the Himalayas. He felt that in those thirty years he had become perfectly peaceful; his ego had disappeared. Once his disciples said to him, “There is a fair in the plains—come.” He came down. As he entered the crowd, an unknown man stepped on his foot, and at once his ego and anger arose. He was astonished: what thirty years in the Himalayas could not show him, one foot upon his foot revealed!
So running away makes no difference. Do not flee; transform. Do not take escape to be the key to life; take transformation to be the key. Since religion came to depend on flight, it has become lifeless. When religion again depends on transformation, life will return to it.
Remember this: change yourself, not your place. Changing places means nothing. In changing places there is a deception, because in a new, quiet environment you may be fooled into thinking you have become peaceful.
Peace that cannot abide in adverse conditions is no peace. Therefore the wise cultivate peace in adversity; having mastered it in the adverse, they keep it forever in the favorable.
So the point is not to run from life. Consider life an examination. Remember that all those around you are collaborators. The man who abuses you in the morning is your collaborator—he has given you an opportunity; if you wish, you can cultivate love within. The man who vents anger upon you collaborates. The one who slanders you collaborates. The one who throws mud at you collaborates. Even the one who strews thorns on your path collaborates—for he too gives you an opportunity and a test. If you wish and pass beyond it, your debt to him is beyond accounting. What saints cannot teach in this world, enemies can.
I say it again: what saints cannot teach, enemies can. If you are alert and have the understanding to learn, you can make every stone into a step. Otherwise, the unwise take even steps to be stones and stop because of them. With understanding, every stone can become a step.
Consider this a little. Take those things in your home and family that feel like stones—because of which you cannot be peaceful—and make them the very center of your practice. You will see that they themselves become your allies in attaining peace. What is it that does not allow you to be? In the family, what is the obstacle? What is it that stops you? Whatever stops you—reflect whether there is a way to turn it into a step. There are certainly ways. With reflection and discernment, the path will appear.
What is the reason that tells you, “Leave the family; then you will be peaceful and attain truth”? There is no real reason. Understand your life and your mind rightly, and use the whole of your circumstances.
What do we do? We do not use circumstances; circumstances use us. We remain in loss because we only react; we never act.
You abuse me; at once I return a heavier abuse—one for one, or two for one. I do not consider that I have merely reacted. This is no action.
Look at the twenty-four hours of your day—you will find that all is reaction. Others do something; in response, you do something. Are you doing anything that is not a response to someone else? Anything that is not born of someone’s act, not a reaction? That which is not a reaction—that is action. And action alone is sadhana.
Think about this and you will see that you are reacting all day. Others act; you answer. Have you done anything yet that arose purely from you? See this, and cultivate it. Then, right within the family and the world, renunciation will bear fruit.
Renunciation is not opposition to the world; renunciation is the purification of the world. If you go on becoming pure in the world, one day you will find you have become a renunciate. Renunciation is not a change of costume—that we changed our clothes and became sannyasins. Renunciation is the transformation of the entire interior, a growth. Renunciation is a growth—slowly, very slowly, a growth.
If a person rightly uses his life—whatever the circumstances—he will gradually discover that the renunciate is being born within. It is a matter of examining your tendencies and purifying them into emptiness.
Look within: which tendencies make you worldly? Remember, no one else makes you worldly. In the house where I live, it is not my father who makes me worldly—how could he? It is the attachment I have toward my father. In your house, how will your wife make you worldly? It is your feelings toward your wife that make you worldly.
What will be achieved by running away from your wife? Those feelings will go with you. No one can run away from his feelings. If we could run away from feelings, life would be easy. You run—and like a shadow, all your feelings run with you. They will plant themselves in the new place, and you will build a new household there.
Even great renunciates build great households. Their households take shape, their attachments arise, their dependencies form, their joys and sorrows return—because they carried their feelings along, and in the new place those feelings stand up again. It makes no difference; the people will change, the inner patterns will remain.
So I do not ask you to leave things; I ask you to leave feelings. Let things remain where they are; let the feelings fall away and you will be free.
In Japan there was a king. Just outside his town there lived a renunciate for many years beneath a tree—wondrous in dignity, radiant with light, fragrant in life. Drawn by that fragrance, the king was slowly pulled to him. He saw him lying under that tree many times, sat at his feet many times, and the influence deepened. One day he said, “Would it not be good to leave this tree and come to my palace?” The renunciate said, “As you wish—we can go wherever you like.”
The king was taken aback. His long-held reverence was jolted. He had thought the renunciate would say, “A palace! What would I, a renunciate, do there?” That is the set phrase of the learned renunciate. But this renunciate said, “As you wish—we can go wherever you like.”
The king felt a shock—what kind of renunciate is this! But having invited him, he could not withdraw the invitation. He had to bring him along. The renunciate went. The king arranged everything for him as for himself. The renunciate lived at ease with it all. Great couches were spread—he slept on them. Fine carpets were laid—he walked on them. Delicious foods were served—he ate them. The king’s suspicion was no longer suspicion; it became certainty. He thought: What kind of renunciate is this! Not once did he say, “I cannot sleep on these cushions, I sleep on boards.” Not once did he say, “I cannot eat such delicacies; I eat coarse fare.” The king found his presence very troubling.
After a few days he said, “Forgive me—I have a doubt.” The renunciate said, “What is happening now happened that very day. Still, say it—what is your doubt?” The king said, “My doubt is: What kind of renunciate are you? What is the difference between me, a worldly man, and you, a renunciate?”
The renunciate said, “If you want to see the difference, come with me outside the village.”
“I want to know,” said the king. “My mind is distressed; I have lost sleep. When you were under the tree, I had reverence. Now, with you in the palace, my reverence has gone.”
The renunciate took the king outside the village. They crossed the river that marked the boundary. “Now tell me,” said the king. The renunciate said, “Let us go a little further.” The sun rose; noon came. “Now at least tell me,” said the king. The renunciate said, “This is what I want to show: now I go forward; I do not return. Do you come with me?” The king said, “How can I go? Behind me are my family, my wife, my kingdom!” The renunciate said, “If you can see the difference, see it now. I go on, and behind me there is nothing. And when I was in your palace, I was in your palace—but your palace was not within me. I was inside your palace, but your palace was not inside me. Therefore, now I go.”
The king fell at his feet. His illusion broke. “Forgive me,” he said, “I will repent all my life. Come back.” The renunciate said, “I can turn back even now—but your doubt will return. As compassion to you, let me go straight on.” Remember the words he spoke: “As compassion to you, let me go straight on. My compassion says: let me go straight.”
And I remind you: in Mahavira’s nakedness there was less insistence on nakedness and more compassion for you. When a true renunciate lives in the forest, it is less attachment to the forest and more compassion for you. When he wanders naked begging from door to door, there is less insistence on begging and more compassion for you. Otherwise he could eat in your house without begging, and sleep in a palace rather than on the road. It makes no difference to a true renunciate—though it will to a false one.
It makes no difference because nothing enters his mind. Things are in their place: the palace walls in their place, the cushions on which we sit in their place. If they do not enter my mind, I remain untouched and far.
So I do not tell you to leave where you are; I tell you to change who you are. I do not tell you to run from your place; the weak may run. I ask you to transform yourself—and transformation is the essential thing.
Be alert to your state of mind, and set about changing it. Take one point and work on it. Drop by drop, the ocean can be filled. Drop by drop, the divine can be attained. Go drop by drop; I do not ask you to go farther. One drop at a time, and the divine can be reached. Do not overthink that your capacity is small—“How will I reach?”
Someone said to me, “We are weak; our capacity is small. How will we reach?”
However weak, everyone has the capacity to take one step. And tell me, has even the mightiest ever taken more than one step at a time? The greatest have never taken more than one step at once. The capacity to take one step is everyone’s—always.
So take one step. And then one more. And then one more. It is always only one step. But the one step taken again and again covers infinite distances. The one who stops, thinking, “Where will one step get me?” reaches nowhere.
I invite you to take that one step. In these days you have listened to my words with such love, such silence—how much joy, how much grace I have felt! I am deeply obliged. For the space you have given me in your hearts, I am deeply grateful. For that, many, many thanks—and accept my love.
Now we will sit for today’s final meditation experiment. And then we will part. I take leave with the hope that when we meet again I will find your peace has grown and your joy has grown; that you have taken the step I asked you to take; that a few drops of nectar have come close to you and you have come close to nectar.
May the divine grant you the capacity to take one step—at least one step. The remaining steps then take themselves.
After tonight’s meditation we will walk in silence. In the morning I may not meet you; I leave at five. So take this as my final farewell. And let each person accept my salutations offered to the divine seated within. Accept my pranam.