Es Dhammo Sanantano #84

Life is not like a train running on fixed, laid-down tracks. Life is free like rivers. Life is unconfined. The direction of life does not come from the outside; the direction of life wells up from the innermost core. Life walks by the lamp within, not by outer pulls and pushes. And whoever has tried to run life by outer tugging is deprived of life itself. The dignity of life is precisely this: life cannot be coerced. When life happens, it happens spontaneously. Spontaneous throbbing is the very beauty of life. And wherever you force, mold life into patterns, try to channel it along drawn lines, right there life loses its original tone. There life becomes severed from the cosmos; there you break. There your relatedness with existence disappears. You become isolated. In that very isolation the ego is born.

Second thing: to understand life it is not necessary to be a stickler for lines; not only is it unnecessary, it is dangerous, fatal. Life is so vast that you cannot confine it within the narrow fence of doctrines. Life is not bound in any courtyard. Life is like the sky. And the moment you bind it in a courtyard, filth begins. The moment you cast life into a doctrine, right there you push the vastness into a narrow alley. You are attempting the impossible.

But the mind wants to attempt it. Because the mind has a trouble—the mind trembles before the vast. The mind quakes before the infinite. In the infinite the mind feels, my death has come. So the mind wants to put limits on everything. The mind wants everything to run according to itself, in its own way. The mind wants to be the controller of all. The mind finds safety in control. And where there is no control, there the mind wavers, is frightened—it feels as if death stands face to face.

The mind is very afraid of death, lest I be annihilated. Like a drop afraid to enter the ocean. If it goes, it will be lost. Although that is only one side: the losing. The other side is that it will become the ocean. But how will the drop know the other side—how! Unless it dissolves, how can it know! Before dissolving, the feeling is only: I will be lost.

So if the drop tries in every way to save itself from the ocean, it is not surprising. Just so the drop called mind tries to save itself. Naturally, the mind organizes big arguments, big doctrines, big scriptures—behind which it might be saved.

Today’s sutras of the Buddha are about just such arrangements of the mind. From these a great light can enter your life.

First scene:
A monk was—Hatthaka. He considered himself a tireless seeker of truth.

Naturally, one who considers himself a tireless seeker of truth gets entangled in scriptures. As if truth resided in scriptures! Setting out to search for truth, they get lost in the forests of scripture. They wanted to know in depth what life is; they wanted to know what this vast existence is, but their eyes get stuck in scriptures. So Hatthaka became a great scholar of shastras. The mind falsified the search for truth. The mind said: if you want truth, peer into scripture. If you want truth, peer into all the theories.

The seekers of truth often become pundits. There the mind has deceived them. What has the search for truth to do with scripture! There is no greater obstacle on the path to truth than scripture! Yes, if you know truth, perhaps you can then also find truth in scripture—but not the other way round, that without knowing truth you may find it in scripture. That is impossible. Know truth first; then look into scripture and perhaps you will find testimonies that yes, indeed, what I have known others have also known. But your knowing is primary. Others’ knowing is secondary, a second-hand matter. If you have not known, no matter how much others have known, nothing will change for you. And whatever others say, how will you understand it?

If you read Krishna’s Gita, you will only understand your own Gita. The meanings you will pour in will be your own; they cannot be Krishna’s meanings. To know Krishna’s meaning you will have to descend into a Krishna-like consciousness. Where do Krishna’s meanings come from? Not from a dictionary. If only they came from a dictionary, how easy it would be!

Krishna’s meaning comes from Krishna’s consciousness. Your meaning will come from your consciousness. You may read Krishna’s Gita, but you will read your own Gita. On the surface it will appear you are reading Krishna’s words, but who will supply the meaning? Who will color those words? Who will interpret them? You will interpret them.

Krishna’s words—and your commentary! You will drag the sky into your courtyard. There is no way to reach truth through the words of Krishna; nor through the words of Christ, nor through the words of Buddha. If one would reach truth, the path is through the wordless.

A monk was—Hatthaka. He considered himself a seeker of truth. Naturally he got entangled in scripture. Debate became his life. Scriptural disputation became his practice. From morning till evening, sitting and rising—argument and argument. Before renouncing he used to be quarrelsome. After renouncing, the quarrel stopped, but the quarrel took a new form. The mind is very cunning. Now he no longer hurled abuses; now the abuse had become very logical. Now he did not smash someone’s head—but he would smash someone’s doctrine.

Which too is a kind of head-smashing.

He now put others down—not with physical strength, but with the strength of the mind—yet the need to put the other down remained.

Beware of the mind—even when you try to awaken from it. It is very clever. Move away from one side, it entangles you from another. Earlier he was quarrelsome, standing in courts. Then he got bored of courts, bored of quarrels—took sannyas. Then new debates arose. New styles of fighting were learned. Now the quarrel became more civilized and consistent. Now there was no need to go to court. Now, at every sitting and rising, there was preparation to dispute. Say something—and the quarrel would start. Whatever you said, he was ready to contest it.

Such disputes had filled his every breath. Shastrartha became his daily discipline. Skilled in logic, but unacquainted with meditation.

If you are skilled in logic and unacquainted with meditation, you will commit spiritual suicide. Logic is dangerous—it is like a sword in a child’s hand; or a cup of poison in the child’s hand. Yes, in skillful hands logic can be like a cup of poison in a physician’s hand—turned into medicine. Yes, in skillful hands a sword can protect life. But if you give a sword to a child, he will cut someone—and even if he cuts someone else, that is one thing; sooner or later he will cut himself as well. Poison can become medicine in skillful hands, and even nectar can become poison in unskillful hands.

In the hands of one who has known meditation, logic becomes a great art; he begins to raise people through logic toward meditation. In the hands of one who has not known meditation, logic is very dangerous—he will drag back, from meditation toward mind, those who are moving toward meditation.

Skilled in the petty, he was skilled in the small. In the subtle, in the vast, he was unskillful. He could argue about everything, and defeat people on every point—by any means defeat them. But victory had not yet happened within himself. He had not become a victor over himself.

Understand this: you are eager to defeat others only so long as you have not defeated yourself. In truth, the fact of not conquering oneself is such a pain, such a wound, that to forget this wound one tries to pile up victories over others. He who is defeated within runs after victory over others. Knowing he cannot win over himself, he says, somehow let me plant flags on other people’s heads.

Defeating others is easy. Defeating oneself is hard. Because what you are within is not small—you are vast, very vast, of great dimensions. You have no inkling of your fullness. You have great depths—depth beyond depth; heights beyond height. You will climb, and Everest will be small before you. You will descend deep, and the Pacific will be shallow before you. You have not known yourself. You stand at the threshold; you have not even entered your own palace. As vast as the outer world is, each person carries an inner world just as vast. And the world you carry within is deeper and more precious than the outer.

He who is eager to gain outer empires is poor within; he has no clue of the inner empire. He who is not his own emperor wants to be emperor over others.

That is why I say again and again: politics and religion do not mix. They are opposite dimensions. Politics means power over others. Religion means power over oneself. A politician will be irreligious. A politician and religious at once—this is impossible. And a religious person and politician—this too is impossible. If you find a religious person who is a politician, know that he is not religious. And if you find a politician talking religion, know that it is only another device of politics. The two cannot be together; it is impossible. As you cannot go up and down at once; as you cannot go left and right simultaneously; as you cannot go north and south together—so a person cannot go into politics and religion together. Politics means the attempt to possess the other. Politics is violence. Religion means the journey to victory over oneself. Religion is nonviolence.

How you try to win over others is secondary—someone uses the sword, someone wealth, someone status and fame, someone logic, someone knowledge. Someone even uses renunciation—remember. With renunciation too, the same thing happens.

If you out-renounce everyone in the village, you have conquered the village; you have defeated all. Who is as generous as you! If you fast for twenty-one days, you have put everyone to shame—who is a greater ascetic than you! Or if you stand naked in sun and rain, in heat and cold—you have defeated the whole village: who is a renouncer like me! But remember, if your eyes are on others, if there is competition at any level, this is politics.

Religion is non-competitive. Religion has nothing to do with the other. And then it can happen that those whom you ordinarily would not call religious may be the religious ones. The non-competitive person is religious.

Suppose someone is singing a song, and in the very moment of singing there is no spirit of competition in him; he is not singing to defeat someone, not singing to put someone down—within him the song has arisen and he is singing—then this person is religious. In this moment of singing, he is religious.

A person sits playing the flute; he has nothing to do with anyone. Nowhere, on any plane of his mind, is there any comparison that he must play better than others—then this act is religious.

A person is painting. He has to defeat neither Picasso nor Dali nor anyone. He has nothing to do with anyone. In his own joy, for his own delight, he is painting—coloring, and great joy arises in coloring. As if he were alone on the earth—nobody else exists. In that aloneness the stream that flows for one’s own joy—that is religion.

And if you go to a temple, and you are praying, and you begin to glance around to see whether people are noticing that you are praying—then irreligion has happened. If you see that today no one is in the temple, you finish your prayer quickly—what is the point, there is no one to see; and God—where is he! Merely a stone statue stands there; whether you hurry or delay—and you even skip a few lines in between, who is there to watch; you finish off the worship and come away. But if there are people looking, you act very serious—you sway greatly, you do a long aarti, and you take a great deal of time; the job that takes two minutes you spin out to twenty—so many were watching! And if a photographer is there, and the news will appear in the paper, then at once you become absorbed—so utterly absorbed that you outdo Meera; you sway like mad, tears begin to flow—if anything like this is happening within you, even prayer becomes irreligious.

No act is religious in itself, and no act is irreligious in itself. Your inner state makes it religious or irreligious.

This monk Hatthaka—skilled in logic and unfamiliar with meditation. Rich in words, and poor in silence.

This happens often. And until words arise from silence, they are futile. Unless words are tempered in the emptiness within you, there is nothing in them; they are lifeless. When words are steeped in the stream of your inner rasa, when words arise from the womb of your shunya, then they have essence. Words as such have no essence; essence resides in shunya. But when words rise out of shunya, a little fragrance of shunya clings around them.

As when you return from a garden—whether you remember it or not—when you reach home you find a faint fragrance in your clothes. The fragrance of flowers has caught your garments. Just so, when words arise in a heart that is empty, the fragrance of emptiness seizes the words. Only then is there some essence in words. That is to say, only when words come from silence are they meaningful. And when words do not come from silence, when words birth words, when talk births talk, when words come by association with words—know that you are wasting your own time, and wasting others’ time too. You are dumping your trash into others.

People are unwise. If you dump trash in someone’s house, there will be a quarrel. But dump as much trash as you like into someone’s head—there is no quarrel. He listens with love, he says: tell me more! What other gossip is going on in the village!

We keep dumping garbage into each other’s heads. We use one another’s heads as dustbins.

He, Hatthaka, was rich in words and poor in silence.

And often it happens that when one is poor in inner silence, one becomes a great chatterer. How to hide one’s nakedness! One puts on the garments of words. With the help of words one forgets that one has not known silence. And in silence there is beauty; in silence there is bliss. Only in silence is there a glimpse of truth.

So, beware of those who have words but no silence. And look within yourself too. Speak only what is born in your silence. Then you will find a force enters your words. A deep power will be born in them. Your words will become carriers of energy. Each word of yours will become an arrow; wherever it strikes a heart, there a new throbbing will begin. And a poetry will arise in your words. Whether or not you know poetry, a humming will be there; and a beauty in your words that is not of this world.

But only words that come from emptiness. A pundit’s word is stale, soiled. The word of the knower—the jnani—is the word of one who has learned the art of becoming wordless within. First be silent. Be silent in such a way that the silence begins to feel eternal, deathless. Then bind in words that which is experienced in that silence. Then you have something worth binding. Otherwise your words are empty tins—hollow within.

This Hatthaka—rich in words, poor in silence—thus naturally very egotistical.

If a man is rich in words, he becomes egotistical. Man is a slave of language. Have you noticed? In society those become very important who are rich in words—leaders, gurus. He who is rich in words comes first everywhere. Why? He is skilled in speaking. He has a competence. All speak, but one who becomes skillful in speaking pushes others behind; he goes ahead. If you are not skillful in speaking, one thing is certain—you will not be able to stand ahead in any competition in life. Human society is made of language. And the more skillful one is in language, the further he goes—no wonder.

Hence those who are adept at speaking, naturally an ego is born within: I am something. If words come out of shunya, this ego does not arise. Then a reverse happens. Understand it well. If words arise from emptiness, each time after speaking it feels: what had to be said—was not said. Far from ego, a great humility is born: what had to be said—was not said. For what is known within is so great it will not fit into words. Words are too small.

People ask me: how do you speak every day? I speak daily because yesterday I spoke and saw that I could not say; so today I speak again—come, let me make another attempt—perhaps now it can be said. And I will speak tomorrow too. Because I know for certain it will never be said. It is a thing that is said and yet cannot be said.

Lao Tzu has said: the truth that can be said is not truth.

Yet Buddha, Lao Tzu, Krishna, Mahavira, Christ have spoken. They have tried to speak. But they are all humble in this matter, for they know that what has happened in their experience will not fit. Entering words it becomes meager, small, distorted.

You have known love. Someone asks you: tell me, what is it? You will be in difficulty. You went in the morning, you saw the sun arise, you heard birds singing, in the fresh air you too hummed—you too were ecstatic, intoxicated. You returned home; someone asked, say, how was the sunrise? What will you say? And whatever you say, do you think you can say what you knew in that morning hour? The sweet stream that flowed, the rays that danced around you, the way God stood around you in some wondrous form—can you say it?

And your son asks, I didn’t go, draw in my notebook how the sunrise was. Can you draw it? You will draw a round sun, some rays, hills, a lake—but do you think the picture on paper has any relation to what you saw? None. It is a dead picture; that was alive. That was vast; this has fitted on a small sheet. And this is a very tiny fraction; that was millions of times more. How will you bring that expanse onto paper!

Leave paper—you have better tools now, you can carry a camera. You take a photograph. But even the photograph—how can it capture it! Even the photograph does not do it.

So, for one who has experience within, ego does not arise from words. He finds defeat every time. Each time he sings, he finds what was to be sung has remained behind. The arrows of words have flown; what was to be set upon those arrows is left behind. Each time he attempts, he sends a message, the message goes—but the essence is left. Each time it is so.

Thus for one who has experienced, words do not increase ego. But for one who has not experienced, speaking words grows the ego greatly.

So Hatthaka was very egotistical. Then he did not even care for truth or falsehood in argument.

In argument there is no truth or falsehood. When victory is the goal, what truth, what lie? If victory is the goal, and victory is gained by falsehood, then falsehood appears as truth. Remember, he said he was a seeker of truth; but fundamentally he was a seeker of victory. When you dispute with someone—do you argue in the search for truth? Or only with the desire to win?

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who want to drag truth behind them; and those who want to walk behind truth. He who would walk behind truth has no desire for victory; he is ready to be defeated by truth. He who wants truth to walk behind him craves victory. He wants even truth to fit him. He will cut and trim truth too. He will give truth such coloring that he may win.

The disputatious is not a seeker of truth. But Hatthaka was deluded that he was. The polemicist seeks victory—remember this. And look within carefully—are you engaged in seeking victory or seeking truth? Because the two paths are entirely different. The journey toward victory is politics. The journey toward truth is religion. On the road to victory there is the plan to climb upon others’ chests; on the road to truth there is surrender of the head at the feet of truth.

When you argue, do you tell yourself that this dispute is for the search of truth? All disputants say so; but the real quest is: I am right, you are wrong. And sometimes you must have found that yesterday you argued with someone and you said a certain thing is right, and today arguing with someone else you declare the same thing wrong—because today it is easier to win that way.

In argument there is no truth or falsehood—argument is an advocate. An advocate has no truth or falsehood; he says: whoever you are, I will make you win. As you are, I will make truth stand on your side. We will change truth; you need not change. We will cut and shape the law; we will fashion truth so that it becomes your witness.

Hence an advocate runs a business of untruth. Advocacy is a kind of prostitution. A prostitute lends her body to another’s use; an advocate lends his mind to another’s use. It is an act more fallen than prostitution. A lawyer has no truth.

In Greece there were Sophists. Socrates fought them. The Sophists said there is no such thing as truth or falsehood. They said whoever knows the art of argument can make anything into truth and anything into falsehood. The Sophists said truth and untruth do not exist; skill in argument becomes truth and unskill becomes untruth. They taught people this very thing. They opened great schools where people were trained to make truth into falsehood and falsehood into truth. And they were very skilled logicians.

Such skilled logicians have been in every age. They have no commitment. They have no surrender, no faith. They only know the game of argument. Logic is their trade. As you have professional players—someone a professional footballer, someone a professional cricketer—they do not care, whoever pays them they are on that side. The Sophists were like that—whoever paid them they would be on his side. A lawyer is a kind of Sophist.

This man Hatthaka must have been a kind of Sophist. He craved victory—by hook or by crook. Honestly or dishonestly, by good means or bad, he did not care for purity of means. His end was one: victory must be had.

And you will see the same in life. Those whose only desire is victory try to achieve it by every means—cheating, fraud, hypocrisy—victory must be won. All attention is on victory. Therefore, a man of victory can never be religious. If victory can be had by irreligion, what will he do! When victory is the only desire, if it comes through irreligion, irreligion will be adopted. For a religious person, victory is not the goal of life. The moment victory becomes the goal, life ceases to be religious.

One day he went and challenged the Tirthikas.

Tirthika was the name in Buddhist scriptures for Jains in those days—those who followed the Tirthankaras.

One day he went and challenged the Tirthikas and said: meet at such and such place, at such and such time. There will be a disputation—and your defeat is certain. Then, going there before time, he told people: look, the Tirthikas have run away—that itself is their defeat.

He gave a time and place, arrived before time, and told people: see, they have fled—this is their defeat.

When the Blessed One came to know, he called Hatthaka and said: Monk, do you really do such things! This is the limit.

This is the limit of falsehood. Is this any kind of victory! First, disputation is futile; first, the ambition for victory is futile—and then such devices! You give them a time; before they arrive you announce that they have fled. Is this victory!

Hatthaka felt ashamed. But though he was extremely skilled at lying, before the Blessed One he could not lie.

This is one of the many uses of a true Master—that before him you cannot lie. The Master has many uses in the seeker’s life; one essential use is this too. Everywhere else you will be able to lie; no obstacle will come in the way of lying. Wherever some ease is obtained by a certain statement, you will make it. But there must be one place where you cannot lie—only there will you get the chance to meet yourself. There must be some feet at which, arriving, you are compelled to be true. Where, even if you wish, you cannot be false. There must be some eyes into which, looking, you see your truth reflected.

The true Master is a mirror. When the disciple stands before him, he cannot lie. Understand this as the definition of a Master: before whom you cannot lie, he is your Master. If you can lie before him, he is not your Master.

Keep this in mind—it is of use to you. If you can still successfully lie before someone, know that you have not accepted him with the feeling of a Master. You have not taken him as your Master. The very meaning of Master is: to whom now you will hide nothing; you will reveal yourself as you are. Before whom you will be capable of being naked; you will drop all garments and stand bare. You will be able to say: so am I—good or bad, as I am. Here is one place where I will not hide. Where I will not wear masks, where I will not craft faces—where I will be just as I am.

Hatthaka felt ashamed. But though he was extremely skilled at lying, before the Blessed One he could not lie. He said—yes, Bhante. The Blessed One said: Victory is not valuable, Hatthaka! And the victory that is obtained by abandoning truth is worse than defeat. Truth alone is the value. Where truth is, there is the real victory. To be defeated on the side of truth is also victory and good fortune; to win on the side of falsehood is misfortune. Monk, by doing this you will not be a shramana. For I call only him a shramana who has pacified all ambitions.

He gave an unprecedented definition of shramana—that he who has pacified all ambitions is a shramana.

Understand. I said: the true Master is the one before whom you must become true; where your life-long hypocrisies and life-long lies and life-long clevernesses, at least for a moment, fall from you—like a flash of lightning across your life, showing you where you stand, how you are. This is the inner test for the disciple: the one before whom he can be naked—that one is his Master. He has accepted him with the feeling of Master.

Placing your head at someone’s feet does not accomplish anything. And in this country we have become so habituated to laying our head at feet that people do it as a formality. But the fundamental meaning of laying the head at the feet is: here I will reveal myself as I am. No more holding back, no more concealment, no more twisting—no taking recourse to argument or lies. If you have chosen someone as Master, you will know it by this feeling. And truly whether you have found a true Master will be known by this: when you accept your entire nakedness before him, even then there is no condemnation—then know you have found a true Master.

Because simply by your choosing someone a Master, it does not become so. You can choose a wrong Master too. You can choose a hypocrite, an ignorant person as Master. What criterion have you? How will you assay that the one you have found is a true Master? What measure? What method? This is the method: when you place even your nakedness before him, and there is still no feeling of condemnation in him—only compassion—he understands you, helps you understand; but there is no tone of condemnation. Where there is condemnation, know that the person before whom you have bent is not better than you.

This is very useful. Of your hundred “mahatmas,” ninety-nine are full of condemnation. Condemnation remains within only so long as you are entangled in the same things others are entangled in.

Someone comes to me and says: I have taken sannyas, but there is a great problem—I am addicted to alcohol. If this man goes to your “mahatmas,” ninety-nine out of a hundred will flare up at once: alcohol! Sin! You will rot in hell! You will be boiled in hell’s cauldrons. Alcohol!—alcohol is far; your “mahatma” will not even let you drink tea. If you drink tea, it is sin—great sin. A mountain of condemnation will fall upon you.

Because of such mountains of condemnation you are not true even before the Master. Remember, only when two things meet can anything happen. How will you be true? Before whom even the slightest thing brings a mountain of condemnation upon you—how will you be true? How will you tell what mistakes you have made, what slips?

A true Master will understand. He will understand your condition, because once he too has been in your condition. He knows there is a way beyond. The way is not condemnation. The way is not to frighten a man. By creating fear of sin and hell no one becomes free. Perhaps the man will drink even more—now he will drink out of fear of hell: now I am doomed anyway! There were already many anxieties—because of them he drank; now the Master has added one more worry—now hell too! Anxieties were not few; the anxiety increased, restlessness increased.

A true Master accepts that as you are, thus alone you could have been up to now. Nothing to be overly troubled about. This does not mean he says remain always as you are—he finds a way. But on the way there is no condemnation. On the way there is no contempt for your past; only a door for your future.

Understand the difference. With a true Master there is no condemnation of your past. Yes, he certainly opens the door of your future. He says: look—this can be. Golden peaks can rise in your life. I say to you, a true Master has no concept of hell; he only points toward the heaven you are missing. There is no notion of hell.

The concept of hell is a sign of the false teacher—of the wicked man who still carries violence within. He pounces upon you. And the psychological reasons for his pouncing are deep. He is still afraid that these very tendencies exist in him. If he accepts such things, a great difficulty arises.

Suppose you say: I drink. If he says: it doesn’t matter—there is a danger. The desire to drink still lurks in him. If he tells you: it doesn’t matter, then he too is hearing that it doesn’t matter. Danger! If he has to say this again and again, then the desire in him will say: then why don’t you drink? If it doesn’t matter, why are you sitting here wasting time!

You say: I have fallen in love with another’s wife; what should I do? What shall be! He will pounce upon you. He is not pouncing on you; he is protecting himself—remember. Ask psychologists what he is doing—he is in self-defense. He is defending himself. He jumps at you: this is sin—great sin! You will go to hell! He says this to you because the neighborhood’s women attract him too. And he cajoles himself with this very talk to restrain himself: you will go to hell—great sin—never do such a thing. When he pounces on you he is giving a signal that he is afraid within. How can he accept you? If he accepts you, he will end up accepting himself. Therefore he cannot accept.

By producing fear he prevents you from being naked before him. Thus neither is the guru a guru nor the disciple a disciple. Between the two there is only a formal, shallow, worldly relationship. A spiritual relationship is born where you know the Master will understand. If the Master will not understand, who will? Where he will accept—where he will receive you as you are. Where there is no tone of condemnation toward your past. Where you do not have to look small before him. And along with that he does open the door to your future. He says: this can be.

When someone comes to me and says: I drink, I say: don’t worry about the alcohol—meditate. He says: can a drinker meditate! I say to him: if a drinker cannot meditate, then a drinker can never be free of drink. I say to him: you are asking as if a patient asks a doctor: can the sick take medicine? If the sick cannot take medicine, then who will! And if you go to the doctor and say: I have TB—and he at once jumps on your neck: you will rot in hell! You will be thrown into hell! You will be boiled!—you will be astonished: this is too much! First TB—and now hell! He doesn’t even speak of medicine!

A physician speaks of medicine. He says: here is the medicine, don’t worry—this will cure you. I tell the alcoholic: meditate—because in meditation you will drink a higher wine. You have drunk the wine of grapes—now drink the wine of the soul. And when the better wine begins to flow, who will drink rotgut! When the inner wine begins to flow, who will drink the outer! When the wine of the Divine begins to flow, who will cling to petty things! They fall away on their own.

The Buddha did not condemn, but he opened a door for him.

The Buddha said: Victory is not valuable. And the victory that is gained by abandoning truth is worse than defeat, Hatthaka!

What is its essence! What its purpose! Truth is the only value. Where truth is, there the real victory is. If you want to win, win with truth. Satyam eva jayate—truth alone triumphs. Truth wins—we do not win, said the Buddha. When we stand with truth, we too are victorious. Falsehood loses. If we stand with falsehood, we lose. And the victory gained through falsehood is only deception—momentary illusion. It will not last; it will burst like a bubble. To be defeated with truth is also victory and good fortune. Blessed are those who lose in the journey of truth. Unfortunate are those who win in the journey of untruth.

Monk, by doing this you will not be a shramana.

He said: see, you have taken sannyas, you have aspired to be a shramana, you have become a sadhu—like this you will not be a shramana.

Because only he is a shramana who has pacified all ambitions.

And this is a very deranged ambition—the ambition to win. And with such false devices! Then the Blessed One spoke these sutras—

Na muṇḍakena samaṇo abbato alikaṁ bhaṇaṁ.
Icchā-lābha-samāpanno samaṇo kiṁ bhavissati.

Yo ca sameti pāpāni aṇuṁ thūlāni sabbaso.
Samitattā hi pāpānaṁ samaṇoti pavuccati.

He who is without vows and speaks falsehood does not become a shramana merely by shaving his head. Filled with the desire for gain—how will such a man be a shramana?

He who completely pacifies small and great sins alike is called a shramana precisely because of the pacification of sins.

Notice—he is not saying anything to him personally. He is proclaiming impersonal truth. He did not say: you are a sinner. He did not say: you are not a sannyasin. Understand the distinction. He said nothing to him directly. He only made a universal declaration of truth. As if he did not even take him as the case—he was only a pretext; using that pretext a religious proclamation was made.

He who is without vows and speaks falsehood does not become a shramana merely by shaving his head.

He did not say to him: you are not a shramana. That would be condemnation. He did not say: you are a sinner, you are not a sadhu—you are unsaintly. He said nothing to him.

A true Master speaks universal truth. Even when speaking to individuals he does not directly address the person. Because in a direct address the person will be shy, feel ashamed, feel guilt. Then he will begin to lie. He will not be able to be open even before the Master. There must be a refuge where we can lay down the burdens of our mind. And where we can be sure there will be no condemnation, no insult.

He who is without vows and speaks falsehood does not become a sannyasin merely by shaving his head. And one who is full of desire for gain—how can he be a sannyasin?

“Icchā-lābha”—the gain-seeking! Competition. The longing for victory. Ambition.

He who completely pacifies small and great sins alike…

He said—small and great sins. Because in truth sins are neither small nor great. Sin is simply sin. It is not that if you stole two lakhs it is a great theft and if you stole two pennies it is a small theft. Theft is theft—two pennies or two lakhs. For theft has nothing to do with how much you stole; only with the fact that you stole.

This monk Hatthaka had not committed some big sin. He did not murder anyone, he did not elope with someone’s wife, he did not gamble, he did not drink—a small lie. And that too with the desire that the word of Buddha may be declared victorious against rival sects. No big sin. But small or not—does sin come in sizes? Sin is sin. A lie is a lie. Small lie, big lie—all are equal. In their measure there is no difference. Small theft, big theft—all are the same.

Second scene:
A Brahmin philosopher came to the Blessed One and said: O Gautama! You call your disciples bhikshus because they go for alms. I too go for alms; therefore call me bhikshu too. He was eager to argue, ready to pick a quarrel on any pretext. He had a grip on words, so he thought to raise the dispute from the word bhikshu itself. He only needed a pretext.

The Blessed One said to him: Brahmin, merely begging does not make one a bhikshu; yes, if you wish, you can be called a beggar. But beggar and bhikshu are not synonyms. I call him a bhikshu who has dropped all sanskaras—conditionings. One who retains no inner conditioning, him I call bhikshu.

He whom Jesus called poor in spirit. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Christianity does not really have an exact exposition of what Jesus meant—poor in spirit. In Buddha’s word here is the exposition: sanskara-rahit—without conditioning. One who has dropped all conditioning.

Understand—this is of great value. We live by conditioning. Someone says, I am Hindu; someone says, I am Muslim; someone says, I am Christian—this is conditioning. No one is born Hindu, nor Christian. You grew up in a Hindu home, a conditioning fell. People said you are Hindu and you accepted you are Hindu. Are you Hindu? How? Had you been kept in a Muslim home from childhood and grown there, you would be Muslim. So this is conditioning. You came as a perfectly clear mirror; you arrived as a blank page; then writing fell upon it. If you were in India, you learned an Indian language. Had you been in Arabia, you would have learned Arabic; in China, Chinese. So language is conditioning.

Understand: you did not come with language—you came with silence. Language was learned. Silence was your nature; language is other-imposed. When you arrived you were neither dull nor learned. No child is dull or wise. It will take time—to become dull or clever—it will take time. Many processes, many conditionings—school examinations, innumerable procedures—then someone will become learned, someone dull. You came exactly alike, became different.

Sanskara means what we have learned after birth. What is learned—that is called sanskara. Sanskara is not your nature. Sanskara is dust that has settled upon nature. Nature is like a mirror; sanskara is like dust. When many layers of dust settle on the mirror, no reflection appears.

Buddha says: the one who has wiped away all this dust—I call him bhikshu. And why bhikshu? Because then he is no longer Hindu—he becomes that poor; no longer Brahmin—he becomes that poor; neither Chinese nor Indian—poorer still. Slowly, slowly, all that we have acquired, all that is our property, drops away. Sanskara means property. Then only a blank page remains. That blank page Buddha called bhikshu. And this is exactly Jesus’ meaning: poor in spirit. Who is poor in spirit! Is one poor in the spirit! In the spirit a man is rich.

But understand: when all outer conditionings fall away—by outer eyes the soul becomes utterly bare, poor; only then by inner eyes is it rich.

Jesus’ full sentence is: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. A unique saying. Blessed are those who are poor in spirit, because the kingdom of God is theirs. In one sentence both things are said. Poor outwardly, and inwardly so rich they become masters of the kingdom.

That is why in this land two words were chosen. The Hindus chose swami—for sannyasin; the Buddhists chose bhikshu. The Hindus kept the inner in view—what would happen when the sanskaras have fallen, when the kingdom of God is attained—they said: swami. And Buddha said: that will happen later, that is distant; first one must become bhikshu. The Hindus kept the end in view; Buddha kept the beginning in view.

And in my vision keeping the beginning in view is more valuable—because the end will come; sow the seed and the fruit will grow. But let it not be that a man stiffens beforehand that I am a swami—and never becomes a bhikshu. He who does not become bhikshu will not be a swami.

So the Blessed One said: Brahmin, by the mere act of begging no one becomes a bhikshu. If you want, we can call you beggar.

He made a very deep distinction. In the dictionary, both are the same—call him bhikshu or beggar, what difference! He who begs is a beggar; he who begs—a bhikshu. Therefore, to understand the words of Buddhas, do not seek the dictionary. Ask them for the meaning of each of their words. They speak in language, but in language they speak something far beyond language.

Beggar and bhikshu are not synonyms. In the dictionary perhaps—but not in the living lexicon of experience.

I call him a bhikshu who has dropped all sanskaras—

Who has dropped all conditioning, who has become unconditioned. Who is sanskara-empty. Who has become naturally pure. Just as he had come at the moment of birth, so again he has become; whatever writings had arisen in between, he has erased them. I call him bhikshu. And I call him bhikshu in whose within a pure emptiness has arisen; that emptiness is the true begging-bowl. The one in whom such a void has arisen, who does not even retain the sense that I am.

Therefore the Buddha did not use the word Atman, because the word Atman contains the hint of “I am.” The Buddha used the word anatta. He was a unique being. He used the word anatta—Atman means “I,” anatta means “not-I.” For thousands of years in India the word Atman had been regarded as precious—Buddha broke that tradition. He said: this word Atman is filled with ignorance; it retains the sense of I. The sense of I must go. The I is only the name given to the aggregate of sanskaras. When all sanskaras have gone, what I? A bare sky remains. The clouds have gone, the sky is cloudless. That sky the Buddha calls the real begging-bowl. He who has attained that inner begging-bowl—I call him bhikshu.

And then he spoke these gathas—

Yodha puññañca pāpañca bāhitvā brahmacariyaṁ vā.
Saṁkhāya loke carati so ve bhikkhu’ti vuccati.

He who, having put aside both merit and demerit, lives in brahmacharya, and walks in the world with awareness—he is a bhikshu. Him I call bhikshu.

Understand this sutra—
He who has dropped both merit and demerit.

Ordinarily we are told: drop sin. Buddha says: drop sin, yes—but do not cling to merit. Otherwise you avoid the well and fall into the ditch. You break the iron chains and forge golden ones. Sin binds—and merit also binds.

Do you not see—how the meritorious man swells up, filled with I: I have done good; I am virtuous; I am generous; I am this, I am that. See the social worker—how he begins to strut: I am serving society. This pride will become ego again.

Therefore Buddha says: I call bhikshu the one who has dropped not only sin, but merit too. Who has dropped everything—who has dropped the very habit of clinging. Who has dropped the sense of doership. Who has taken only one deep feeling within—emptiness, emptiness, nothing else. Therefore Buddha’s philosophy is called shunyavada.

And who walks in the world with awareness.

Understand the exact meaning of awareness here. It is Buddha’s very special definition. It does not mean one who carries scriptures on his head while walking the world. Awareness means with bodh—with remembrance, with wakefulness—with awareness. One who takes each step with awareness; who even breathes with awareness; who does nothing in unawareness—I call him bhikshu.

And who, having dropped both sin and merit, lives in brahmacharya.

Brahmacharya does not mean only what you have been told; it is much vaster. The exact meaning of brahmacharya is: the conduct of Brahman—the Divine conduct. It does not mean only what the English word “celibacy” means. It does not mean only that one does not fall into sexual passion. That is a very small meaning. It is there—but it is small; the story does not end there. Brahmacharya is complete only when a person lives in the conduct of God—as God lives. Anything less is not brahmacharya.

So Buddha said: I call him a bhikshu whose conduct is God-like—so pure, so clear, so holy. So holy that he has dropped even merit. And so peaceful and so silent that the lamp of remembrance burns always there. The bhikshu rises, sits, walks, eats, drinks—but the lamp burns constantly—alert. What Gurdjieff has called self-remembering. He is filled with atma-smaran.

Buddha’s word is samyak-smriti. He knows exactly, precisely, what he is doing. In whose life nothing happens unknowingly. It means that ultimately his unconscious will dissolve. Because when nothing happens unknowingly, slowly the inner light will increase, the unconscious will end—only consciousness will remain. The whole house will become luminous. I call him bhikshu.

Third scene:
When invited to the homes of householders the bhikshus, after eating, would offer words of blessing and gratitude; but the Tirthikas would merely say “sukham hotu”—be happy—and go away. Naturally people praised the bhikshus and criticized the Tirthikas. Knowing this, the Tirthikas reacted, saying: we are munis—we remain silent; the disciples of the shramana Gautama tell long stories while eating—they are chatterboxes. A muni should remain silent—so they began to condemn.

The Buddha has always told his bhikshus: wherever you take, return more—do not let debt accumulate. Therefore when the Buddha’s bhikshu took even food somewhere, after the meal—by way of gratitude—he would share a little of what he had received. The joy he had found, the meditation that had come to him, the wealth of virtue he had gained, the new rays and the new storms of elation rising within him, the new festival that had awakened—having taken food, in gratitude he would give some news of his within. He had received bread, he would not remain indebted. Naturally, give what you have. In return for two breads, the Buddha’s bhikshu returned much—he poured his whole life into it.

So the bhikshus, when invited to householders’ homes, would after eating offer words of blessing and share; the Tirthikas would simply say “sukham hotu”—be happy—and go away.

Naturally, people found the Buddha’s bhikshus endearing—they said something, explained something, tried to awaken us—whether we awaken or not is our matter, but they make an effort from their side. And the Jaina munis only say sukham hotu—be happy—and go.

Naturally, this began to irk the Jaina monks, and in reaction they began to condemn—We are munis, we are silent; Gautama’s disciples tell long stories while eating—they are talkative. One should be silent, a muni should be silent.

The bhikshus told the Blessed One. The Teacher said to them: Bhikshus, by remaining silent alone one does not become a muni; because inside, thousands of thoughts may be running. Silence has nothing to do with speaking or not speaking. Silence is the name of the thought-free state.

Understand: the name of silence is not not-speaking. One can be silent for a thousand reasons. Ask a thief: did you steal?—he becomes silent. Is that silence? Ask someone: is there God?—he becomes silent. Is that silence? One is silent for this reason or for that—but silence has nothing to do with remaining mute. Within, thousands of thoughts go on. Let thoughts not run within. As long as mind is, there is no silence. The death of mind is silence. When the mind dies—silence. No thoughts inside, no waves rising—silence.

So Buddha said: Bhikshus, just by remaining silent one does not become a muni; for within, a thousand thoughts may be running.

You have seen too—sometimes you sit for a moment, keeping quiet—where can you be quiet! In truth, you are filled with more thoughts than before. While the shop is on, the work is going on, you do not notice the thoughts—they go on inside, but you are entangled outside, you do not see them. Sit for a moment with closed eyes—immediately there is an uproar of thoughts, storms arise, tempests blow. Thoughts from who knows where! With no relevance, no meaning for your life—you cannot think what is going on! Why is this running! They rise—absurd, incoherent—and one after another in a chain. And they go on and on—no end. They exhaust you. So keeping quiet is not silence.

Buddha said: silence has nothing to do with speech or no speech. Silence is related to the thought-free state. And that inner state is not broken even by speaking.

This is very deep.

And that inner state is not broken even by speaking.

I tell you from my own experience: silence is not broken by speaking. Silence is such a deep happening that once it happens, once it grows dense within you, then you may speak—speaking happens on the surface; within, the stream of silence flows. Just as now you know—on the surface you can be quiet—there is quietness outside, and inside the stream of thought flows. Exactly the reverse also happens: outside the stream of words flows, and within there is the deep impact of silence.

So Buddha said: that inner state is not broken even by speaking.

If speaking breaks it, how is it silence! That is not silence. That is only the deception of silence—the outer, formal arrangement of silence.

Then some keep silence because they do not know—what would they say if they spoke! By not speaking their ignorance remains hidden. And some—even knowing—cannot speak, because they do not have the skill of speaking.

Songs arise within everyone; very few can sing—because the skill of song! The dance rises within everyone; very few can dance—because the skill of dance!

Many times you must have felt—listening to someone’s song—you thought, hey, I wanted to sing like that! Listening to someone’s words, have you not often felt—he has stolen my words! That is exactly what I wanted to say.

In truth, whenever someone’s words fit your heart so well, they fit for this reason—you too wanted to say them for years, you could not; you did not have the skill. Someone else said them; instantly they entered you. They were ready within you—but unclear, unmanifest, hidden, hazy. Someone spoke them clearly.

A true Master does not give you truth; the truth that is hazy within you becomes clear alongside his truth. Alongside the Master’s truth the truth within you becomes clear. Truth is not given; truth is not taken; truth is not a property transferred. I cannot give you anything. What you want to speak, what you want to say, what you want to know—I say it in my own way; perhaps in you harmony happens with it, wires connect, and you too are stirred.

Musicians say: if in a quiet, empty room there is a vina kept in one corner, and a skilled player sits in the other corner and plays the vina, then the strings of the silent vina begin to vibrate—faint sounds begin to arise from them. Just so it is.

Before the Master the disciple sits silent, quiet, in an attitude of receiving, immersed in trust, eyes fixed. Here the Master’s vina plays—there in the disciple the strings lying silent for years, for births, begin to quiver. For this Jung has found an exact word—synchronicity. Something happens here, and exactly the same begins to happen in the other heart if the heart is ready to open—exactly the same. Nothing goes from here to there, nothing comes from there to here; a parallel happening begins.

Have you not seen—someone plays the tabla and your feet begin to tap! Seeing a dancer, you too begin to keep time. What happens? Synchronicity. Something is happening there; something lying asleep within you begins to happen too. After all, you too are a dancer! Perhaps you have never danced—that is another matter. But Meera sleeps within you too. If Meera dances outside somewhere—if the moment is right—and if you are not a frightened man, not a man hiding in arguments, if you can open your heart, open the doors—and the gust of Meera passes through you—then your Meera will awaken! Just so it is.

So Buddha said: some—even knowing—cannot speak because they lack the skill. And some do not speak out of miserliness—lest what they have known be known by another. They hold it like property. First, knowing is difficult; then making the known known is even more difficult. To bring what is known in shunya down into words—mahakaruna—great compassion—is essential.

Therefore the Buddha told his bhikshus: do not worry what others say; make known what you have known. Share what you have received. Let others say whatever they say—do not worry.

First, knowing is difficult; then making the known known—more difficult.

In the world, not many attain truth—but still, quite a few do. Yet among those who attain truth, not all become Masters. Only he becomes a Master who has known—and has made known. Many attain truth.

This happened in Buddha’s life. A king came—Ajatashatru. He asked the Buddha: you have ten thousand bhikshus—how many among them have attained Buddhahood? Buddha said: many among them have become Buddhas. He said: it does not seem right; for apart from you, why is none of them famous? Buddha said: that is a different matter. To attain Buddhahood—one thing; to make it known—entirely another. They have known—but how to share it? Yes, some among them are slowly becoming skillful in making it known—slowly. As a man takes years to know truth, so then he must take years to learn to make it known. Many do not enter that trouble; they say: why get into this hassle! We have found the diamond—let us keep it safe; what is the need to tell! Why tell!

Buddha spoke of two states of the knower. One he called arhant, and the other bodhisattva. Arhant means one who has known truth. Bodhisattva means one who has not only known, he has poured it toward others. The path of the arhant has been called Hinayana—the smaller vehicle. He sits in his small boat and departs, crossing the ocean of becoming. The path of the bodhisattva is Mahayana—the great vehicle—in which thousands are seated. He says: come, whoever wishes—sit—we are crossing the ocean of becoming. He who did not cross alone, who helped others cross—the one who is taran-taran—the crosser and the carrier.

Then he spoke these gathas—

Na monena muni hoti mūḷharūpo aviddasu.
Yo ca tulam’va paggayha varamādāya paṇḍito.

Pāpāni parivajjeti sa muni tena so muni.
Yo munāti ubho loke muni tena pavuccati.

Not by mere silence does the ignorant fool become a muni. But he who, like a wise one with a perfect balance in hand, weighs both worlds, and avoids evil—that one is a muni, and is called a muni.

He who has weighed both worlds in his consciousness—as if with a subtle scale—found nothing worth attaining here, and nothing worth attaining there. Weighed both worlds—he found nothing in the world that is worth gaining; he found nothing even in “liberation,” nothing in merit. He found nothing in either. In such a state the mind becomes utterly quiet. When there is nothing to gain, whence restlessness! Restlessness arises from the race to gain this and that.

People come to me and say: we want to make the mind quiet. I say to them: do you know the arrangement to quiet the mind? You must drop ambition. They say: that is difficult. In truth, they say: we had come so that by quieting the mind we can run better in the race of ambition.

A minister of a state used to come. He said: for twenty years I have been only a minister. Those who came after me have become chief ministers. The truth is, I do not hustle enough. I have come to you to learn meditation, so that if I gain a little peace and strength, I can also accomplish something!

I told him: you speak strangely! The first condition of meditation is that ambition goes—and you want meditation to serve ambition! You want to make meditation the maid of ambition! Go elsewhere! It cannot be. It is impossible.

Often a man, tired in the race for money, says: let me learn meditation; perhaps if fatigue is a little less I can run better. Man is strange. He does not know what he asks! And then he finds givers too!

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi tells people: money will come from meditation; position will come from meditation; health will come from meditation—everything will come from meditation. Promotion too will come from meditation! If you meditate rightly, promotion will happen. It is no wonder that in America he has an impact—people are ambitious, they want just this.

The minister I mentioned also said to me: you say go elsewhere; I went to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi—he said it will happen, meditate. He gave me a mantra; I have been doing it for a year—nothing has happened—so I came to you. Nothing will happen. Meditation has nothing to do with ambition.

Buddha says: I call him muni who has no ambition—not of this world, not of the other. He does not desire the world, and has dropped even the desire for moksha. Only he is silent; only he is a muni.

And the final scene:
While the Blessed One was residing at Jetavana, thoughts arose in the minds of very virtuous bhikshus: we are virtuous, we are meditative; whenever we wish we will attain nirvana. Such deluded notions inevitably arise on the path of practice.

If a little happens, man thinks—done! Someone does a little meditation, someone speaks a little truth, someone gives a little charity, someone drops a little desire—he thinks: I have found the key; what delay now—whenever I wish, nirvana will be available. Man very quickly mistakes a halt for the destination. Where one is to halt for a night and move on in the morning—he thinks the destination has come.

Such deluded notions inevitably arise on the path.

When non-conduct is dropped, conduct is grasped. When money is dropped, meditation is grasped. When sin is dropped, merit is grasped. Here the well, there the ditch.

The Blessed One called them and asked: Bhikshus, has the purpose of your renunciation been fulfilled?

He must have had to ask—he must have seen they have begun to walk with a swagger. He must have seen they walk as if they have attained—as if they have reached home. He called them and asked: has the purpose of your renunciation been fulfilled?

They wished to hide, but could not.

It is impossible to hide before the Master. They wanted to prevaricate, but could not.

Buddha said: Bhikshus, do not try to hide—say it straight: has the goal of renunciation been attained? Because from your gait it seems so. From your eyes it seems so—that you have arrived!

Their feelings were plainly written on their faces.

Hesitantly they expressed their minds; they admitted it. The Blessed One said to them: Bhikshus, character is not sufficient. It is necessary, but it is not sufficient. Something more than character is needed.

Character is negative—did not steal, did not lie, did not cheat, did not harm—this is all negation. Something creative is needed.

Character is necessary—not sufficient. Something beyond character is needed.

Listen well. Do not get stuck at character. Character is children’s play. There is no virtue in being moral. There is evil in sin; in virtue there is nothing special. You will be surprised to hear this. A man steals—that is bad. But a man does not steal—what is special about that! Understand. If you did not steal—will you carry a flag and proclaim that you do not steal! What kind of thing is that! If you did not pick someone’s pocket—what merit is there! If you had picked it, that would be bad; not picking it is no special goodness.

If a man lives only in the negative, he becomes bound by character. Religion is the search for the creative. It is fine to avoid the negative—it is a matter of strength—but it is not anything significant. If someone asks you to list your merits, you can add a long list—do not smoke, do not chew betel, do not drink tea or coffee—this is all character. Do not steal, do not cheat, do not commit adultery—this is all character. But where is the beauty in it! Naturally a man should be like this—this is simply human.

So the one who sins falls below being human. The one who does not sin does not rise above being human. Religion is that which takes one beyond the human—transcendence.

So Buddha said: beyond character something is needed. Shila is a means, not the end. Both sin and merit bind. Bhikshus, until all the asravas are exhausted, and in the inner sky only shunya remains—do not stop. And do not be assured too soon; do not halt early. Know halts as halts. Halts are not the destination.

Then the Blessed One spoke these gathas—

Na sīlabbata-mattena bāhusaccena vā pana.
Athavā samādhi-lābhena vivitta-sayaneṇa vā.

Phusāmi nekkhamma-sukhaṁ aputhujjana-sevitaṁ.
Bhikkhu, vissāsa-māpādi, appatto āsavakkhayaṁ.

Not by mere practice of morals and vows, nor by being much learned, nor by attainment of Samadhi, nor by sleeping in solitude, nor by thinking, “I am tasting the bliss of renunciation, which ordinary men cannot taste”—does suffering end. O bhikshu, do not trust your attainment of nirvana until the complete exhaustion of the asravas has happened.

Asrava means in-flow and out-flow—coming and going. As long as anything arises and subsides in your mind—there are asravas. As long as waves arise and fall—there are asravas. Until all coming and going ceases—when in your sky nothing comes, nothing goes—an empty sky remains empty—clouds no longer gather, there is never a monsoon—only then be assured; before that, do not believe you have arrived. A little Samadhi is tasted, you sit quietly and bliss comes—do not think the destination has come.

On this supreme path many such halts come, very beautiful—where you will want to stop; where you will think the home has come—let us stay. The mind always plays tricks. It says: stop now—you are tired, and you have come far enough—what more is there to do! Look—brahmacharya has happened; look—greed is gone; look—you have become charitable; look—you no longer get angry—stop now—such a beautiful place!

But Buddha says: as long as coming and going remains in the mind, as long as any wave arises, do not stop. Until you become without-bhavas—nirbhava—until emptiness becomes the great emptiness, nothing arises, no wave—only then—then stop. Then you will stop anyway. Then even if you do not want to stop—you will. If there is no wave, where will you go! As long as even a slight wave arises, know the journey is not yet complete.

Thus the Buddha, taking up small incidents of daily life, proclaims great ultimate truths. Dharma is eternal, but its expression should happen moment to moment in the circumstances of life. Therefore I am placing these scenes before you. These are scenes of your life. If you understand them rightly, in these hints you will find much provision for the journey.

Enough for today.