Geeta Darshan #3

Such a question arises in many minds. The age is indeed of intellect—so how can the movement be toward feeling? They appear opposed, at opposite poles.

Our entire education and conditioning are of the intellect. There is neither teaching nor conditioning for feeling. No method seems visible for the cultivation of feeling. The whole order of life seems to run by intellect. So, sitting atop the peak of intellect in this era, how will there be a movement toward feeling? How will a path open to devotion?

Understand a very unique law of life. The law is: whenever we go to one extreme, going to the other extreme becomes easy. Whenever we reach one end, reaching the other becomes easier—like the pendulum of a clock. The pendulum swings left; when it touches the farthest left, it begins to swing right.

It is not enough merely to know that this is an age of intellect. This is also an age afflicted by intellect. The heights of this era are the heights of intellect; its troubles too are born of intellect. The pain of this age is intellect.

Today’s reflective mind is troubled, unhinged. And as civilization advances, we must enlarge our madhouses. There is a simple measure of how “civilized” a country is: how many people are going mad there!

Excessive pressure on intellect densifies tension. The heart lightens; the intellect burdens. The heart is play; the intellect is strain.

So because of the pain produced by intellect, the possibility of turning to the other side has arisen.

We are harried by intellect. Out of this harassment we can become oriented to feeling. My own understanding is that soon there will come a time on earth when, for the first time, human beings will descend into feeling as deeply as never before.

A villager is often more feelingful, but if an urbane, highly intelligent person ever fills with feeling, no villager can match the depth of that feeling. One who has known the summit of intellect—when he falls into the valley of feeling, that valley is as deep as the height of the summit. From whatever height you fall, to that depth you descend. If you fall on level ground, you do not really fall at all.

So the villager’s feeling-state cannot be very deep. But when feeling arises in the educated, cultured city-dweller, it is equally deep—oppositely deep—as the summit on which he stood.

Humanity is touching the summit of intellect. And all the hopes we tied to intellect upon touching that summit have failed. What we thought we would gain through intellect, we have not; and what we did gain is very painful.

A truly intelligent man of this century, Bertrand Russell, said—and among the few minds of this century one could trust, Russell is one—he said: For the first time, watching tribals dancing in a forest, I felt that if I could dance like that, I would stake all my intellect on it. If in the moonlight I could sing with that abandon, it would not be a costly bargain. But whether or not the bargain is costly, making it is very difficult.

To leave the tension of intellect and descend toward feeling and heart is intricate. But in the West—which is certainly ahead of us in the race of intellect—the pain of intellect has become very clear. We are building schools, colleges, universities; in the West the time of their desolation is drawing near.

Today, if a thoughtful youth in America asks, What will come of all this study? If I get an M.A. or a doctorate, then what? What will I truly gain?—fathers and teachers have no answer. When children ask their fathers, You studied—what did you gain in life for which we too should pass through this grind? What have you truly attained?—they fall silent.

If today a large segment of Western youth—hippies, beatniks—rebel against education, culture, society, the fundamental reason is this: the promises intellect gave have not been fulfilled. The glamour-web of intellect has broken. Disillusionment—the breaking of all illusions—has occurred.

Illusions break only when something is attained; not before. A poor man retains the illusion that wealth brings happiness. To know that happiness does not come from wealth, one must be wealthy. Before that, it cannot be known. How could it? Experience can only be had of what we have, not of what we lack; about what we lack we can only weave hopes and dreams.

For the first time in five thousand years, intellect has touched a full summit. Its illusion has shattered. And because of this shattering, there is the possibility of this revolution: that humankind may, for the first time, turn toward devotion. Surely, such devotion will be deep.

Consider: a poor man becomes a renunciate, leaves everything—but what did he really have to leave? The depth of his renunciation can be only as great as what he relinquished—no more. He had almost nothing. If an emperor renounces, the depth of his renunciation is equal to what he has let go.

Remember, when Buddha and Mahavira leave all and stand on the road like beggars, do not think they are like other beggars. There is a certain grandeur in their beggarhood, a hidden opulence. The emperor still dwells within their poverty. No beggar can match them, for the other remains only a beggar—he has no experience of being an emperor. Hence his renunciation can have no great depth.

His sannyas may be mere consolation, self-persuasion. Perhaps he left everything because, first, there was nothing to grasp, and second, he concluded that the grapes are sour—what is not gained is not worth gaining. He may have convinced himself, I am renouncing to attain the divine. But he had nothing; his leaving has little value.

When a Buddha or a Mahavira abandons all and stands as a beggar upon the earth, the secret is different. Whatever large alms bowl the Buddha may carry, the emperor will remain in his eyes. And when he sleeps beneath a tree—he who has known palaces and has known there is no joy in them—his sleep under the tree will be of a different quality. A beggar who has never known palaces may also say, There is nothing in palaces, but the quality of his sleep will be different. These are two different kinds of people.

When we pass through one experience and then move to its opposite, the depth is correspondingly increased. That is why the joy of poverty is available only to the rich. The delight of being poor is truly tasted only by one who has been wealthy. If one who is rich has not yet grown weary of riches, he still lacks life’s greatest delight: the joy of poverty after wealth. And if a person has not yet grown weary of intellect, know that he has not yet reached its summit. The day he reaches the peak, that day, out of weariness, he will drop it; for all the hopes will prove like a rainbow—seen from afar, vanishing up close.

If you are still clinging to intellect, know that you are not sufficiently intelligent—for the truly intelligent have let intellect go. The truly rich have let wealth go. Those who have fully experienced the world have set out toward liberation.

If you are still moving in the world, understand that you have not yet truly experienced it. If you are still clinging to intellect and spinning petty arguments, you have not reached its peak; you are still hoping. If you are still hoarding money, it means you do not yet know money; you are still poor. A person becomes truly rich the day he drops money—the illusion of wealth has broken. And until the illusion breaks, understand: one is poor.

A poor man cannot even imagine what the poverty after riches would be. Even his ideas about wealth are those of a poor man.

I have heard: a beggar said to his wife, If I were Rockefeller, I would be even richer than Rockefeller. She said, Astonishing! What do you mean? The beggar said, You didn’t understand. If I were Rockefeller, I would, on the side, keep up my begging business. That extra income would make me richer than Rockefeller! Side by side I would continue to beg; what I earned from begging he doesn’t have.

Even if a beggar dreams of being Rockefeller, he remains a beggar. If an emperor dreams of being a beggar, he remains an emperor. Experiences are not lost; whatever you truly experience becomes part of your being.

So when someone reaches the summit of intellect—consider for a moment—if ever an Einstein were to become a devotee, your ordinary devotees would not be able to stand beside him. This has happened.

Chaitanya Mahaprabhu was a man with an Einstein-like intellect. In Bengal there was no rival to his genius. No one could stand before his arguments; even his teachers were afraid of him. Far and wide spread the news that his intellect had no match. And when this Chaitanya left intellect, took cymbals in his hands, and began to dance in the streets, then too there was no match—no match for that dance, that song, that prayer, that feeling, that devotion.

The reason is clear. Many have danced, many have sung, many have prayed, many have practiced feeling—but to touch Chaitanya’s measure is difficult. For Chaitanya had another experience—he returned after descending from the final height of intellect. He had seen the heights; hence even in his lows, heights remained hidden.

For this age, keep in mind: it is nearing a peak-experience at which intellect becomes futile. And when intellect is futile, only one dimension remains open to life: that of feeling, of the heart, of love, of devotion.

A person today cannot be feelingful in the old sense. He will be feelingful in a new sense. The old person was simply feelingful—his feeling had simplicity, not depth. When today’s person becomes feelingful, there will not be simplicity, but depth. And depth is costly.

Understand it thus: a small child is simple, but not deep. He cannot be deep—depth comes through experience, through wandering at a thousand doors, through making a thousand mistakes. Depth comes with maturity. When the essence of all experience remains, depth arrives.

An old person cannot be “simple,” but he can be deep. A child cannot be deep, but he can be simple. When an old person, along with depth, again becomes simple, a saint is born.

Hence Jesus said: Those will enter my kingdom of heaven who are childlike in their innocence.

But note, Jesus did not say: Children will enter my kingdom. Not children, but those who are like children. The meaning is clear: they are not children; that is why he says “like children.” They are mature in every sense—and yet childlike. Only they will enter the kingdom.

A child is simple, ignorant. Complexity has not yet entered his life—but it will. Soon he will wander, get entangled, be filled with desire. The aspirations of the world will surround him. Beneath his simplicity a volcano is hidden.

The villager appears simple—like a child. The same volcano hides within him that has erupted in the city-dweller. Bring him to the city and he will become as complex as the city man—perhaps more so. When villagers become cunning, they outstrip city dwellers; their soil lay fallow long, so when seeds of cunning fall, the crop is richer than yours—your land has already yielded many crops of cunning.

The villager is simple, but his simplicity has little value; it is the child’s simplicity. The volcano lies hidden; he will be corrupted, perhaps must be. For in this world, without passing through corruption there is no experience. He must pass through the world. If, after passing through it, the world becomes futile to him, and he returns to the village, to that rustic simplicity once again—then the depth that arises is the saint’s depth.

The experience of the opposite is useful. A child must become young. Youth means desire. All children become young, but not all the young become truly old. Bodies grow old; minds do not. One whose mind becomes old—that one is a saint. The mind becoming “old” means: the storms that arose in youth have been understood and found futile.

The old also say, All is vain. They say it; they have not discovered it. If a miracle-worker offered to make them young again, they would agree at once. Strength has left the hands; craving has not left the heart. Till the last breath, desire pursues.

All children become young, but not all the young become truly old. The truly old are very few—those for whom youth has, by experience, become futile. And who, upon becoming old, return to the simplicity with which they were born. But there is a qualitative difference: beneath this simplicity there is no longer a hidden volcano. This simplicity cannot be corrupted. It is simplicity with awareness.

A child’s simplicity can be corrupted—and should be, else depth will not come. He must be corrupted, and then rise beyond corruption. Life is a schooling; we learn by making mistakes.

In this age we have made the mistake of intellect. Now, if we learn, we can return to the heart.

There is the possibility of a great age of devotion dawning on earth. It may seem the opposite, because it looks as if everything is being destroyed. But peace comes only after storm. What appears as destruction is the storm’s last phase. Behind it a profound simplicity can be born.

But do not wait, asking when the whole world will become simple. If you wish, you can become so today. Whether the whole world does or does not is not your concern. Even if the world does, and you do not, what is the point? You can be now. Perhaps you too have not yet grown weary of intellect. Perhaps it is not yet clear to you that the net of intellect carries no meaning.

How small is human intellect! With this tiny intellect what are we trying to resolve—the vast riddle of life? So many philosophies, so many scriptures—and nothing has been solved. Intellect has not arrived at a single definitive conclusion. Life’s riddle remains a riddle. There is still no answer.

After thousands of years of unbroken labor by thousands of minds, there is still no answer to “What is life?” For all these years humankind has tried and gained nothing from intellect. All the questions of life still remain questions. Nothing is settled.

Religion or devotion is simply the recognition that not one answer has come from intellect—perhaps answers cannot come from intellect. We are searching in the wrong direction. If this is remembered, we can begin seeking in the other direction.

You have intellect. Good; without it, even the realization that “intellect cannot give truth” would be hard to come by. That much is its use.

Bayazid said, By reading the scriptures I understood only one thing: that truth will not be found in the scriptures. But that is a great understanding.

The Zen master Rinzai said, By thinking and thinking I found only this: thinking is futile. But that too is much. If you gain even this from intellect, it is a great gift of intellect. But even for that, one must use intellect courageously.

We do not truly use intellect; that is why we remain “intelligent.” If we used it fully, today or tomorrow we would reach the place where a chasm appears and the path ends—then the return begins.

All truly intelligent ones have gone beyond intellect. Whether Buddha or Jesus or Krishna, all have said with one voice: the mystery of life will not be solved by intellect; it will be solved by the heart.

Yes, the entanglements of the world can be solved by intellect—because the world’s entanglements are dead. If it is a mathematical problem, intellect will solve it. And remember, do not try to solve a mathematical problem by the heart; it has nothing to do with it. If it is a scientific problem, intellect will solve it. If it is technological, intellect will solve it. Whatever is dead, material, intellect can untangle. That is the use of intellect.

But wherever there is life, wherever the stream of life flows, wherever the nectar is in question—there intellect tires and becomes futile.

I have heard: A great Sufi, Hasan, had a young disciple who was a master logician, a pundit, learned in the scriptures. Soon word of him spread and he became the most renowned among Hasan’s disciples. People came from afar to question him. It came to such a pass that people cared less for Hasan and more for his disciple—because Hasan would often remain silent, and the disciple was expert at settling questions.

One day someone said to Hasan, What an extraordinary disciple you have! He knows so much—we have not seen another like him. How fortunate you are to have such a disciple. Hasan said, I weep for him, for he only knows. He is spending so much time accumulating knowledge—when will he feel? When will he experience? His life is being lost in knowing—when will he have heart? I weep for him. He has neither the chance nor the time; he is stuck in intellect.

Through intellect you may gain everything, save the source of life. It is not there. Intellect is a utility, a tool, a device we need; but it is not you. Like a hand, intellect is your instrument. Use it—but do not become one with it. Use it, then set it aside. But we have become one with it.

When you walk, you use your legs. When you sit, you do not keep moving your legs; if you did, people would call you mad. Legs are for walking, not for moving while seated. Intellect is for solving problems in the material realm. But you are sitting—still the mind runs. No problem—and still it runs!

A friend came to me today and said, There is no trouble, no obstacle, all facilities—but my head keeps running.

No trouble, no entanglement, no problem—then why does the head run? It means you have become one with intellect. You cannot separate yourself from it.

One who separates himself from intellect alone can enter feeling. And intellect has given so much pain that we will separate—we must. Its thorns have pierced our chest so much that we cannot go on with it for long. Therefore I say: even in this age of intellect there is a great possibility of a revolution of faith.

It sounds right. It seems reasonable. Yet it is not right—and it is full of unawareness.

It sounds right to say, “As long as the mind is full of sin, how can there be prayer!” But that is like a physician saying, “As long as you are sick, how can I give you medicine! First get well and healthy, and then take the medicine.” But once you are well, why would you need medicine?

If you decide to pray only after you’ve dropped all sin, you will never get the chance to pray. As long as there is sin, you won’t pray. And when there is no sin left, why pray? What would be the meaning of prayer then?

Prayer is the medicine. Therefore, one has to pray while still a sinner.

And another thing: how will sin go? It cannot go without prayer. Those who try to remove sin without prayer only convert their “virtues” into ornaments for their ego—and there is no sin greater than ego.

Only the one who becomes free from sin prayerfully is truly freed. Many try to become free of sin without prayer: “Why pray? I will purify myself. No need of God’s help. I’ll fix myself. If I steal, I’ll stop stealing. If I’m dishonest, I’ll stop being dishonest; I’ll be honest.”

But remember, sometimes a sinner still reaches God; such “virtuous” people almost never do. The one who says, “I will drop dishonesty,” may indeed become honest, but the ego lurking inside that honesty will become his sin.

Humility—such a humility that doesn’t take pride even in virtue—will not come without prayer.

And if you were truly separate from the world, you could transform yourself. But you are a part of this whole. This entire existence is connected with you. Whatever is happening here includes you. You are not separate, aloof, that you will make yourself virtuous on your own. You will have to ask for the support of this total existence.

Man is weak and helpless. Whatever he does alone fails. Until a man begins to move as one with the Whole, no great event happens in life.

This alone is the meaning of prayer. Prayer means: I am not alone. Prayer means: alone, I am utterly helpless. Prayer means: without the support of this entire existence, nothing can be done by me. Prayer is the awareness of this helplessness. And prayer is a call to existence: I need Your support, Your hand; without You this path is difficult.

Thus, when virtue arises in a prayerful person, he thanks God even for his virtue—not himself. A prayerless person, even if he does virtue, will pat his own back; that too becomes sin. Hence often a non-egoistic sinner reaches God sooner than an egoistic “saint.”

I have heard: A sadhu, a fakir, died. He had done no sin in life—measured every inch, no slip, no mistake. He was certain that at heaven’s gate God would be ready to welcome him. The certainty was natural: he had suffered all his life and now wanted the reward—so naturally a bit of stiffness, too. When he reached the gate, he didn’t feel like bowing his head to enter; somewhere deep inside he expected a band to welcome him.

But the angel at the gate said, “You are a strange man. You are the first to arrive here without sin. Now we’re in trouble. The rules here don’t fit you. The book of rules says: those who have sinned much, send them to hell; those who sinned and did penance, send them to heaven. You never sinned. How to send you to hell? And since you never sinned, there’s no question of penance either. How to send you to heaven? Both gates—of heaven and hell—are closed for you. You’ve created a legal tangle.”

“Do us a favor: return to earth. We give you twelve hours. Don’t put us in a fix. The age-old rule mustn’t be broken. Go back for twelve hours; commit one small sin—something minor. Then do penance. The gate of heaven will welcome you. You are so stiff you’re fit for hell, but you haven’t sinned! And only the humble enter heaven, and you are not humble at all. Do a small sin; some humility will come, you’ll learn to bend a bit. And if you haven’t committed even one sin, you have wasted your human life.”

The fakir panicked. “Wasted my human life?” The angel said, “A little sin makes a man humble, makes him bend, breaks his ego. A little sin is human. You seem inhuman, altogether un-human. Go back.”

He returned. The angel dropped him on earth at night. A big problem! He had never sinned. Only twelve hours. He couldn’t even think what sin to do—and it had to be small, not too big. With no experience of sin, it was hard. He thought, “Let me go toward the village.”

As he approached, a very ugly, dark woman gestured from a hut. He was alarmed—he had always kept away from women. But he thought, “Let this be the sin—I have to do some sin. And since the woman is so ugly, the sin will be small.” He went in. The woman was delighted.

He spent the night with her, loved her. In the morning, he thanked God: “At least one sin is done; now I’ll do penance and enter heaven.” As he was leaving, the woman fell at his feet: “Fakir, no one ever loved me, no one ever desired me. You are the first who looked at me with such love, touched me tenderly, held me close. I pray God rewards you greatly for this virtue.”

The fakir’s chest sank: “May God reward you for this virtue!” He checked the time: trouble—only an hour left! Eleven hours wasted!

What happened in the last hour, I don’t know. Whether he reached heaven, I don’t know. But it’s doubtful he managed to sin. The reason is this: there are things to learn from this story.

First, it is not as easy to decide what is sin and what is virtue as we think. We slap labels on actions: this is sin, this is virtue. But no act is inherently sin or virtue. It depends much on the doer and the situation.

Don’t laugh—think again: A woman whom no one has ever loved, if someone’s loving her feels like virtue, is that a mistake? And if God too treats it as virtue, would you say He’s wrong? The fakir also later wondered: What is virtue? What is sin? If the other was so blessed, where is the sin? If the other bloomed for the first time, where is the sin?

Sin is not in the act. It is in what the act results in—and the chain of results is endless. You do an act today; its consequences may continue for thousands of years.

If all consequences are included, it becomes impossible to decide what is sin and what is virtue. Often you do virtue and it turns into sin. You want to do virtue and sin happens. What name to give an act! The act is not the question.

Second, in the story the fakir tried to sin deliberately, yet sin did not happen. This is very deep.

P. D. Ouspensky, a great Western thinker—his disciple Bennett wrote: when Ouspensky first began teaching us, one specific instruction was “commit a sin deliberately.” We were all seated and he said, “I give you an hour. Consciously do something you consider absolutely bad, unworthy.”

Bennett writes: for an hour we sat and thought. We tried: “We’ll abuse someone, shove someone, slap someone.” Nothing happened. The hour passed empty. Ouspensky laughed and said, “You must know: sin cannot be done consciously. You cannot do evil consciously. The very nature of evil is unconsciousness.”

Hence the fakir was in trouble. He went out trying to sin.

You don’t go out trying to sin; sin happens. You don’t need to try. You try not to sin—and still it happens. Sin does not happen through effort or awareness; sin happens in unconsciousness, in a swoon.

Therefore, the essential mark of sin is an act done in stupor. An act done in unconsciousness is sin. And only an act that can be done in awareness is virtue. We can also say: any deed that requires stupor is sin. And any deed that requires awareness, that cannot be done without awareness, that can only be done in awareness—that is virtue.

Buddha’s disciple Ananda once asked on behalf of monks going on teaching tours: “If there is a need to stay near a woman, should one stay or not?” Buddha said, “Do not stay. Keep away.” Ananda asked, “And if it becomes unavoidable to stay?” Buddha said, “Do not look at the woman; keep your eyes lowered.”

The same applies to men. Do not look; keep your eyes down.

Ananda said, “Suppose a situation arises where one must look?” Buddha said, “Do not touch.”

Ananda pressed on: “Suppose even touching becomes necessary—illness, accident—then what?” Buddha said, “Now I will say the final thing: be aware while you touch. All other instructions are superfluous. If awareness can be maintained, the rest is unnecessary. The rest is for those who cannot be aware.”

Any act that can be done in full awareness ceases to be sin. And if it is sin, it cannot be done in awareness. Stupor is necessary. Hence I define sin as an unconscious act; virtue as a conscious act.

Even when you do “virtue,” if you do it in stupor, know it is not virtue. Four people come flattering you: “No one as generous as you! Build a temple; your name will remain.” They are stoking your unconsciousness; oiling your ego with buttered praise. You inflate inside: “No one as virtuous as me!” This stupor takes hold. In that stupor, do not write the check. That will be sin. A temple may be built from it, but it will still be sin—because no virtue can happen in stupor.

And I tell you: even if you go to steal, go alert. First, you won’t be able to steal. As soon as awareness fills you, your hand will withdraw. If you go to murder, I don’t say “don’t murder”—I say “do it with full awareness.” If awareness is there, murder will not happen. If murder happens, know you were unconscious. Only in unconsciousness can it happen.

In this world, to do anything bad, you need sleep, intoxication—as if someone drunk is doing it through you.

It happened that Akbar was passing, and a naked fakir on the roadside abused him. Akbar kept balance—he was wise—but told his soldiers, “Bring him before me in the morning.”

Next morning the fakir bowed at Akbar’s feet. Akbar said, “You abused me yesterday; you must explain. What was the purpose?” The fakir said, “The one from whom you ask an answer did not abuse you. The one who abused was drunk. My intoxication has worn off overnight. You are being unjust to ask me. The one who abused is no longer present. And the one who is present now was not present then.”

Akbar had this recorded in his memoirs. He wrote, “It occurred to me then: indeed, how can we hold a person responsible for what was done in stupor!”

You too feel it: in anger you abuse or hit someone; later you feel, “I didn’t want to do this. I never thought I would. I regret it. How did it happen?”

You were not in awareness. True, you drank nothing from outside—but there are inner springs of intoxication. You need not drink from outside. Ask a physiologist: your body has glands that release intoxicants. When you are angry, your blood speeds up and poisons are released; they make you stupefied. What happens then is not “your” act; it is stupor, unconsciousness.

No evil happens in this world without unconsciousness. And no good happens without awareness. So there is only one goodness: to live in awareness. And only one evil: to be unconscious.

Do not wait to be filled with virtue before you pray. Begin prayer as you are, where you are. Your prayer will itself become your awareness. It will awaken you, break your stupor. The ultimate result of prayer is that you become a conscious person. This awakened awareness is what frees you from sin.

To cut sins, you don’t need virtues—you need awareness. Where awareness is, sin ceases. Where awareness is, virtue begins to bear fruit—like flowers opening to the rising sun. When awareness dawns, virtues happen. They don’t need to be “done.” They follow you like a shadow. They become your fragrance. They happen—and you come to know only when others point it out.

But man is devious, self-deceptive. He invents a thousand tricks to excuse himself: “I am a sinner; how can I pray!” This is your cleverness. You’re really saying, “Why pray now! I don’t want to pray; I want to sin.” But you won’t even admit that to yourself. You say, “I’m a sinner—how can I pray?” Then who will pray?

You must pray. Sin is not an obstacle to prayer. It is like saying, “My house is too dark—how can I light a lamp? The darkness is so much—how will the lamp burn? The darkness is of a thousand years—what’s the use of lighting the lamp! When the darkness is gone, I’ll light it.”

Darkness cannot stop a lamp from burning. What power does darkness have? Nothing is weaker in the world than sin. What strength does sin have? Darkness is weak. It isn’t even there—light the lamp and it vanishes. Even if it’s a thousand years old, it cannot last a moment before a small flame. And darkness cannot protest: “I’ve been here for millennia, you are a new guest, how dare you evict me!” Darkness cannot even speak; it won’t be found when the lamp is lit.

Sin is no obstacle to prayer. Otherwise, how could a sinner like Valmiki drown in Rama? How could a sinner like Angulimala merge into Buddha?

Do not block prayer. Do not put it off. Do not postpone it. Let prayer begin.

What does it matter! When a child first walks, he falls. If a child decides he will walk only when he won’t fall, he will never walk. When one first learns to swim, one swallows water, sinks a few times—but if someone insists, “I’ll swim only when I’ve fully learned,” he will never swim. To learn to swim, you must enter the water before you know how.

And the child does manage. He falls; his knees bruise; he crawls; he stands and sits again—one day he walks. Prayer begins just like that—from A B C. You won’t be able to pray “perfectly” on the first day. You won’t become Chaitanya or Meera on the first day. And there is no need.

The saints’ work is like that of parents. When a child takes those faulty first steps, parents are delighted. When he walks well later, no one celebrates. You know—when a child first stands, wobbly, the whole house bursts with joy and celebration. What great event is happening? The world goes on! One more person stood up—what difference does it make? Yet that standing—the courage to rise from the ground, the trust in his own legs—parents are happy; the band plays; songs and flowers in the house. Our child has stood up!

When a child first makes sounds—babble, meaningless—parents extract meaning: “He said mama, papa.” He said nothing; he is just testing his voice. Still, such joy! Later he will speak well, be a scholar—and there will be no such joy.

So the saints, the gurus, have this much to do: when someone first lisps a prayer, support him. When someone steps into the world of prayer for the first time, give him shelter. Make it a moment of celebration. What wavers today will steady tomorrow. What lisps today will speak clearly tomorrow. What is only a sound today may become song and music tomorrow. The possibilities are there.

But the first step is essential. And the only real mistake at the first step is postponement. Falling is not a mistake; a misstep is not a mistake. You will misstep; you will fall. The only mistake is delaying the first step: “How shall I take it—what if I err?” The one who refuses to take the first step—only he errs. There is no other mistake.

Making mistakes is not bad. Stopping out of fear of mistakes is bad. Repeating the same mistake is bad; to do the same mistake again and again is foolishness. But the perfectionist who insists on not making the first mistake will die a fool—he will learn nothing.

Make mistakes—wholeheartedly. Only don’t repeat the same one. Learn from each mistake and move beyond it. If you aren’t afraid of mistakes in the world, why fear mistakes before God? When even the world forgives mistakes as you succeed, God too will forgive. He has already forgiven. And when someone first lisps a prayer, the whole existence rejoices.

It is said: when Buddha attained enlightenment, trees that had no flowers blossomed. It sounds untrue. It is said: when Mahavira walked, if a thorn lay on the path, it turned away on seeing him. It sounds untrue. What would it mean for a thorn? Flowers do not bloom out of season! That when Buddha was enlightened, all directions filled with fragrance—hard to believe.

But recently, in Russia an experiment was done, and the Russian scientist Pushkin announced: plants are affected by your joy and rejoice; they are afflicted by your sorrow and become sad.

Pushkin’s discovery is valuable. He hypnotized plants. He also did this: a rose plant was placed near a man who was hypnotized. In trance, a person obeys any suggestion. Pushkin told the man: “You are filled with bliss; your heart is overflowing with joy.” The man swayed with delight. Electrodes on his brain registered waves of joy. Similar electrodes were placed on the rose plant. As the man became inwardly blissful and the instrument showed waves of joy, an identical graph emerged from the plant. Pushkin wrote: the rose too began to pulse with similar waves of joy.

When the man was told: “You are afflicted with grief; your wife has died; your house is on fire; your heart is sinking,” he became sorrowful. His heart’s petals closed. The waves indicated sorrow. Matching waves came from the plant—the rose’s petals withered and closed.

If you are joyful, even a rose near you stirs. Then it doesn’t seem impossible that when Buddha’s inner lotus bloomed, out-of-season flowers also blossomed. If an ordinary person’s joy affects flowers, then a Buddha—who appears perhaps once in millions of years—how surprising would it be if plants produced flowers out of season!

Pushkin’s work suggests: flowers must have bloomed. The plants near Buddha must have become so joyous—such a rare event—that they brought forth blossoms out of season.

When you first lisp a prayer, this entire existence is happy. The happiness of existence is God’s grace.

So don’t be afraid. Be courageous. If you fall, you can rise. The one who falls nine times, on the tenth the possibility of falling begins to end.