Jeevan Hi Hain Prabhu #6
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
A friend has asked: I do climb onto the funeral pyre, and yet I still find myself standing on the sidelines, watching.
Certainly, there is something within us that—even if we truly climb onto the pyre—will still stand apart and watch. Not only on the pyre of imagination; even on the real pyre, when you climb, when I climb, there is something that will stand on the side and keep watching. Something remains outside, watching. Even now, in imagination, it is standing outside. The body can be placed upon the pyre, but there is something within that cannot be placed on the pyre, which no fire can burn, which has no death—this will stand outside and watch.
Close your eyes and enter the second experiment. Close your eyes, let the body be loose. If you wish to lie down, lie down. Loosen the body, close your eyes. And raise a second picture in the mind’s eye—the pyre is burning; you are at the cremation ground. The deserted cremation ground is suddenly full today: your loved ones, friends, relatives have all gathered. They have come to bid you farewell, to make the last salutation. The pyre has been laid. Your bier is placed upon it. Flames begin to rise. The flames of the pyre are racing toward the sky—shimmering red flames that will burn everything, will leave nothing unconsumed, will erase all. They are leaping toward the heavens. The pyre is fully kindled; the fire has completely caught. Now your bier is being opened, and your loved ones are placing your corpse upon the pyre. It is you who is being laid there. This is not someone else’s pyre; it is your pyre. This is not someone else’s body; this is your body. You may have carried others’ bodies to the pyre in the past; today, your own body is on the pyre. The fire grows; your body too has caught the flames. The body is burning.
Watch. For five minutes, watch your own body burning. To see oneself burning is a profound experience. If you see rightly, you will become a different person. To see oneself upon the pyre is a very deep experience. If it truly takes shape within, then afterward you can never be the same person you were before you climbed the pyre. Something in you will burn; something in you will be destroyed.
Watch. The flames are rising; a dark night, and on its curtain shimmering red flames rush upward. Friends and dear ones stand in a circle, a little distant now—not as close as they always were. Who stands close to flames? Who stays close to the dying? Who remains close to the dead? They stand apart in a ring. The flames scorch them; they move farther away. The flames rise higher and you are burning—you are burning. Know: I am burning, dissolving, ending, dying. Keep watching for five minutes.
The flames are merciless, burning fast and burning all. The flames are fierce. Everything is being scorched, becoming ash. Watch. Keep watching yourself burning, disappearing, turning to ash. There are strong winds; they feed the fire; the flames grow more intense. Everything is burning; everything is dissolving; everything is turning to ash. Friends and loved ones slowly begin to depart. No faces now—only receding backs. They are going; the final salutation is over. Now all will become ash. And who loves ashes? Who remains for ashes? All have gone or are going. You are alone. Charred pieces of the corpse lie there; ash lies there. Flames, a deserted cremation ground, a dark night. Slowly the flames will die; the embers will go out; in the darkness only a heap of ash will remain.
Watch. Everything is becoming ash. The flames have died; the embers have died; a mound of ash lies there. The dark night has enclosed everything on all sides; no one remains. That heap of ash is what we have become. Recognize this heap of ash well—this is what we are! This very heap of ash had often stood before a mirror. This very heap of ash dreamt countless dreams. This heap of ash thought, did, undid, so many things. Understand, see, recognize this mound of ash well. Dust has returned to dust.
The experience of dissolving is the second stage of meditation. Only one who can dissolve can find the Lord. One who is incapable of dissolving is not a fit vessel to receive Him. See this heap of ash well; it is this that is to be offered at the feet of the Divine—your own ash, your own death, your own disappearance—and the doors open. The heap of ash lies there, the cremation ground, the solitary dark night. And that heap of ash is no one else—it is we ourselves. Everything is finished. You have seen yourself dissolving, ending. Form has perished; the formless remains. Shape has perished; the shapeless remains. The body has perished; only the soul remains. Recognize this well.
Then slowly open your eyes, understand the third experiment, and practice it for five minutes.
The third experiment is even deeper. In the first experiment we flow, yet we are. Even without swimming, we still remain something. In the second experiment we disappear—but it is we who disappear. All else is gone, yet deep within, what we truly are still remains, standing outside.
In the third experiment we must move in an even deeper direction. Now, we must become one with all that is. The birds’ calls—let them become not the birds’ sounds but our own voice. The winds blowing, gusts shaking the leaves—let those winds no longer be winds; let them become us. The leaves that are trembling, glittering in the sun, dancing in the breeze—let those leaves no longer remain leaves; let them become us. Whatever is, with it we shall become one.
How can we become one? Through acceptance. If everything is accepted by us, our separation falls away. Nonduality, non-separation, becomes available only to the one who comes to total acceptance. With whatever we oppose, from that we get cut off. With whatever we do not oppose, to that we are joined. Whatever we deny, a boundary is drawn between it and us. Whatever we accept, the boundary between it and us dissolves. If we draw no boundary line between ourselves and the All—no line of difference, no fence of opposition—then between the All and us there is no line, no difference, no conflict. The opposition is our own drawing; the line is our own making. We can wipe that line away right now.
In the third experiment of meditation, wipe that line away completely. Do not experience that I am here and the birds are calling over there. No. That which is making sound in the birds is the same that is hearing here. What opposition? Opposition of whom? I myself am sounding; I myself am hearing. With total acceptance, such a recognition begins to dawn. Now this train is passing. If it is accepted with our whole mind, the train will not seem to be passing outside; it will seem to be passing within us. The clatter of its wheels, the shriek of its whistle—these will appear to arise within. It will feel as if we have expanded vast, encompassing the whole world, and all is happening within us.
I call this third experiment: tathata—“things are such.” Things are as they are, and we have accepted them; we have no opposition to them as they are.
A man went to a fakir and said, “You are very peaceful and I am very restless—tell me the way to be peaceful.” The fakir said, “What need is there of a way? I am peaceful; you are restless. I am content with my peace; you become content with your restlessness.” The man said, “How can I be content? I am restless; I want to eradicate my restlessness.” The fakir said, “As long as you want to eradicate, you will not be peaceful. Be content even with your restlessness—then see whether restlessness remains or not! If someone becomes content even with his restlessness, where then is restlessness? Restlessness was in the discontent, in the opposition—in that insistence: ‘No, this should not be so; there must not be restlessness; I must be peaceful.’” The man said, “You speak rightly, but still I want to be peaceful.” The fakir said, “Then you will not be. And I never went to anyone to say, ‘You are very restless; I am very peaceful; tell me how to become restless.’ I never asked anyone anything. As I was, I became content with that—and then I became peaceful. Peace is the result—the ultimate fruit—of being content with oneself as one is. No one can ‘be peaceful’ by effort. Whoever consents to be as he is—peace follows behind like a shadow.”
The man said, “Still, I do not understand.” The fakir took his hand and led him outside the house. There stood a great tree touching the sky, with the moon above—towering upward. Nearby there was a small sapling. The fakir said, “Do you see that tree?” The man said, “Yes, I see it—it is very large, touching the sky.” The fakir said, “And do you see this small plant?” He said, “Yes, I see it—poor thing, so small.” The fakir said, “I have been here twenty years, and I have never seen this small one asking the big one, ‘You are so tall; I am so little—how can I become big?’ I have never heard a discussion between them. The small is content in its smallness, and therefore it is not ‘small’—for smallness is felt only when one is discontent with being small and begins to desire to be big. The big is content in its bigness, and therefore it is not ‘big’—for there is no question at all; it has compared itself with no one.”
The fakir went on, “This one is content in being small; that one is content in being big; both are perfectly at ease. The small is small; the big is big. No hassle, no quarrel, no comparison, no restlessness.” The man said, “Even so, I still do not understand.” The fakir said, “Then be content even in your not-understanding. Do not try to understand now. Go—and understand that ‘I do not understand’—and be content with that.”
The experiment of tathata means: with what is, we are content. Even with ignorance, even with restlessness; whatever is within and without—we are content with all of it. We have no opposition. Practice non-resistance for five minutes—just five minutes. We have no opposition at all. All is accepted. All is accepted. Let the feeling of acceptance fill every breath and every pore: in five minutes you will find that sources of bliss unknown till now have opened, doors long closed have swung wide, a peace has flowed in all directions such as we had never known.
Close your eyes; let the body be relaxed. Close your eyes; let the body be relaxed. And with your whole being consent to what is. What is: birds calling, gusts of wind, the sun’s burning rays, the noise on the road, a train passing, a car sounding—such is outside; consent to it. It is so, and we consent. Then inside much will occur—some thought will move, some feeling arise—consent to that too: it is so. Whatever is happening, consent to it: it is so. Completely let yourself go into the feeling of acceptance. Then, slowly, slowly, all boundaries will dissolve; slowly, all distinctions will fall. Then it will not seem that sunlight is separate and I am separate, that birds’ calls are separate and I am separate. We will expand and become vast, and all will begin to happen within us. If we accept, we will become one with all. For five minutes, accept everything and remain silently still.
Accept. Accept. In every breath one feeling only—everything is accepted. In every pore one prayer only—everything is accepted. In every breath one supplication only—everything is accepted. In every pore one call only—everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted. One supplication, one prayer, one feeling only—everything is accepted, everything is accepted. Birds are calling, there is noise on the road, the winds are shaking these trees—everything is accepted. The sun’s fierce rays fall upon the forehead—everything is accepted. No opposition, no opposition, no opposition. And the mind will grow utterly quiet; the mind will become quiet; the mind will become quiet; the mind will become empty in the deepest sense. Boundaries will fall, and all will begin to feel as one.
Everything is accepted. Everything is accepted. As it is, it is—and we consent to it. Then see how the mind becomes peaceful. Then see how the mind descends into deep bliss. Then see how the mind establishes unity with the whole world.
Understand this feeling well; this is the soul of meditation, its very life-breath, its center. See if within there is any resistance, any rejection, any wish that what is happening should not be so. If there is, bid it farewell. If there is, bid it farewell. Accept everything—whatever is, is. Birds are calling, for birds will call. Winds are blowing, for blowing is the nature of winds. The sun’s rays are hot; they will be hot. What is, is its nature—and we have consented to it. We have consented to it. We have dropped all our opposition; we have consented to all. See how the mind has filled with peace. See how the mind has become free and calm. See how a deep silence has descended within. Recognize this well. In meditation we will enter this feeling more and more deeply. The breath has grown quiet; every hair has grown quiet.
Now slowly open your eyes, understand the final experiment, and then enter meditation.
The feeling of flowing, the feeling of dissolving, the feeling of total acceptance—these are the three stages of meditation. We have looked at each of the three separately; now we will practice all three together.
Close your eyes; let the body be loose. If someone wants to lie down, lie down now. And even in the middle, if you feel like falling, do not hold yourself—let go and fall. If in the very midst of meditation it seems the body will fall, do not prevent it—let it fall. If you do not have the courage to let yourself fall in the middle, then lie down beforehand. Close your eyes; let the body be loose. Now I will give suggestions for a little while; experience along with me. As you experience, so it will begin to happen.
Experience: the body is becoming relaxed. First of all, experience the relaxation of the body. Experience: the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed. Let go—and experience: the body is becoming relaxed. Let go, limb by limb, and experience: the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming more and more relaxed. As you feel it, the body will become completely loose and relaxed like clay. If it falls, do not prevent it; let it fall. The body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed. Let go completely—as you let yourself drift in a river’s current, drift in the river of relaxation. Let everything go. The body is relaxed, the body is relaxed, the body is relaxed. Let go. Let go. Let go. The body has become utterly relaxed—as if there were no life in it, as if there were no energy in it. The body has become completely lifeless, relaxed, and calm.
The breath, too, is becoming calm. The breath is growing calm. Feel: the breath is becoming calm—calm, calm, calm. And the breath will grow calm. The breath is growing calm, growing calm, growing calm—becoming calmer and calmer. Let go completely—let even the breath go, just as you let everything go upon the pyre and it was all burned. In the same way, let go of the breath. As the breath is released, as it grows quiet, the body will be lost, will dissolve; it will not even be known that the body is. It will seem the body is no more—and we remain. Let the breath be quiet—quiet, quiet. Let go.
The body has relaxed, the breath has become quiet, and now drop into the feeling of tathata, of total acceptance. What is—as it is—is, and we consent. We are only witnesses, only knowing. The birds are clamoring—we are knowing. There is a horn on the road—we are knowing. Winds blow, leaves tremble, sounds arise—we are knowing. The sun is hot, sweat comes to the brow—we are knowing. Whatever is happening, we are nothing but the witnessing knower of it. We have no opposition, nothing to change, no desire remaining. Now for ten minutes, dissolve into the feeling of witnessing and total acceptance. And as acceptance expands, witnessing will deepen; within, springs of peace and bliss will begin to burst forth. New experiences will begin to appear within. Let go. For ten minutes, remain only a witness.
Only a witness remains—knowing, recognizing, witnessing, doing nothing. Whatever is happening all around, whatever is—know it, recognize it, be its witness, its seer—do nothing. In witnessing, the mind becomes quiet. In witnessing, the vital energies become quiet. In witnessing, the soul becomes empty. In witnessing, the doors open that are the gates to the temple of the Divine. Remain a witness—just a witness, just a witness. The mind has become quiet; flowers of peace have blossomed. The mind is delighted; springs of bliss have broken open. The mind is illumined; the mind is filled with light; many lamps of the Divine are lit.
Slowly, take two or four deep breaths; with each breath you will feel much peace, much joy. Slowly take two or four deep breaths; then slowly open your eyes. If there is difficulty opening the eyes, place both palms over them and then open slowly. Those who are lying down or have fallen—if you cannot get up, first take a few breaths, then very slowly open the eyes, and then rise gently. No one should rise with a jerk.
Keep a small note in mind. For the past three days I have been speaking with you—yet there is much that cannot be said in words. Much can be given only in silence. If anyone is willing to be silent, a great deal can be given from within, can be said from within. So today from three-thirty to four-thirty in the afternoon there is a silent discourse. I will sit here silently for an hour, and you too will come and sit silently for an hour and simply wait—that something may descend within, may descend, may descend. You will do nothing. If you need to lie with eyes closed, lie; if you need to sit, sit; if you wish to lean against a tree, lean. As you please—just come silently and arrive here five minutes before three-thirty, so that there is no disturbance behind. Come and sit in silence. I will also sit with you in silence for an hour. See—what cannot be said with words may reach you through silence. In that time, if anyone feels moved to come near me, he may come and sit by me for two minutes, then quietly return to his place.
Our morning sitting is complete.
Close your eyes and enter the second experiment. Close your eyes, let the body be loose. If you wish to lie down, lie down. Loosen the body, close your eyes. And raise a second picture in the mind’s eye—the pyre is burning; you are at the cremation ground. The deserted cremation ground is suddenly full today: your loved ones, friends, relatives have all gathered. They have come to bid you farewell, to make the last salutation. The pyre has been laid. Your bier is placed upon it. Flames begin to rise. The flames of the pyre are racing toward the sky—shimmering red flames that will burn everything, will leave nothing unconsumed, will erase all. They are leaping toward the heavens. The pyre is fully kindled; the fire has completely caught. Now your bier is being opened, and your loved ones are placing your corpse upon the pyre. It is you who is being laid there. This is not someone else’s pyre; it is your pyre. This is not someone else’s body; this is your body. You may have carried others’ bodies to the pyre in the past; today, your own body is on the pyre. The fire grows; your body too has caught the flames. The body is burning.
Watch. For five minutes, watch your own body burning. To see oneself burning is a profound experience. If you see rightly, you will become a different person. To see oneself upon the pyre is a very deep experience. If it truly takes shape within, then afterward you can never be the same person you were before you climbed the pyre. Something in you will burn; something in you will be destroyed.
Watch. The flames are rising; a dark night, and on its curtain shimmering red flames rush upward. Friends and dear ones stand in a circle, a little distant now—not as close as they always were. Who stands close to flames? Who stays close to the dying? Who remains close to the dead? They stand apart in a ring. The flames scorch them; they move farther away. The flames rise higher and you are burning—you are burning. Know: I am burning, dissolving, ending, dying. Keep watching for five minutes.
The flames are merciless, burning fast and burning all. The flames are fierce. Everything is being scorched, becoming ash. Watch. Keep watching yourself burning, disappearing, turning to ash. There are strong winds; they feed the fire; the flames grow more intense. Everything is burning; everything is dissolving; everything is turning to ash. Friends and loved ones slowly begin to depart. No faces now—only receding backs. They are going; the final salutation is over. Now all will become ash. And who loves ashes? Who remains for ashes? All have gone or are going. You are alone. Charred pieces of the corpse lie there; ash lies there. Flames, a deserted cremation ground, a dark night. Slowly the flames will die; the embers will go out; in the darkness only a heap of ash will remain.
Watch. Everything is becoming ash. The flames have died; the embers have died; a mound of ash lies there. The dark night has enclosed everything on all sides; no one remains. That heap of ash is what we have become. Recognize this heap of ash well—this is what we are! This very heap of ash had often stood before a mirror. This very heap of ash dreamt countless dreams. This heap of ash thought, did, undid, so many things. Understand, see, recognize this mound of ash well. Dust has returned to dust.
The experience of dissolving is the second stage of meditation. Only one who can dissolve can find the Lord. One who is incapable of dissolving is not a fit vessel to receive Him. See this heap of ash well; it is this that is to be offered at the feet of the Divine—your own ash, your own death, your own disappearance—and the doors open. The heap of ash lies there, the cremation ground, the solitary dark night. And that heap of ash is no one else—it is we ourselves. Everything is finished. You have seen yourself dissolving, ending. Form has perished; the formless remains. Shape has perished; the shapeless remains. The body has perished; only the soul remains. Recognize this well.
Then slowly open your eyes, understand the third experiment, and practice it for five minutes.
The third experiment is even deeper. In the first experiment we flow, yet we are. Even without swimming, we still remain something. In the second experiment we disappear—but it is we who disappear. All else is gone, yet deep within, what we truly are still remains, standing outside.
In the third experiment we must move in an even deeper direction. Now, we must become one with all that is. The birds’ calls—let them become not the birds’ sounds but our own voice. The winds blowing, gusts shaking the leaves—let those winds no longer be winds; let them become us. The leaves that are trembling, glittering in the sun, dancing in the breeze—let those leaves no longer remain leaves; let them become us. Whatever is, with it we shall become one.
How can we become one? Through acceptance. If everything is accepted by us, our separation falls away. Nonduality, non-separation, becomes available only to the one who comes to total acceptance. With whatever we oppose, from that we get cut off. With whatever we do not oppose, to that we are joined. Whatever we deny, a boundary is drawn between it and us. Whatever we accept, the boundary between it and us dissolves. If we draw no boundary line between ourselves and the All—no line of difference, no fence of opposition—then between the All and us there is no line, no difference, no conflict. The opposition is our own drawing; the line is our own making. We can wipe that line away right now.
In the third experiment of meditation, wipe that line away completely. Do not experience that I am here and the birds are calling over there. No. That which is making sound in the birds is the same that is hearing here. What opposition? Opposition of whom? I myself am sounding; I myself am hearing. With total acceptance, such a recognition begins to dawn. Now this train is passing. If it is accepted with our whole mind, the train will not seem to be passing outside; it will seem to be passing within us. The clatter of its wheels, the shriek of its whistle—these will appear to arise within. It will feel as if we have expanded vast, encompassing the whole world, and all is happening within us.
I call this third experiment: tathata—“things are such.” Things are as they are, and we have accepted them; we have no opposition to them as they are.
A man went to a fakir and said, “You are very peaceful and I am very restless—tell me the way to be peaceful.” The fakir said, “What need is there of a way? I am peaceful; you are restless. I am content with my peace; you become content with your restlessness.” The man said, “How can I be content? I am restless; I want to eradicate my restlessness.” The fakir said, “As long as you want to eradicate, you will not be peaceful. Be content even with your restlessness—then see whether restlessness remains or not! If someone becomes content even with his restlessness, where then is restlessness? Restlessness was in the discontent, in the opposition—in that insistence: ‘No, this should not be so; there must not be restlessness; I must be peaceful.’” The man said, “You speak rightly, but still I want to be peaceful.” The fakir said, “Then you will not be. And I never went to anyone to say, ‘You are very restless; I am very peaceful; tell me how to become restless.’ I never asked anyone anything. As I was, I became content with that—and then I became peaceful. Peace is the result—the ultimate fruit—of being content with oneself as one is. No one can ‘be peaceful’ by effort. Whoever consents to be as he is—peace follows behind like a shadow.”
The man said, “Still, I do not understand.” The fakir took his hand and led him outside the house. There stood a great tree touching the sky, with the moon above—towering upward. Nearby there was a small sapling. The fakir said, “Do you see that tree?” The man said, “Yes, I see it—it is very large, touching the sky.” The fakir said, “And do you see this small plant?” He said, “Yes, I see it—poor thing, so small.” The fakir said, “I have been here twenty years, and I have never seen this small one asking the big one, ‘You are so tall; I am so little—how can I become big?’ I have never heard a discussion between them. The small is content in its smallness, and therefore it is not ‘small’—for smallness is felt only when one is discontent with being small and begins to desire to be big. The big is content in its bigness, and therefore it is not ‘big’—for there is no question at all; it has compared itself with no one.”
The fakir went on, “This one is content in being small; that one is content in being big; both are perfectly at ease. The small is small; the big is big. No hassle, no quarrel, no comparison, no restlessness.” The man said, “Even so, I still do not understand.” The fakir said, “Then be content even in your not-understanding. Do not try to understand now. Go—and understand that ‘I do not understand’—and be content with that.”
The experiment of tathata means: with what is, we are content. Even with ignorance, even with restlessness; whatever is within and without—we are content with all of it. We have no opposition. Practice non-resistance for five minutes—just five minutes. We have no opposition at all. All is accepted. All is accepted. Let the feeling of acceptance fill every breath and every pore: in five minutes you will find that sources of bliss unknown till now have opened, doors long closed have swung wide, a peace has flowed in all directions such as we had never known.
Close your eyes; let the body be relaxed. Close your eyes; let the body be relaxed. And with your whole being consent to what is. What is: birds calling, gusts of wind, the sun’s burning rays, the noise on the road, a train passing, a car sounding—such is outside; consent to it. It is so, and we consent. Then inside much will occur—some thought will move, some feeling arise—consent to that too: it is so. Whatever is happening, consent to it: it is so. Completely let yourself go into the feeling of acceptance. Then, slowly, slowly, all boundaries will dissolve; slowly, all distinctions will fall. Then it will not seem that sunlight is separate and I am separate, that birds’ calls are separate and I am separate. We will expand and become vast, and all will begin to happen within us. If we accept, we will become one with all. For five minutes, accept everything and remain silently still.
Accept. Accept. In every breath one feeling only—everything is accepted. In every pore one prayer only—everything is accepted. In every breath one supplication only—everything is accepted. In every pore one call only—everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted, everything is accepted. One supplication, one prayer, one feeling only—everything is accepted, everything is accepted. Birds are calling, there is noise on the road, the winds are shaking these trees—everything is accepted. The sun’s fierce rays fall upon the forehead—everything is accepted. No opposition, no opposition, no opposition. And the mind will grow utterly quiet; the mind will become quiet; the mind will become quiet; the mind will become empty in the deepest sense. Boundaries will fall, and all will begin to feel as one.
Everything is accepted. Everything is accepted. As it is, it is—and we consent to it. Then see how the mind becomes peaceful. Then see how the mind descends into deep bliss. Then see how the mind establishes unity with the whole world.
Understand this feeling well; this is the soul of meditation, its very life-breath, its center. See if within there is any resistance, any rejection, any wish that what is happening should not be so. If there is, bid it farewell. If there is, bid it farewell. Accept everything—whatever is, is. Birds are calling, for birds will call. Winds are blowing, for blowing is the nature of winds. The sun’s rays are hot; they will be hot. What is, is its nature—and we have consented to it. We have consented to it. We have dropped all our opposition; we have consented to all. See how the mind has filled with peace. See how the mind has become free and calm. See how a deep silence has descended within. Recognize this well. In meditation we will enter this feeling more and more deeply. The breath has grown quiet; every hair has grown quiet.
Now slowly open your eyes, understand the final experiment, and then enter meditation.
The feeling of flowing, the feeling of dissolving, the feeling of total acceptance—these are the three stages of meditation. We have looked at each of the three separately; now we will practice all three together.
Close your eyes; let the body be loose. If someone wants to lie down, lie down now. And even in the middle, if you feel like falling, do not hold yourself—let go and fall. If in the very midst of meditation it seems the body will fall, do not prevent it—let it fall. If you do not have the courage to let yourself fall in the middle, then lie down beforehand. Close your eyes; let the body be loose. Now I will give suggestions for a little while; experience along with me. As you experience, so it will begin to happen.
Experience: the body is becoming relaxed. First of all, experience the relaxation of the body. Experience: the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed. Let go—and experience: the body is becoming relaxed. Let go, limb by limb, and experience: the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming more and more relaxed. As you feel it, the body will become completely loose and relaxed like clay. If it falls, do not prevent it; let it fall. The body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed, the body is becoming relaxed. Let go completely—as you let yourself drift in a river’s current, drift in the river of relaxation. Let everything go. The body is relaxed, the body is relaxed, the body is relaxed. Let go. Let go. Let go. The body has become utterly relaxed—as if there were no life in it, as if there were no energy in it. The body has become completely lifeless, relaxed, and calm.
The breath, too, is becoming calm. The breath is growing calm. Feel: the breath is becoming calm—calm, calm, calm. And the breath will grow calm. The breath is growing calm, growing calm, growing calm—becoming calmer and calmer. Let go completely—let even the breath go, just as you let everything go upon the pyre and it was all burned. In the same way, let go of the breath. As the breath is released, as it grows quiet, the body will be lost, will dissolve; it will not even be known that the body is. It will seem the body is no more—and we remain. Let the breath be quiet—quiet, quiet. Let go.
The body has relaxed, the breath has become quiet, and now drop into the feeling of tathata, of total acceptance. What is—as it is—is, and we consent. We are only witnesses, only knowing. The birds are clamoring—we are knowing. There is a horn on the road—we are knowing. Winds blow, leaves tremble, sounds arise—we are knowing. The sun is hot, sweat comes to the brow—we are knowing. Whatever is happening, we are nothing but the witnessing knower of it. We have no opposition, nothing to change, no desire remaining. Now for ten minutes, dissolve into the feeling of witnessing and total acceptance. And as acceptance expands, witnessing will deepen; within, springs of peace and bliss will begin to burst forth. New experiences will begin to appear within. Let go. For ten minutes, remain only a witness.
Only a witness remains—knowing, recognizing, witnessing, doing nothing. Whatever is happening all around, whatever is—know it, recognize it, be its witness, its seer—do nothing. In witnessing, the mind becomes quiet. In witnessing, the vital energies become quiet. In witnessing, the soul becomes empty. In witnessing, the doors open that are the gates to the temple of the Divine. Remain a witness—just a witness, just a witness. The mind has become quiet; flowers of peace have blossomed. The mind is delighted; springs of bliss have broken open. The mind is illumined; the mind is filled with light; many lamps of the Divine are lit.
Slowly, take two or four deep breaths; with each breath you will feel much peace, much joy. Slowly take two or four deep breaths; then slowly open your eyes. If there is difficulty opening the eyes, place both palms over them and then open slowly. Those who are lying down or have fallen—if you cannot get up, first take a few breaths, then very slowly open the eyes, and then rise gently. No one should rise with a jerk.
Keep a small note in mind. For the past three days I have been speaking with you—yet there is much that cannot be said in words. Much can be given only in silence. If anyone is willing to be silent, a great deal can be given from within, can be said from within. So today from three-thirty to four-thirty in the afternoon there is a silent discourse. I will sit here silently for an hour, and you too will come and sit silently for an hour and simply wait—that something may descend within, may descend, may descend. You will do nothing. If you need to lie with eyes closed, lie; if you need to sit, sit; if you wish to lean against a tree, lean. As you please—just come silently and arrive here five minutes before three-thirty, so that there is no disturbance behind. Come and sit in silence. I will also sit with you in silence for an hour. See—what cannot be said with words may reach you through silence. In that time, if anyone feels moved to come near me, he may come and sit by me for two minutes, then quietly return to his place.
Our morning sitting is complete.
Osho's Commentary
The foundation of meditation is non-action, not action. But from the word ‘meditation’ it seems as if one will have to do something. The very sound of meditation suggests that something must be done. Whereas as long as we are doing, we cannot be in meditation. When we are not doing anything at all, what then happens—that is meditation. Meditation is our non-doing. But humanity carries a deep delusion: only if we do something will something happen; if we do nothing, nothing will happen.
A seed does not have to do anything to crack open. A seed does not have to do anything to become a sprout. A seed does not have to do anything to become a flower—it happens. We too go from child to youth without doing anything. Birth happens, life happens, death happens—not because of our doing; it happens. There is so much in life that is happening by itself. And if we begin to do, we put obstacles in the way of that happening—there will be no flow.
You eat your food; then it digests. You do not have to digest it. If you had to, it would be very difficult. Even if the idea arises, “I must digest this food,” you will get into trouble and obstruct digestion. If you don’t believe it, try as an experiment some time. After eating, keep the thought in mind that the food is digesting in the stomach—you will find after twenty-four hours that digestion has not happened. What used to digest every day has been obstructed. Or try to sleep by making an effort to sleep—you will find sleep becomes difficult. Sleep comes; it does not have to be brought.
It is essential to understand that much in life happens of its own accord; it is not for us to do. And if we do, we create hindrance rather than cooperation.
Meditation too is one of those directions in which we can go, but we cannot take ourselves there. There our growth can happen, but by pushing ourselves we cannot force growth.
This must become absolutely clear before the mind: meditation is not our action; meditation is our surrender. Yet a great mistake enters through language—surrender too is an action. Then ‘to surrender’ becomes an act, ‘to meditate’ becomes an act. In truth, between life and language there are basic differences, and slowly we become so conditioned by language that we forget life is something else. India’s map is not India; and the word ‘horse’ is not the horse. The word ‘horse’ is printed in the dictionary; the horse is tied in the stable. Between the two there is a great difference. Between life and words there is a great difference. Words give a shape to things—if we go looking in life for the same shape, we will be in deep trouble.
For example, ‘to love’ is an action in the world of words; but in life, love cannot be done—it happens. There it is not an act; there it is a happening. One falls in love; one cannot do love. If you are told, “Love this person,” at most you can act love; you cannot love. If you make an effort to love, you will discover within that love is not there. By effort, love is impossible. A mother does not do love to the child; love happens with the child. And the lover does not do love to the beloved; love happens. But in language, love is a verb; in life, love is a happening, not an act. Language and life fall apart. In the same way, read about meditation in a book and it will seem something to be done. Try to understand meditation itself and you will find there is nothing to do. If it were a doing, it would seem very easy; non-doing appears very difficult.
Then what is to be done? I clench my fist—clenching is an action. I am doing something in order to clench. Then I go to someone and ask, “I want to open my fist—what should I do now?” In language, clenching is an action and opening too is an action; but in the facts of life, clenching is an action, opening is not. For opening, nothing need be done—only stop clenching. If I do not clench, the hand will open—the opening will happen by itself.
We must do the clenching; opening happens by itself. Becoming disturbed is an action; being quiet is not an action. To become disturbed, we must work hard. To be disturbed requires effort. To be successful in disturbance requires skill. But to be quiet is not an action. If we stop doing the disturbance, quietness will be. Understand it this way: disturbance and peace are not opposites at war. Peace is the absence of disturbance. Where disturbance falls away, there is peace. Our hold on doing should be first seen clearly—and dropped.
We will not do meditation; we will be in meditation. We will go into meditation, but we will not do meditation. In meditation we will float; we will not swim. Swimming is an action; floating is not—floating is a happening. There we do not have to do anything. And so a strange thing is seen: a living person can drown in a river; a dead person is never seen to drown—indeed, even if the living sink, at the moment of death they rise to the surface.
The river does something remarkable! It drowns the living and lifts the dead! It kills the living and floats the corpse! What art does the dead have that he rises, and the living sinks? The dead has one art the living lacks: the dead cannot swim; he is incapable of swimming. There is no device to swim—he can only float. The one who does not swim comes to the surface; the one who swims goes down. What is the secret? Swimming expends energy; in swimming one has to fight the river. The river is vast. And the river of life is vaster still—if we fight it, we will drown, we will perish; for in fighting, energy is wasted. The dead do not fight; they become one with the river. They say to the river, “Wherever you take us, we are willing to go. If you drown, we consent to drown; if you lift, we consent to be lifted. If you throw us to a shore, whichever shore you choose will be our destination. We have nowhere to go; take us along, we agree.” The dead say, “We are not separate; we are with you.” Then the river is in difficulty; it cannot defeat the dead. The dead proves stronger than the river. The dead are dead—and the living become weak! The living fight, and so they become weak. They resist, they oppose; therefore they break.
Meditation is the name of becoming like the dead. We do nothing; we leave ourselves in the current of life. Whatever happens, happens. To understand this state we will do three small experiments. We did them yesterday, and the day before as well. Three small experiments. First: to float, as a corpse floats.
Yesterday a friend came and said, “A dry leaf—I cannot imagine it floating in the river. I cannot think of myself as a dry leaf.” I said, “Good, then think as a corpse.” A corpse is floating, the body is drifting. Between a dry leaf and a corpse there is no difference—a dry leaf is the corpse of a green leaf, and a corpse is our own. There is not much difference. A green leaf is alive; a dry leaf is dead. It too is a corpse—of the green leaf. The green leaf fights the winds. When the winds move east, the green leaf says, “We will not go.” When the winds move west, the green leaf says, “We will remain where we are.” That is why passing winds make a rustle in the living leaves—because the leaves are fighting. The dry leaf says, “Wherever you take me, as you please, I consent.” The wind takes the dry leaf east, it goes east; takes it west, it goes west. The dry leaf does not resist.
Meditation is non-resistance. So the first experiment we will do is of floating. The second is of dying. And the third is of tathata. And the fourth is meditation. The first three we will do for five minutes each, so the sense becomes clear within. One may understand by words too, but it is difficult; that is why I want you to have a felt recognition. When I say, “Float,” you should at once feel what floating means. Once the taste is known, words too begin to work. If I say “lemon,” and you think of lemon for a moment, saliva begins to gather in the mouth. There is no lemon here now, yet the word brings saliva. Why? Because there has been the experience of lemon; it brings the water. And that experience is now held inside the word ‘lemon’. So by thinking the word, the mouth can water. The mouth knows nothing of the lemon’s presence or absence. When the lemon is actually there, even then the mouth does not know—the mind knows, and informs the mouth: “There is lemon,” and the mouth releases saliva. When there is no lemon and the mind says, “Lemon is here,” the mouth knows nothing of the presence or absence; it can release water. Words become meaningful when linked to experience.
Therefore we will experiment with floating to taste what it means to float. And when, from within, it is understood—“Ah, this is floating; this is becoming like a corpse and being carried”—then, when I say, “Float,” you will understand what I am saying.
Let us do the first experiment. Close your eyes and leave the body loose. Close the eyes—close them means, let them close. Let the eyes be loose; the lids flutter and close. If someone wishes to lie down, lie down. Lying down will make it even easier. There is enough space—lie down if you like. If you already feel like lying down, then lie now, for then you will be able to float more easily. Sitting always carries a slight strain—the sense, “I am sitting, I am sitting.” Sitting is an act; lying is not.
Leave the body loose, close the eyes. And raise an image within—on the screen of the mind see the mountains shining in the morning sun. Between the mountains runs a swift river, gurgling. Very deep, blue in color. The mountains glisten in the light; the blue of the river shimmers in the sun. Its racing waves and movement glint in the light. The river is rushing on. Allow this image to become clear on the mind. The river is flowing fast, flowing toward the ocean—set out in search of some unknown sea. See clearly the flowing of the river; carve the image well, so that the feel of flowing comes. How the river flows—just so we are to flow. In flowing the river does nothing; it simply goes on. Now drop yourself into this river as a corpse. Then there is no question of drowning. See your own body drifting in the river. Now a corpse cannot swim, so do not try to swim. There is no question of swimming. Hands and feet are let go, and we are floating like a corpse, being carried along, rushing with the river, flowing with the river itself. For five minutes, experience being carried by the river, so that into the innermost corners of the mind the recognition of floating arises.
The first step of meditation is the taste of floating.
Now see: the mountains shining, the flowing, racing river, its blue current—and we lying in it like a corpse. No prana, no way to move the hands and feet. Even if we wished, we could not. And the body is being swept swiftly along with the river. Not swimming, going nowhere, reaching nowhere—the corpse has nowhere to go, only to flow with the river. See it—see yourself floating. For five minutes keep experiencing yourself as drifting. As you float, much rubbish of the mind will be washed away—restlessness will flow off, tension will be carried away, worry will be gone. Inside all will become light, as if bathing has entered to the very depths, as if a freshness has touched the innermost.
Flow… flow away, let yourself go, utterly flow, let yourself go. The river is racing, and we are being carried. Mountains shimmer in the sun, the river’s current, cool breezes, birdsong—and we are being carried, being carried… left ourselves like a corpse. The river rushes on, and within it we are flowing along. The mind will grow light, completely quiet, fresh—as if a bath has reached to the depths, as if even the soul has been washed. Flow, let yourself go. The very holding is unrest; the holding is tension. Once you let go, what tension remains? What restlessness? Do not resist the river even a little; wherever it leads, keep flowing, keep flowing, keep flowing. If the river drowns, consent to drown; if it carries, consent to be carried. Let go of yourself, rush along with the river.
Flowing… flowing… Understand well this experience of floating; this is the first step of meditation. Do not swim—flow. Do not fight—let go. Then whatever happens, happens. Wherever the river takes you, let it take you. The mind becomes weightless, unburdened, quiet, silent. It has become so; the mind is utterly fresh.
Slowly step out of the river, stand upon the bank. The river still rushes on; the winds are blowing; the mountains are shining in the sun. We have stood upon the shore. Note inwardly what changes these five minutes of floating have made. The mind has become quiet, light and fresh, delighted, as if the soul has bathed—so clean and new. One who learns to float becomes quiet. One who learns to flow in the stream of life becomes free of tension. This is the first step: to flow.
Now slowly open the eyes. Understand the second experiment, and do it for five minutes.
The second experiment is even deeper. Even while we float, we still are. We do not swim; we float—yet our being remains. Our very being is a hindrance. In the second experiment even ‘being’ is to be erased. The second experiment is the experiment of erasing—the experiment of dying. To be able to see oneself as dead is a most precious experience.
Buddha would do this: those who came to learn meditation were made to sit at the cremation ground for three months. For three months the meditator had to live in the cremation ground. Whenever a corpse came to be burned, he would go stand by the pyre. In a day two, four, ten might die; sometimes one, sometimes two. Night in the cremation ground is desolate. And the meditation was this: when any corpse was burning, the meditator stood at the edge and kept experiencing, “It is I who am burning, I who am burning. This is no other; on the pyre, I myself am burning.” In three months the body-sense of that man would be annihilated. In three months the imagination “I am the body” would dissolve. The feeling “I am the body” would break. For three months, continuously placing himself upon the pyre, he would come to experience, “I am other, I am separate.”
The second experiment is to place yourself upon the funeral pyre in imagination. Then we will understand: something within us is what burns—it will burn. Yet something remains.