My beloved Atman! I do not know for what you have come here. Perhaps you too do not quite know, because we all live in such a way that we do not even know why we are living, nor where we are going, nor why we are going.
Stupor and awakening When life itself passes without our asking, it is no wonder that many of you may have come here without asking why you are coming. Perhaps a few have come knowingly; the possibility is very small. We all walk in such a stupor, we hear in such a stupor, we see in such a stupor, that neither do we see what is, nor do we hear what is said, nor do we feel the touch of that which surrounds us within and without. You may have reached here in that same stupor. We do not even know our own steps; we do not even know our own breaths. But why I have come, that I certainly know; that I would like to tell you. For many births the search goes on in man. Who knows after how many births there comes a glimpse of that which we may call bliss, peace, truth, Paramatma, moksha, nirvana—whatever word feels fitting, say that. No word is really adequate or capable of saying it. After births upon births it is found. And those who seek it, they think, “Once found, there will be rest.” But all who have found it discover that with its coming, a new labor begins, not rest. Until yesterday the race was to gain it; then a race begins to share it. Otherwise Buddha would not stand at our doors, nor Mahavira knock at our latches, nor Jesus call out to us. After attaining, a new labor begins. The truth is: whatever is significant in life carries a joy in attaining; but in sharing it, there is joy multiplied without end. One who has attained becomes eager to distribute it, just as a flower blossoms and spills its fragrance, as a cloud arrives and showers, as an ocean wave rises and breaks upon the shores. Just so—when something is found, the very life becomes restless to share, to scatter, to spread. I know why I have come. And if somewhere there is a meeting of your purpose and mine—if you too have come for that for which I have come—then our presence here can become meaningful. Otherwise, it often happens: we pass close by, yet do not meet. If I have come for one thing and you for another, we may be near, we may be close, yet we will not meet.
An eye that sees truth Something that I see, I wish you too could see. And the wonder is, it is so near that it is astonishing you do not see it! Sometimes one even suspects as if, knowingly, you sit with your eyes closed; as if you do not want to see. Otherwise, how could the so-near be missed by your seeing? Jesus said many times: people have eyes, but they do not see; ears, but they do not hear. Not only are there deaf and blind ones; even those who possess eyes and ears are blind and deaf. So near—and unseen! So close—and unheard! Encompassing us on all sides—and yet unfelt! What is the matter? Somewhere there must be a small obstruction—not a big one. It is like this: a tiny straw gets into the eye, and the mountain disappears; the eye closes. Logic would say: that which covered the mountain must be very large. Mathematics would say: to hide such a vast mountain, the straw must be larger than the mountain. But the straw is very small, and the eye is small. The straw covers the eye, and the mountain is gone. Upon our inner eye there are not huge mountains, but small straws. Through them the truths of life remain hidden. And that eye—surely, I am not speaking of the eyes with which we see. That brings great confusion. Understand this well: in this world, only that truth becomes meaningful for us for which the receptivity, the capacity to grasp and receive and assimilate, is born within us. The ocean roars with such force, but if I have no ears, the ocean may cry out for eternity and I will hear nothing. If I lack eyes, the sun may stand at my doorway, yet it is of no use. If I have no hands and I wish to touch someone, how can I touch? So much is said of the divine, so much talk of bliss; so many scriptures, so many praying, bhajans, kirtans in temples—yet it does not seem that we touch the divine; it does not seem that we see; it does not seem that we hear; it does not seem that in the pulse of our life we sense its heartbeat. It appears all is only talk—only talk. And perhaps we talk so much in order to defraud the need for experience, as if through talk we might obtain it. Now, the deaf may talk for births about sound and music, and the blind may talk about light—talk for births—and yet nothing will happen. Yes, a deception may occur: that in talking of light the blind forget that they are blind; the very talk may make them feel they know. The temples and mosques built upon the earth in the name of God have only managed such deception. Around them, within them, little arises other than illusion. At most we come to believe in God; we do not know God. And belief is no more than talk; if the conversation is convincing, we believe; if someone argues strongly and proves, we believe; we are defeated and cannot prove the contrary, so we believe. But believing is not knowing. We may convince a blind man that light exists; still he does not know light. I have come with the sense that knowing is possible. Surely there is another center within us that lies inactive—sometimes a Krishna knows it and dances; sometimes a Jesus knows it and, even hanging on the cross, can say, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Surely a Mahavira recognizes it, and in a Buddha that flower blossoms. There is some center within us—some eye, some ear—closed. I have come to see how that closed center may be activated. This bulb is hanging here. Light is streaming from it. Cut the wire; nothing in the bulb changes, but the light ceases. If the current does not reach, the bulb becomes dark, and where there was light only darkness remains. The bulb is the same, but inactive; that stream of power no longer runs. And if the current does not run, what can the bulb do?
The center of divine vision Within us there is a center by which That is known which we call Paramatma. But if the stream of our life does not run to it, that center remains inactive. Eyes may be perfect, but if life’s current does not reach them, the eyes are useless. Friends once brought a young woman to me. She loved someone. The family came to know, and they raised a wall between their love. We have not yet created such a world where walls need not be built against love. They raised a wall; the doorway to meeting was sealed. She was from a wealthy home. They lifted a wall across the terrace so even seeing across became impossible. The very day that wall went up, the girl suddenly became blind. They took her to doctors. They said, the eyes are perfectly fine, but she cannot see. At first the parents suspected deception; they scolded and threatened. But scolding does not cure blindness. The doctors said, the eyes are fine, and she is not lying; she cannot see. Psychological blindness—they said the mind has gone blind. They said, we can do nothing. The stream of the girl’s life has ceased to flow to the eyes; the energy that goes to the eyes is blocked; the current is obstructed. The eyes are fine, but life’s stream does not reach them. They brought her to me. I understood. I asked her, what happened in your heart? She said, this happened: if the one for whom my eyes exist cannot be seen, what is the use of eyes? Better to be blind. All night that single thought kept circling me. I even dreamt I had become blind, and knowing I had become blind my mind felt happy. For the eyes who would have rejoiced to see him—if I cannot see, what need of eyes? Better to be blind. Her mind agreed to blindness; the stream of life ceased to flow to the eyes. The eyes are fine; they can see; but the power by which they could see no longer comes to the eyes. Within our personality there is a hidden center from where Paramatma is recognized and known; from where a glimpse of truth comes; from where we connect to life’s original energy; from where the first music arises—a music no instrument can produce; from where those first fragrances become available that are ineffable; and from where the door opens to that which we call liberation—where there is no bondage, where there is supreme freedom; where there is no sorrow and where there is bliss, and bliss, and only bliss. But the stream of our life does not reach that center; the energy does not go there; somewhere below it gets stuck. Understand this well. For three days what I am calling meditation is nothing but the effort to carry this energy, this power, to that center—where the flower may open, the lamp be lit, the eye be found—the third eye, the super-sense, the trans-sensory organ may open—from where some have seen, and from where all are entitled to see. But because a seed exists does not guarantee a tree. Every seed has the authority to become a tree, but all seeds do not become trees. For though the potential is there, still manure must be gathered; the seed must be buried in earth, must die, must crack open, must scatter. The seed that consents to break, to scatter, to disappear—becomes a tree. And if we place the seed next to the tree and look, it is difficult to believe that this tiny seed can become so vast a tree. Impossible! It will appear impossible. How can so small a seed become such a great tree! It has always appeared so. Standing before a Krishna, we think, how could we ever be this! So we say: you are God; we are ordinary. How could we be this! You are an avatar; we are mere folk; we will crawl upon the earth; we do not have such power. When a Buddha or a Mahavira has passed by, we have bowed at his feet—and declared him a Tirthankara, an avatar, the son of God; and ourselves ordinary. If the seed could speak, standing near the tree, it too would say: you are God, Tirthankara, avatar; I am an ordinary seed—how can I ever be like you! How could it trust that such a vast tree is hidden within? But this large tree was once a seed; and the seed of today can become a vast tree.
The awakening of infinite potential Within us all, infinite possibility lies hidden. But until, from within, we begin to feel those infinite possibilities, no scripture will serve as proof. And if anyone shouts, “I have attained,” still it is no proof. For that which we ourselves do not know, we can never truly believe. And it is right so; to believe in what we do not know is deception. Better that we say, we do not know whether God is. Yet there have been some who did know—and not only knew; their whole life was transformed; around them we saw unearthly flowers bloom. But by worshiping them it will not happen within us. Religion has stopped at worship. How will new seeds become flowers by worshiping a flower? A river may worship the ocean as much as it will, it does not become the ocean. And an egg may worship the birds—yet it cannot spread its wings into the sky. The egg must break. And the first time a bird cracks the shell and emerges, it cannot believe; even seeing the flying birds, it cannot trust that it will fly. It sits on the branches, gathering courage. Its mother flies, its father flies; they even push it; still its hands and feet tremble. How can one who has never flown believe that these wings will carry him? That he will open to the sky and journey into the infinite? I know that in these three days you too will sit on the edge of the tree; I will call to you—jump, leap, fly!—but you will not find trust. Wings that have never flown—how can they accept that flight is possible? Yet there is no other way; once, at least once, the leap must be taken without knowing. Someone goes to learn swimming. If he says, “Until I learn to swim, I will not enter the water,” he is not wrong; he is reasonable. “For how can I go in without knowing?” But the teacher will say, “Unless you enter, you will not learn.” And then, standing on the shore, the dispute can go on endlessly. What is the solution? The teacher says, “Enter! Jump!” For without entering, you cannot learn. In truth, learning begins only with entering. Everyone knows how to swim; swimming need not be learned. If you have learned, you will know—swimming is not learning, it is remembering. A re-cognition. We all know how to thrash our limbs; once we fall into water, the knack comes. Those who know say: the realization of Paramatma is remembrance. It is not a new acquisition we learn today. The day we know, we exclaim, “Ah! so this was swimming! These hands and feet—we could always move them. But their movement never met this river, this ocean. We did not dare, we stayed on the bank. One must step in, one must leap.” The moment you leap, the work begins. The center of which I speak is hidden in our brain. Ask brain-scientists—they will tell you only a small portion of the brain functions; a large part is inactive. What lies hidden there is hard to say. Even in the greatest genius, very little of the brain works. In this same brain is that center we call the super-sense, the trans-sensory organ; the sixth sense, or the third eye. When that center opens, we will see life in utterly new meanings—matter will dissolve and Paramatma will be revealed; form will fall away and the formless appear; death will not be, and the doors of nectar will open. But that seeing-center is inactive. How to activate it? I have said: if the electric current does not reach the bulb, the bulb remains inactive; bring the current and the bulb flares awake. The bulb is forever waiting for the current. But the current alone cannot be manifest; it may flow, yet remain unmanifest—there must be a bulb. And there must be current as well. Within us there is the current of life, but it does not become manifest—because until it reaches that center from where manifestation is possible, it remains unmanifest. We are alive in name only. Is breathing called life? Is digesting food life? Is sleeping at night and waking in the morning life? Is moving from childhood to youth to old age life? Is to be born and to die life? And to leave children behind—life? No. A machine can do this. If not today then tomorrow; children will be born in test tubes. Childhood, youth and old age are mechanical processes. When any machine wears, it has youth and old age. All machines are in infancy, then youth, then old age. Even a clock comes with a guarantee—ten years it will run; it will be young, it will be old, it will die. All machines are born, live, die. What we call life is little more than mechanistic. Life is something else.
The inexpressible attainment If this bulb never knows the current, it will take what it is now to be life. When the wind knocks it, it will think, “I am alive; I feel the knocks.” The bulb will call that life. And the day the current enters for the first time, if the bulb could speak what would it say? “Inexpressible! I cannot say what has happened! Until now there was darkness; suddenly—all is light. Rays flow out and spread everywhere.” What will the seed say the day it becomes a tree? “I do not know what happened. It cannot be said. I was a small seed; what is this that has happened? To say it happened from me is also difficult.” That is why those who meet Paramatma do not say, “I have attained.” They say, “We—who we were, and what has happened—no relation can be seen between the two. Where we were darkness, now there is light! Where we were thorns, flowers have happened! Where we were solid death, now we are liquid life!” No—no, we have not attained. They say, not we. By His grace it has happened—by His grace, His prasad—not by effort. But this does not mean there is no effort. When it is attained it feels like grace. Yet to reach His grace, there is a long journey of effort. And what is that effort? In one sense small; in another sense great. Small because the centers are not far apart. The place where energy is stored—the reservoir—and the place where the eye of life will open—the distance is not great. At most two or three feet. For we are only five or six feet tall; our whole arrangement lies within these few feet.
The reservoir of life-energy Where life-energy is gathered is like a pool near the generative organ. Hence that energy is called kundalini—as of a small pool. And also because it lies coiled like a sleeping serpent—hence kundalini. A serpent asleep coils upon coils, head resting atop. Touch a sleeping serpent and the hood rises; the coils unroll. In just this way, near our sex center is the pool of our life-energy—the seed from which all spreads. It is useful to remember: the little pleasure we know in sex is not really the pleasure of sex; it is the pleasure of vibrations in that pool of life-energy adjacent to sex. The sleeping serpent stirs a little. And we take that as the pleasure of life entire. When the whole serpent awakens and its hood passes through the entire personality and reaches the brain—what is found then, we have no idea. We live on the very first step of life. There is a great staircase that leads to Paramatma. The two or three feet within us are, in one sense, a vast distance—the distance from nature to Paramatma, from matter to spirit, from sleep to awakening, from death to nectar. A vast distance. Also small—for within us we can journey.
Awakening energy is self-revolution If we wish to awaken this energy asleep within us, it is no less dangerous than teasing a serpent. In fact, teasing a serpent is much less dangerous. First, because ninety-seven out of a hundred serpents carry no venom. You can tease ninety-seven with ease. If someone dies of their bite, it is not from venom; it is from the idea that “a snake has bitten me—now I must die.” When the idea possesses you, the event happens. Even of the venomous ones—the danger is only that they can deprive you of the body. But the kundalini I speak of—teasing it is dangerous; nothing is more dangerous. What is the danger? It is also a kind of death. When the inner energy awakens, you—who you were before—will die, and within you a totally new person will be born, one you have never been. This fear prevents people from becoming religious. The same fear by which the seed, if afraid, remains a seed. The greatest danger for the seed is to fall into earth, to receive manure and water; for then the seed will die. For the egg the greatest danger is that the bird grows within, breaks the shell, and flies; the egg must die. We too are the pre-state of someone’s birth. We are like an egg from which a birth can happen. But we have taken the egg to be all. We guard the shell. If this energy rises, you will go; there is no way for you to remain. And if you are afraid, then—Kabir has said it in two lines, very beautifully. Kabir says: “Those who sought, found; they dived into the deep. I, the foolish, went out to seek—and sat upon the shore.” Someone nearby asked, “Why did you sit on the shore?” Kabir said: “Those who sought, found; they dived into the deep. I, the foolish, feared drowning—so I sat upon the shore.” Diving is needed; dissolving is needed. In one word—though the word is not very good—dying is needed. He who fears drowning will be saved indeed, but only as an egg, not as the bird who can fly the sky. He who fears drowning will be saved indeed, but only as a seed, not as a tree beneath whose shade thousands may rest. And to be saved as a seed—is that any saving? What is more like dying than to remain a seed! So there is great danger. The danger is that the personality you were until yesterday will be no more; if energy rises, you will be transformed—new centers will awaken, a new personality will arise, new experience—everything new. If you are ready to be new, then gather courage to let go of the old. But the old clutches us on all sides like chains; it holds us tight, and the energy cannot rise. The journey to Paramatma is certainly a journey into insecurity. But all the flowers of life and beauty bloom only in insecurity.
Wager your whole being So for this journey I will say a few special things—and a few ordinary things. First: when we meet here tomorrow morning and move in the direction of awakening this energy, I will hope from you that you have left nothing within yourself un-risked—hold nothing back. This is no small gamble. Here, only one who stakes the whole can attain. If you save even an inch, you may miss. The seed cannot say, “Let a little part of me be saved, and let the rest become a tree.” The seed dies entirely or remains entirely. There is no such thing as partial death. So if you save even a little of yourself, the effort will be wasted. Drop the whole. Many times, by saving a little, everything is lost. It is told: when the first gold mines were found in Colorado, all America rushed there. News came: buy a small field and you will find gold. People bought land. A millionaire staked his entire wealth and purchased a whole hill. He brought great machinery. Others were digging in small plots; he had a full hill—big machines, great excavation. But no sign of gold. Panic set in. All was staked. He said to his family, “We are ruined; we staked everything—no gold!” He advertised to sell the entire hill with all machinery. The family said, “Who will buy? The news has spread that the hill is empty; lakhs have been lost—who will be that mad?” But he said, “Someone may still come.” A buyer appeared. Even as he sold, he felt like warning him, “Don’t be crazy; I am ruined.” But he could not gather the courage—if the man backed out, what then? He sold. After selling he said, “You are mad; I am selling in ruin!” The buyer said, “Life has no guarantee; where you have dug, there may be no gold—but ahead, there can be. Where you have not dug, you cannot say there will not be.” He said, “That I cannot say.” And the wonder—such wonders happen—on the very first day, at just one foot deeper, the gold vein began. The first owner beat his chest and wept before—and wept even more after; for the entire hill was gold. He went to meet the new owner and said, “Look—fate!” The man replied, “Not fate; you did not wager to the end. You turned back before the digging was complete. One more foot!” This happens daily in life. I know so many who dig for God but never complete the digging—they stop halfway; they scratch the surface and turn back. Many times they turn back an inch before, when only an inch remains. Many times I clearly see: this man is turning back—he had come close; the thing would have happened; he is going back. So decide within: keep nothing back—put in your whole being. And when you go to buy God, what much do we have to give anyway? Even in that we become miserly. Misers will not do at the door of God. There one must put the whole. No, it is not that we have much; the question is not the amount, but whether the whole is given or not. Only when we expend our entire strength do we reach the point where the energy resides and whence it begins to rise. Why is there an insistence on the whole? Because only when our entire personal strength is consumed does the reserve have to be tapped. As long as some personal strength remains, work goes on with that. The reserve is needed only when we have nothing left. When we have given the whole, then that center becomes active—the need to draw from there arises; otherwise not. If I ask you to run, you run. “Run with full force,” I say—and you think you are running with full force, yet you are not. Tomorrow you face competition; then you find you can run more. Where did that extra power come from? Yesterday you said you were running with full force. Today you run stronger—still not your all. Tomorrow a man with a gun chases you. You run as you never have. You did not know you could run so much. Where did this power come from? It too was asleep within you. But even that will not suffice. Even when chased by a gun, you do not run with your absolute. In meditation you will have to wager even more. As far as possible—give your whole. And in the very moment you reach the point where your whole is expended, you will find you have been connected to another force; some power begins to awaken from within. Its awakening will be experienced. If you have ever touched electricity, you will know the feel. Just like that, from below—from the sex center—something fiery, yet cool, begins to move upward. As if thorns prick all around, yet like the softness of flowers. Something begins to rise. And when something rises, much will happen. At no point are you to stop it—let yourself go totally, whatever happens. As a man floats upon a river—let yourself be carried.
Courage and patience for a new birth Second point—first, stake your whole; second, when, having staked all, something begins to happen within, then leave yourself completely—just floating. Wherever this current takes us, we are ready to go. Up to a point we must call; when the power awakens, we must leave ourselves. Larger hands have held us; no more worry; we must flow. Third: with the rising of the power within, many events may occur—do not be frightened. New experience startles. When the child is born from the mother’s womb, he is terribly frightened. Psychologists say it is a traumatic experience—from which he never quite gets free. The fear of the new begins with birth itself. For nine months in the womb he was in a totally secure world—no anxiety, no worry; no breathing, no eating; no crying, no singing; no world to cope with—utter rest. Coming out of the womb, suddenly an altogether new world. The first shock of life—and the fear grips there. Hence all are afraid of the new; the mind clings to the old, and fears the new. Our very first experience is that the new gave us great trouble; the womb was good. So we have made arrangements that imitate the womb—our mattresses, sofas, cars, rooms—we shape them like the womb. We try to make them that comfortable—but it cannot be done. The first experience from the mother’s womb is the fear of the new. This will be an even greater newness, for birth from the womb is a change for the body only; here the new is at the level of the soul. It is a completely new birth. Such people we called Brahmin—one whose second birth has happened—twice-born, dvija. When this power rises fully, there is another birth. In that birth, you are both—the mother and the child. Therefore there will be the pangs of labor, and the insecurity of the new. It can be frightening. As the mother has pain in labor, so too you will have, for here the mother and the child are both you. There is no other mother, no other child; your own birth is happening from within yourself. The pang may be intense. Many have said to me, someone roars and cries—why do you not stop him? He will cry and shout—let him. What is happening within him, only he knows. If a woman is in labor and another who has never given birth says, “Why this fuss? Why shout? If a child is being born, let it be. Why cry?”—she can say it indeed; but she does not know. Men can never fully understand the pain a woman bears in birth. In meditation, both women and men are equal—all become mothers in a sense, for a new birth is within. So do not block the pain or the crying. If someone falls and rolls and shouts—do not stop him. Whatever is happening, let it happen fully; flow with it, do not resist. Many kinds of inner experiences may come—someone may feel he has risen above the ground; someone may feel very large; someone may feel very small. New experiences may be of many kinds; I will not count them all. But much can happen. Whatever new happens—and each may have something different—do not worry; do not be afraid. If you must speak of it, come tell me at midday. Do not talk of it among yourselves. Why? Because what happens to you need not happen to another. And when it has not happened to the other, he will either laugh and call it madness, or, at best, with disbelief say, “It does not happen to me.” Each man takes himself as the measure—right means me, wrong means the other. He will laugh at you, or sow suspicion. His suggestions can interfere. A careless word can become an obstacle in a new experience. Therefore, the fourth point: whatever happens to you, do not discuss among yourselves. I am here—come and tell me directly.
Before entering meditation In the morning, when we come here to meditate, take only liquids—no solids. No breakfast; tea or milk—liquid only. Those who can come without tea or milk—better still. That much more ease, speed. Seven-thirty means arrive five minutes early. From seven-thirty to eight-thirty we will talk personally—whatever you wish to ask about what I have said today. A discourse is impersonal—one speaks to the winds. So, in the morning sit near me; not far, sit close. Ask whatever you need to ask. From eight-thirty to nine-thirty, we will sit in meditation. So—no solids in the morning. If you can come fasting, very good; but do not force it. If you must take something, take tea or milk. Wear the loosest clothes possible. And come after bathing. Without bath—no one should come. Bathe and come. Wear loose clothing—nothing tight upon the body. Whatever binds, reduce it. The less tightness at the waist, the better. Keep this in mind. When you sit here, loosen further. Our garments create much mischief within; they set up many obstructions. If energy starts to rise, many levels of obstruction begin to appear.
The significance of silence Half an hour before coming here, fall silent. Those friends who can remain silent all three days—very good; be completely silent. And if someone is silent, do not disturb him; be cooperative. The more who remain silent, the better. If you cannot keep full silence, then speak the very minimum—telegraphic. As in a post office—ten words only; even eight. Trim the extra and leave it at eight. Consider each word costly—truly it is costly. Use the fewest words. Use the senses minimally. Keep the eyes low. Look at the ocean, at the sky; look less at people. Our mind’s associations are with faces—not with trees, clouds, seas. When we look at nature, thoughts do not arise. Faces immediately provoke thought. Keep the gaze about four feet ahead as you walk and move; half-open eyes so that only the tip of the nose is faintly seen. Help others also to look less, hear less. Switch off radios and transistors; do not use them. Do not allow newspapers onto the campus. Give the senses maximum rest; the more energy will gather; the more can be applied in meditation. Otherwise we get exhausted. We are almost exhausted people—spent cartridges. Nothing remains; in twenty-four hours we spend it all. In the night, a little collects from sleep; then in the morning the newspaper, the radio—and the spending begins again. We have no sense of conservation of energy—how much could be saved. Much energy will be needed in meditation. If you do not save it, you will be tired.
Conserving energy supports meditation Some tell me: “After an hour of meditation, we feel tired.” The cause is not meditation; the cause is that you live at exhaustion-point. We do not realize that to lift the eyes to look also spends energy; to perk the ears to listen spends energy; to think within spends energy; to speak spends energy. In all we do, energy is being spent. At night a little is saved because other activities cease. Some is spent in dreams, but still a bit remains; hence the freshness of morning. So, for three days, save energy—so it can be poured wholly. Noon—let me give you all the details now so that for three days I need not speak of logistics—the hour from three to four will be silent. In that hour I will speak to you through silence. So all should be present at three. After three, no one should enter—for late arrivals disturb. I will sit here. What will you do from three to four? Two things. First, sit where I can be seen—do not look at me, but be seated so that I would be within your field if you opened your eyes. Then close your eyes. If you wish to open them, you may; but better to keep them closed.
The secret of silent communion Sit silently for one hour in a waiting for the unknown. We do not know who is to come—but someone will come. We do not know what will be heard—but something will be heard. We do not know who will be seen—but someone will be seen. Just quiet awaiting—for an unfamiliar, unacquainted guest, never met, never seen, never heard. If you wish to lie down, lie; if you wish to sit, sit. In that hour become only receptivity—a passive receiving. Let whatever happens, happen; but remain alert, awaiting. In that hour I will try to say through silence what cannot be said in words. If it is not understood in words, perhaps it may be in wordlessness. At night, again an hour for questions; then an hour of meditation. Thus, nine sittings in three days. From tomorrow morning, begin to put in your total energy, so that by the ninth sitting you truly have given your all.
How to spend the rest of the time Silence—no talk—removes a great disturbance. The ocean is near—go lie by its shore. At night too, those who can, quietly take their bedding to the beach; sleep there—on the sand, beneath the trees. Be alone; do not form groups. Otherwise even here little circles will form—two or four together. Stay separate, stay alone; you are alone here for three days; for to meet Paramatma none can come with you—you must go utterly alone. Be alone—more and more alone.
Peace through acceptance And the last instruction: make no complaint of any kind. For three days, drop complaining. If the food does not suit—let it be. If mosquitoes bite—let them. For three days, total acceptability, whatsoever it is. The mosquitoes will benefit a little; you may benefit immensely. If the food is not ideal, the body may lose a little; but the mind’s habit of complaining can damage you much. The mind that complains cannot be quiet. Complaints are small; what we lose is great. Do not complain; decide absolutely—no complaint for three days. What is, is; as it is, so it is. Accept it totally. These three days will become wonderful. If for three days you remain outside complaint and accept whatsoever is, and rejoice in it—then after three days you may never complain again. You will have seen what peace, what joy, is without complaint. Drop everything for three days. Then ask whatever you wish from tomorrow morning. When you ask, keep in mind to ask what is useful for all; and ask what truly rises from the heart.
An open begging-bowl I have told you why I have come. I do not know why you have come. But tomorrow morning I will come to you with the hope that what I have come for—you too have come for that. Our habits are spoiled; even if Buddha stands at our door, our mind says, “Move on.” We think, everyone comes to beg; so when someone comes to give, we say to him as well, “Move on.” Then a great mistake happens. I hope such a mistake will not happen. In three days, let us charge the very air here so that something may happen. It can happen. And it depends upon each person to create the atmosphere. In three days, this whole cypress grove can be charged—with unknown forces, unknown energies. These trees, these grains of sand, these winds, this ocean—everything can be filled with a new vital energy; we all can cooperate in generating it. Let no one be a hindrance. Let no one sit as a spectator. Drop all hesitation, fear, “What will someone say? What will someone think?” Only then can we reach That. So that you need not say like Kabir. Rather, you may be able to say, “No, we did not fear—and we leapt.” You have listened to me with such quiet and love—I am obliged. And I bow to the Paramatma seated within all of you. Accept my pranam. Our night’s sitting is complete.
Osho's Commentary
I do not know for what you have come here. Perhaps you too do not quite know, because we all live in such a way that we do not even know why we are living, nor where we are going, nor why we are going.
Stupor and awakening
When life itself passes without our asking, it is no wonder that many of you may have come here without asking why you are coming. Perhaps a few have come knowingly; the possibility is very small. We all walk in such a stupor, we hear in such a stupor, we see in such a stupor, that neither do we see what is, nor do we hear what is said, nor do we feel the touch of that which surrounds us within and without.
You may have reached here in that same stupor. We do not even know our own steps; we do not even know our own breaths. But why I have come, that I certainly know; that I would like to tell you.
For many births the search goes on in man. Who knows after how many births there comes a glimpse of that which we may call bliss, peace, truth, Paramatma, moksha, nirvana—whatever word feels fitting, say that. No word is really adequate or capable of saying it. After births upon births it is found.
And those who seek it, they think, “Once found, there will be rest.” But all who have found it discover that with its coming, a new labor begins, not rest. Until yesterday the race was to gain it; then a race begins to share it. Otherwise Buddha would not stand at our doors, nor Mahavira knock at our latches, nor Jesus call out to us. After attaining, a new labor begins.
The truth is: whatever is significant in life carries a joy in attaining; but in sharing it, there is joy multiplied without end. One who has attained becomes eager to distribute it, just as a flower blossoms and spills its fragrance, as a cloud arrives and showers, as an ocean wave rises and breaks upon the shores. Just so—when something is found, the very life becomes restless to share, to scatter, to spread.
I know why I have come. And if somewhere there is a meeting of your purpose and mine—if you too have come for that for which I have come—then our presence here can become meaningful. Otherwise, it often happens: we pass close by, yet do not meet. If I have come for one thing and you for another, we may be near, we may be close, yet we will not meet.
An eye that sees truth
Something that I see, I wish you too could see. And the wonder is, it is so near that it is astonishing you do not see it! Sometimes one even suspects as if, knowingly, you sit with your eyes closed; as if you do not want to see. Otherwise, how could the so-near be missed by your seeing? Jesus said many times: people have eyes, but they do not see; ears, but they do not hear. Not only are there deaf and blind ones; even those who possess eyes and ears are blind and deaf. So near—and unseen! So close—and unheard! Encompassing us on all sides—and yet unfelt! What is the matter? Somewhere there must be a small obstruction—not a big one.
It is like this: a tiny straw gets into the eye, and the mountain disappears; the eye closes. Logic would say: that which covered the mountain must be very large. Mathematics would say: to hide such a vast mountain, the straw must be larger than the mountain. But the straw is very small, and the eye is small. The straw covers the eye, and the mountain is gone.
Upon our inner eye there are not huge mountains, but small straws. Through them the truths of life remain hidden. And that eye—surely, I am not speaking of the eyes with which we see. That brings great confusion. Understand this well: in this world, only that truth becomes meaningful for us for which the receptivity, the capacity to grasp and receive and assimilate, is born within us.
The ocean roars with such force, but if I have no ears, the ocean may cry out for eternity and I will hear nothing. If I lack eyes, the sun may stand at my doorway, yet it is of no use. If I have no hands and I wish to touch someone, how can I touch?
So much is said of the divine, so much talk of bliss; so many scriptures, so many praying, bhajans, kirtans in temples—yet it does not seem that we touch the divine; it does not seem that we see; it does not seem that we hear; it does not seem that in the pulse of our life we sense its heartbeat. It appears all is only talk—only talk. And perhaps we talk so much in order to defraud the need for experience, as if through talk we might obtain it. Now, the deaf may talk for births about sound and music, and the blind may talk about light—talk for births—and yet nothing will happen. Yes, a deception may occur: that in talking of light the blind forget that they are blind; the very talk may make them feel they know.
The temples and mosques built upon the earth in the name of God have only managed such deception. Around them, within them, little arises other than illusion. At most we come to believe in God; we do not know God. And belief is no more than talk; if the conversation is convincing, we believe; if someone argues strongly and proves, we believe; we are defeated and cannot prove the contrary, so we believe. But believing is not knowing. We may convince a blind man that light exists; still he does not know light.
I have come with the sense that knowing is possible. Surely there is another center within us that lies inactive—sometimes a Krishna knows it and dances; sometimes a Jesus knows it and, even hanging on the cross, can say, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Surely a Mahavira recognizes it, and in a Buddha that flower blossoms. There is some center within us—some eye, some ear—closed. I have come to see how that closed center may be activated.
This bulb is hanging here. Light is streaming from it. Cut the wire; nothing in the bulb changes, but the light ceases. If the current does not reach, the bulb becomes dark, and where there was light only darkness remains. The bulb is the same, but inactive; that stream of power no longer runs. And if the current does not run, what can the bulb do?
The center of divine vision
Within us there is a center by which That is known which we call Paramatma. But if the stream of our life does not run to it, that center remains inactive. Eyes may be perfect, but if life’s current does not reach them, the eyes are useless.
Friends once brought a young woman to me. She loved someone. The family came to know, and they raised a wall between their love. We have not yet created such a world where walls need not be built against love. They raised a wall; the doorway to meeting was sealed. She was from a wealthy home. They lifted a wall across the terrace so even seeing across became impossible. The very day that wall went up, the girl suddenly became blind. They took her to doctors. They said, the eyes are perfectly fine, but she cannot see. At first the parents suspected deception; they scolded and threatened. But scolding does not cure blindness. The doctors said, the eyes are fine, and she is not lying; she cannot see. Psychological blindness—they said the mind has gone blind. They said, we can do nothing. The stream of the girl’s life has ceased to flow to the eyes; the energy that goes to the eyes is blocked; the current is obstructed. The eyes are fine, but life’s stream does not reach them.
They brought her to me. I understood. I asked her, what happened in your heart? She said, this happened: if the one for whom my eyes exist cannot be seen, what is the use of eyes? Better to be blind. All night that single thought kept circling me. I even dreamt I had become blind, and knowing I had become blind my mind felt happy. For the eyes who would have rejoiced to see him—if I cannot see, what need of eyes? Better to be blind.
Her mind agreed to blindness; the stream of life ceased to flow to the eyes. The eyes are fine; they can see; but the power by which they could see no longer comes to the eyes.
Within our personality there is a hidden center from where Paramatma is recognized and known; from where a glimpse of truth comes; from where we connect to life’s original energy; from where the first music arises—a music no instrument can produce; from where those first fragrances become available that are ineffable; and from where the door opens to that which we call liberation—where there is no bondage, where there is supreme freedom; where there is no sorrow and where there is bliss, and bliss, and only bliss. But the stream of our life does not reach that center; the energy does not go there; somewhere below it gets stuck.
Understand this well. For three days what I am calling meditation is nothing but the effort to carry this energy, this power, to that center—where the flower may open, the lamp be lit, the eye be found—the third eye, the super-sense, the trans-sensory organ may open—from where some have seen, and from where all are entitled to see.
But because a seed exists does not guarantee a tree. Every seed has the authority to become a tree, but all seeds do not become trees. For though the potential is there, still manure must be gathered; the seed must be buried in earth, must die, must crack open, must scatter. The seed that consents to break, to scatter, to disappear—becomes a tree. And if we place the seed next to the tree and look, it is difficult to believe that this tiny seed can become so vast a tree. Impossible! It will appear impossible. How can so small a seed become such a great tree!
It has always appeared so. Standing before a Krishna, we think, how could we ever be this! So we say: you are God; we are ordinary. How could we be this! You are an avatar; we are mere folk; we will crawl upon the earth; we do not have such power. When a Buddha or a Mahavira has passed by, we have bowed at his feet—and declared him a Tirthankara, an avatar, the son of God; and ourselves ordinary.
If the seed could speak, standing near the tree, it too would say: you are God, Tirthankara, avatar; I am an ordinary seed—how can I ever be like you! How could it trust that such a vast tree is hidden within? But this large tree was once a seed; and the seed of today can become a vast tree.
The awakening of infinite potential
Within us all, infinite possibility lies hidden. But until, from within, we begin to feel those infinite possibilities, no scripture will serve as proof. And if anyone shouts, “I have attained,” still it is no proof. For that which we ourselves do not know, we can never truly believe. And it is right so; to believe in what we do not know is deception. Better that we say, we do not know whether God is. Yet there have been some who did know—and not only knew; their whole life was transformed; around them we saw unearthly flowers bloom. But by worshiping them it will not happen within us.
Religion has stopped at worship. How will new seeds become flowers by worshiping a flower? A river may worship the ocean as much as it will, it does not become the ocean. And an egg may worship the birds—yet it cannot spread its wings into the sky. The egg must break. And the first time a bird cracks the shell and emerges, it cannot believe; even seeing the flying birds, it cannot trust that it will fly. It sits on the branches, gathering courage. Its mother flies, its father flies; they even push it; still its hands and feet tremble. How can one who has never flown believe that these wings will carry him? That he will open to the sky and journey into the infinite?
I know that in these three days you too will sit on the edge of the tree; I will call to you—jump, leap, fly!—but you will not find trust. Wings that have never flown—how can they accept that flight is possible? Yet there is no other way; once, at least once, the leap must be taken without knowing.
Someone goes to learn swimming. If he says, “Until I learn to swim, I will not enter the water,” he is not wrong; he is reasonable. “For how can I go in without knowing?” But the teacher will say, “Unless you enter, you will not learn.” And then, standing on the shore, the dispute can go on endlessly. What is the solution? The teacher says, “Enter! Jump!” For without entering, you cannot learn.
In truth, learning begins only with entering. Everyone knows how to swim; swimming need not be learned. If you have learned, you will know—swimming is not learning, it is remembering. A re-cognition. We all know how to thrash our limbs; once we fall into water, the knack comes. Those who know say: the realization of Paramatma is remembrance. It is not a new acquisition we learn today. The day we know, we exclaim, “Ah! so this was swimming! These hands and feet—we could always move them. But their movement never met this river, this ocean. We did not dare, we stayed on the bank. One must step in, one must leap.” The moment you leap, the work begins.
The center of which I speak is hidden in our brain. Ask brain-scientists—they will tell you only a small portion of the brain functions; a large part is inactive. What lies hidden there is hard to say. Even in the greatest genius, very little of the brain works. In this same brain is that center we call the super-sense, the trans-sensory organ; the sixth sense, or the third eye. When that center opens, we will see life in utterly new meanings—matter will dissolve and Paramatma will be revealed; form will fall away and the formless appear; death will not be, and the doors of nectar will open. But that seeing-center is inactive. How to activate it?
I have said: if the electric current does not reach the bulb, the bulb remains inactive; bring the current and the bulb flares awake. The bulb is forever waiting for the current. But the current alone cannot be manifest; it may flow, yet remain unmanifest—there must be a bulb. And there must be current as well.
Within us there is the current of life, but it does not become manifest—because until it reaches that center from where manifestation is possible, it remains unmanifest.
We are alive in name only. Is breathing called life? Is digesting food life? Is sleeping at night and waking in the morning life? Is moving from childhood to youth to old age life? Is to be born and to die life? And to leave children behind—life?
No. A machine can do this. If not today then tomorrow; children will be born in test tubes. Childhood, youth and old age are mechanical processes. When any machine wears, it has youth and old age. All machines are in infancy, then youth, then old age. Even a clock comes with a guarantee—ten years it will run; it will be young, it will be old, it will die. All machines are born, live, die. What we call life is little more than mechanistic. Life is something else.
The inexpressible attainment
If this bulb never knows the current, it will take what it is now to be life. When the wind knocks it, it will think, “I am alive; I feel the knocks.” The bulb will call that life. And the day the current enters for the first time, if the bulb could speak what would it say? “Inexpressible! I cannot say what has happened! Until now there was darkness; suddenly—all is light. Rays flow out and spread everywhere.”
What will the seed say the day it becomes a tree? “I do not know what happened. It cannot be said. I was a small seed; what is this that has happened? To say it happened from me is also difficult.”
That is why those who meet Paramatma do not say, “I have attained.” They say, “We—who we were, and what has happened—no relation can be seen between the two. Where we were darkness, now there is light! Where we were thorns, flowers have happened! Where we were solid death, now we are liquid life!” No—no, we have not attained. They say, not we. By His grace it has happened—by His grace, His prasad—not by effort.
But this does not mean there is no effort. When it is attained it feels like grace. Yet to reach His grace, there is a long journey of effort. And what is that effort? In one sense small; in another sense great. Small because the centers are not far apart. The place where energy is stored—the reservoir—and the place where the eye of life will open—the distance is not great. At most two or three feet. For we are only five or six feet tall; our whole arrangement lies within these few feet.
The reservoir of life-energy
Where life-energy is gathered is like a pool near the generative organ. Hence that energy is called kundalini—as of a small pool. And also because it lies coiled like a sleeping serpent—hence kundalini. A serpent asleep coils upon coils, head resting atop. Touch a sleeping serpent and the hood rises; the coils unroll. In just this way, near our sex center is the pool of our life-energy—the seed from which all spreads.
It is useful to remember: the little pleasure we know in sex is not really the pleasure of sex; it is the pleasure of vibrations in that pool of life-energy adjacent to sex. The sleeping serpent stirs a little. And we take that as the pleasure of life entire. When the whole serpent awakens and its hood passes through the entire personality and reaches the brain—what is found then, we have no idea.
We live on the very first step of life. There is a great staircase that leads to Paramatma. The two or three feet within us are, in one sense, a vast distance—the distance from nature to Paramatma, from matter to spirit, from sleep to awakening, from death to nectar. A vast distance. Also small—for within us we can journey.
Awakening energy is self-revolution
If we wish to awaken this energy asleep within us, it is no less dangerous than teasing a serpent. In fact, teasing a serpent is much less dangerous. First, because ninety-seven out of a hundred serpents carry no venom. You can tease ninety-seven with ease. If someone dies of their bite, it is not from venom; it is from the idea that “a snake has bitten me—now I must die.” When the idea possesses you, the event happens. Even of the venomous ones—the danger is only that they can deprive you of the body.
But the kundalini I speak of—teasing it is dangerous; nothing is more dangerous. What is the danger? It is also a kind of death. When the inner energy awakens, you—who you were before—will die, and within you a totally new person will be born, one you have never been. This fear prevents people from becoming religious. The same fear by which the seed, if afraid, remains a seed. The greatest danger for the seed is to fall into earth, to receive manure and water; for then the seed will die. For the egg the greatest danger is that the bird grows within, breaks the shell, and flies; the egg must die.
We too are the pre-state of someone’s birth. We are like an egg from which a birth can happen. But we have taken the egg to be all. We guard the shell.
If this energy rises, you will go; there is no way for you to remain. And if you are afraid, then—Kabir has said it in two lines, very beautifully. Kabir says:
“Those who sought, found; they dived into the deep.
I, the foolish, went out to seek—and sat upon the shore.”
Someone nearby asked, “Why did you sit on the shore?” Kabir said:
“Those who sought, found; they dived into the deep.
I, the foolish, feared drowning—so I sat upon the shore.”
Diving is needed; dissolving is needed. In one word—though the word is not very good—dying is needed. He who fears drowning will be saved indeed, but only as an egg, not as the bird who can fly the sky. He who fears drowning will be saved indeed, but only as a seed, not as a tree beneath whose shade thousands may rest. And to be saved as a seed—is that any saving? What is more like dying than to remain a seed!
So there is great danger. The danger is that the personality you were until yesterday will be no more; if energy rises, you will be transformed—new centers will awaken, a new personality will arise, new experience—everything new. If you are ready to be new, then gather courage to let go of the old. But the old clutches us on all sides like chains; it holds us tight, and the energy cannot rise.
The journey to Paramatma is certainly a journey into insecurity. But all the flowers of life and beauty bloom only in insecurity.
Wager your whole being
So for this journey I will say a few special things—and a few ordinary things.
First: when we meet here tomorrow morning and move in the direction of awakening this energy, I will hope from you that you have left nothing within yourself un-risked—hold nothing back. This is no small gamble. Here, only one who stakes the whole can attain. If you save even an inch, you may miss. The seed cannot say, “Let a little part of me be saved, and let the rest become a tree.” The seed dies entirely or remains entirely. There is no such thing as partial death. So if you save even a little of yourself, the effort will be wasted. Drop the whole. Many times, by saving a little, everything is lost.
It is told: when the first gold mines were found in Colorado, all America rushed there. News came: buy a small field and you will find gold. People bought land. A millionaire staked his entire wealth and purchased a whole hill. He brought great machinery. Others were digging in small plots; he had a full hill—big machines, great excavation. But no sign of gold. Panic set in. All was staked. He said to his family, “We are ruined; we staked everything—no gold!” He advertised to sell the entire hill with all machinery.
The family said, “Who will buy? The news has spread that the hill is empty; lakhs have been lost—who will be that mad?”
But he said, “Someone may still come.”
A buyer appeared. Even as he sold, he felt like warning him, “Don’t be crazy; I am ruined.” But he could not gather the courage—if the man backed out, what then? He sold. After selling he said, “You are mad; I am selling in ruin!” The buyer said, “Life has no guarantee; where you have dug, there may be no gold—but ahead, there can be. Where you have not dug, you cannot say there will not be.” He said, “That I cannot say.”
And the wonder—such wonders happen—on the very first day, at just one foot deeper, the gold vein began. The first owner beat his chest and wept before—and wept even more after; for the entire hill was gold. He went to meet the new owner and said, “Look—fate!” The man replied, “Not fate; you did not wager to the end. You turned back before the digging was complete. One more foot!”
This happens daily in life. I know so many who dig for God but never complete the digging—they stop halfway; they scratch the surface and turn back. Many times they turn back an inch before, when only an inch remains. Many times I clearly see: this man is turning back—he had come close; the thing would have happened; he is going back.
So decide within: keep nothing back—put in your whole being. And when you go to buy God, what much do we have to give anyway? Even in that we become miserly. Misers will not do at the door of God. There one must put the whole.
No, it is not that we have much; the question is not the amount, but whether the whole is given or not. Only when we expend our entire strength do we reach the point where the energy resides and whence it begins to rise. Why is there an insistence on the whole? Because only when our entire personal strength is consumed does the reserve have to be tapped. As long as some personal strength remains, work goes on with that. The reserve is needed only when we have nothing left. When we have given the whole, then that center becomes active—the need to draw from there arises; otherwise not.
If I ask you to run, you run. “Run with full force,” I say—and you think you are running with full force, yet you are not. Tomorrow you face competition; then you find you can run more. Where did that extra power come from? Yesterday you said you were running with full force. Today you run stronger—still not your all. Tomorrow a man with a gun chases you. You run as you never have. You did not know you could run so much. Where did this power come from? It too was asleep within you.
But even that will not suffice. Even when chased by a gun, you do not run with your absolute. In meditation you will have to wager even more. As far as possible—give your whole. And in the very moment you reach the point where your whole is expended, you will find you have been connected to another force; some power begins to awaken from within.
Its awakening will be experienced. If you have ever touched electricity, you will know the feel. Just like that, from below—from the sex center—something fiery, yet cool, begins to move upward. As if thorns prick all around, yet like the softness of flowers. Something begins to rise. And when something rises, much will happen. At no point are you to stop it—let yourself go totally, whatever happens. As a man floats upon a river—let yourself be carried.
Courage and patience for a new birth
Second point—first, stake your whole; second, when, having staked all, something begins to happen within, then leave yourself completely—just floating. Wherever this current takes us, we are ready to go. Up to a point we must call; when the power awakens, we must leave ourselves. Larger hands have held us; no more worry; we must flow.
Third: with the rising of the power within, many events may occur—do not be frightened. New experience startles. When the child is born from the mother’s womb, he is terribly frightened. Psychologists say it is a traumatic experience—from which he never quite gets free. The fear of the new begins with birth itself. For nine months in the womb he was in a totally secure world—no anxiety, no worry; no breathing, no eating; no crying, no singing; no world to cope with—utter rest. Coming out of the womb, suddenly an altogether new world. The first shock of life—and the fear grips there.
Hence all are afraid of the new; the mind clings to the old, and fears the new. Our very first experience is that the new gave us great trouble; the womb was good. So we have made arrangements that imitate the womb—our mattresses, sofas, cars, rooms—we shape them like the womb. We try to make them that comfortable—but it cannot be done.
The first experience from the mother’s womb is the fear of the new. This will be an even greater newness, for birth from the womb is a change for the body only; here the new is at the level of the soul. It is a completely new birth. Such people we called Brahmin—one whose second birth has happened—twice-born, dvija.
When this power rises fully, there is another birth. In that birth, you are both—the mother and the child. Therefore there will be the pangs of labor, and the insecurity of the new. It can be frightening. As the mother has pain in labor, so too you will have, for here the mother and the child are both you. There is no other mother, no other child; your own birth is happening from within yourself. The pang may be intense.
Many have said to me, someone roars and cries—why do you not stop him?
He will cry and shout—let him. What is happening within him, only he knows. If a woman is in labor and another who has never given birth says, “Why this fuss? Why shout? If a child is being born, let it be. Why cry?”—she can say it indeed; but she does not know. Men can never fully understand the pain a woman bears in birth.
In meditation, both women and men are equal—all become mothers in a sense, for a new birth is within. So do not block the pain or the crying. If someone falls and rolls and shouts—do not stop him. Whatever is happening, let it happen fully; flow with it, do not resist.
Many kinds of inner experiences may come—someone may feel he has risen above the ground; someone may feel very large; someone may feel very small. New experiences may be of many kinds; I will not count them all. But much can happen. Whatever new happens—and each may have something different—do not worry; do not be afraid. If you must speak of it, come tell me at midday. Do not talk of it among yourselves. Why? Because what happens to you need not happen to another. And when it has not happened to the other, he will either laugh and call it madness, or, at best, with disbelief say, “It does not happen to me.” Each man takes himself as the measure—right means me, wrong means the other. He will laugh at you, or sow suspicion. His suggestions can interfere. A careless word can become an obstacle in a new experience.
Therefore, the fourth point: whatever happens to you, do not discuss among yourselves. I am here—come and tell me directly.
Before entering meditation
In the morning, when we come here to meditate, take only liquids—no solids. No breakfast; tea or milk—liquid only. Those who can come without tea or milk—better still. That much more ease, speed.
Seven-thirty means arrive five minutes early. From seven-thirty to eight-thirty we will talk personally—whatever you wish to ask about what I have said today. A discourse is impersonal—one speaks to the winds. So, in the morning sit near me; not far, sit close. Ask whatever you need to ask. From eight-thirty to nine-thirty, we will sit in meditation.
So—no solids in the morning. If you can come fasting, very good; but do not force it. If you must take something, take tea or milk.
Wear the loosest clothes possible. And come after bathing. Without bath—no one should come. Bathe and come. Wear loose clothing—nothing tight upon the body. Whatever binds, reduce it. The less tightness at the waist, the better. Keep this in mind. When you sit here, loosen further.
Our garments create much mischief within; they set up many obstructions. If energy starts to rise, many levels of obstruction begin to appear.
The significance of silence
Half an hour before coming here, fall silent. Those friends who can remain silent all three days—very good; be completely silent. And if someone is silent, do not disturb him; be cooperative. The more who remain silent, the better. If you cannot keep full silence, then speak the very minimum—telegraphic. As in a post office—ten words only; even eight. Trim the extra and leave it at eight. Consider each word costly—truly it is costly. Use the fewest words.
Use the senses minimally. Keep the eyes low. Look at the ocean, at the sky; look less at people. Our mind’s associations are with faces—not with trees, clouds, seas. When we look at nature, thoughts do not arise. Faces immediately provoke thought. Keep the gaze about four feet ahead as you walk and move; half-open eyes so that only the tip of the nose is faintly seen. Help others also to look less, hear less. Switch off radios and transistors; do not use them. Do not allow newspapers onto the campus.
Give the senses maximum rest; the more energy will gather; the more can be applied in meditation. Otherwise we get exhausted. We are almost exhausted people—spent cartridges. Nothing remains; in twenty-four hours we spend it all. In the night, a little collects from sleep; then in the morning the newspaper, the radio—and the spending begins again. We have no sense of conservation of energy—how much could be saved. Much energy will be needed in meditation. If you do not save it, you will be tired.
Conserving energy supports meditation
Some tell me: “After an hour of meditation, we feel tired.” The cause is not meditation; the cause is that you live at exhaustion-point. We do not realize that to lift the eyes to look also spends energy; to perk the ears to listen spends energy; to think within spends energy; to speak spends energy. In all we do, energy is being spent. At night a little is saved because other activities cease. Some is spent in dreams, but still a bit remains; hence the freshness of morning.
So, for three days, save energy—so it can be poured wholly. Noon—let me give you all the details now so that for three days I need not speak of logistics—the hour from three to four will be silent. In that hour I will speak to you through silence. So all should be present at three. After three, no one should enter—for late arrivals disturb. I will sit here. What will you do from three to four?
Two things. First, sit where I can be seen—do not look at me, but be seated so that I would be within your field if you opened your eyes. Then close your eyes. If you wish to open them, you may; but better to keep them closed.
The secret of silent communion
Sit silently for one hour in a waiting for the unknown. We do not know who is to come—but someone will come. We do not know what will be heard—but something will be heard. We do not know who will be seen—but someone will be seen. Just quiet awaiting—for an unfamiliar, unacquainted guest, never met, never seen, never heard. If you wish to lie down, lie; if you wish to sit, sit. In that hour become only receptivity—a passive receiving. Let whatever happens, happen; but remain alert, awaiting. In that hour I will try to say through silence what cannot be said in words. If it is not understood in words, perhaps it may be in wordlessness.
At night, again an hour for questions; then an hour of meditation. Thus, nine sittings in three days. From tomorrow morning, begin to put in your total energy, so that by the ninth sitting you truly have given your all.
How to spend the rest of the time
Silence—no talk—removes a great disturbance. The ocean is near—go lie by its shore. At night too, those who can, quietly take their bedding to the beach; sleep there—on the sand, beneath the trees. Be alone; do not form groups. Otherwise even here little circles will form—two or four together. Stay separate, stay alone; you are alone here for three days; for to meet Paramatma none can come with you—you must go utterly alone. Be alone—more and more alone.
Peace through acceptance
And the last instruction: make no complaint of any kind. For three days, drop complaining. If the food does not suit—let it be. If mosquitoes bite—let them. For three days, total acceptability, whatsoever it is. The mosquitoes will benefit a little; you may benefit immensely. If the food is not ideal, the body may lose a little; but the mind’s habit of complaining can damage you much. The mind that complains cannot be quiet. Complaints are small; what we lose is great. Do not complain; decide absolutely—no complaint for three days. What is, is; as it is, so it is. Accept it totally.
These three days will become wonderful. If for three days you remain outside complaint and accept whatsoever is, and rejoice in it—then after three days you may never complain again. You will have seen what peace, what joy, is without complaint.
Drop everything for three days. Then ask whatever you wish from tomorrow morning. When you ask, keep in mind to ask what is useful for all; and ask what truly rises from the heart.
An open begging-bowl
I have told you why I have come. I do not know why you have come. But tomorrow morning I will come to you with the hope that what I have come for—you too have come for that. Our habits are spoiled; even if Buddha stands at our door, our mind says, “Move on.” We think, everyone comes to beg; so when someone comes to give, we say to him as well, “Move on.” Then a great mistake happens. I hope such a mistake will not happen.
In three days, let us charge the very air here so that something may happen. It can happen. And it depends upon each person to create the atmosphere. In three days, this whole cypress grove can be charged—with unknown forces, unknown energies. These trees, these grains of sand, these winds, this ocean—everything can be filled with a new vital energy; we all can cooperate in generating it. Let no one be a hindrance. Let no one sit as a spectator. Drop all hesitation, fear, “What will someone say? What will someone think?” Only then can we reach That.
So that you need not say like Kabir. Rather, you may be able to say, “No, we did not fear—and we leapt.”
You have listened to me with such quiet and love—I am obliged. And I bow to the Paramatma seated within all of you. Accept my pranam.
Our night’s sitting is complete.