Jyon Ki Tyon #11
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
ओशो, मन की किन-किन स्थितियों के कारण यौन-ऊर्जा, सेक्स एनर्जी अधोगमित होती है, और मन की किन-किन स्थितियों के कारण यौन-ऊर्जा ऊर्ध्वगमित होती है? कृपया इस पर कुछ प्रकाश डालें।
Transliteration:
ośo, mana kī kina-kina sthitiyoṃ ke kāraṇa yauna-ūrjā, seksa enarjī adhogamita hotī hai, aura mana kī kina-kina sthitiyoṃ ke kāraṇa yauna-ūrjā ūrdhvagamita hotī hai? kṛpayā isa para kucha prakāśa ḍāleṃ|
ośo, mana kī kina-kina sthitiyoṃ ke kāraṇa yauna-ūrjā, seksa enarjī adhogamita hotī hai, aura mana kī kina-kina sthitiyoṃ ke kāraṇa yauna-ūrjā ūrdhvagamita hotī hai? kṛpayā isa para kucha prakāśa ḍāleṃ|
Translation (Meaning)
Osho, what states of mind cause sexual energy, sex energy, to descend, and what states of mind cause sexual energy to ascend? Please shed some light on this.
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, you have said that when one lives moment to moment in the present, sex energy, sexual energy, begins to accumulate and rise upward; and that by brooding over the past and future, energy is wasted and moves downward. In these two cases, what exactly happens? Please explain the science behind it.
Life is here and now; life is in each instant, in each moment. But the human mind thinks of what is behind and of what is ahead. And when this mind’s thinking is related to sex, it thinks about those sexual relationships, those sexual experiences that happened in the past—and it fantasizes about the sexual encounters that might happen in the future, that one longs for. When the mind gets lost in this kind of thinking about the back and forth, the physical semen is not destroyed, but the sexual energy, the sex-energy, the psychic energy I am speaking of, begins to be dissipated. The body’s semen will be lost only in actual intercourse, but the mind’s energy starts being wasted in mere thinking.
So even one who broods over sex at the level of feeling, of emotion, of thought—he renders his energy downward, devitalized. He has not lost even an iota of bodily substance; he is merely thinking about the sex he has had, or the sex he will have—just thinking. Even that much thinking is enough to destroy the mind’s energy. And the mind’s energy is the real energy. In sexual intercourse only a few particles of the body are lost, but through this mental intercourse, this “mental sex,” this sexual fantasizing, an immense energy of the mind is squandered. The body, if not today then tomorrow, will perish altogether; the body is not so worthy of concern. The energy of the mind, however, will be with you into your next birth as well. That energy is the real issue.
Therefore, when I said that one who lives moment to moment—who does not think backward or forward in relation to sex—neither looking back nor looking ahead but living each moment—then there remains no mechanism by which his mental energy can be dissipated.
There is another interesting point: the less a person worries about the past and the less he worries about the future—doing just what is at hand, living wholly in it—the fewer tensions he has. And the less the tension, the less the need for sex. The more the tension, the greater the need for sex—because sex begins to function as relief, as a way of scattering tension.
So the more anxious a person is, the more sexual he becomes. And the more anxious a society is, the more sexualized it becomes—like Europe or America today. When anxiety is excessive, life gets filled with sex. The more at ease a person is, the less the need for sex—because tensions have not piled up to the point where one must discharge bodily energy to feel lighter.
Excessive brooding over past and future creates strain and tension. Living in the present relieves tension. The man who is digging a hole in his garden is just digging a hole. The man who is eating is just eating. The man who goes to sleep is simply sleeping; when he is in the office, he is in the office; when he is at home, he is at home; when he meets someone, he meets them; when he parts, he parts. The man who does not carry so much of before-and-after with him bears so much less weight on his mind that his need for sex steadily diminishes.
So I said this for two reasons. First, through brooding, the mind’s sex-energy is wasted. Second, by being submerged in desires of past and future, tensions accumulate—and when tensions pile up too much, the body is compelled to reduce its energy. By lowering energy one feels a certain slackness, and that slackness is mistaken for rest. We have taken collapse to be relaxation. We get exhausted and fall down and think, “Ah, now it’s restful.” We break down and feel, “Now let’s sleep; now there’s no more worry.” Even worry requires energy. But worry has become a whirlpool of energy that brings pain, so now that energy has to be thrown out. We are continually throwing energy out. And we see only one established route for throwing it out. For upward movement we have no notion; the only fixed pathway we know is downward.
Therefore, one who does not worry, who does not sink into memories of the past or fantasies of the future—who lives here and now in the present… This does not mean that if you have to take a train tomorrow morning you should not buy the ticket today. Buying tomorrow’s ticket is a task of today. But boarding tomorrow’s train today is dangerous. And sitting today and getting lost in all the troubles that might happen on tomorrow’s train—this too is dangerous.
No, sex is not as bad as thinking about sex is. Sex can be a simple, natural happening; but brooding over it is highly unnatural—it is a perversion, a distortion. A man keeps thinking, thinking, thinking—making plans—thinking twenty-four hours a day. And often it happens—psychologists say that after observing hundreds and thousands of cases—it is found that a person can become so intoxicated with mental sex that actual sex then brings him no taste at all; it seems flat. The sex that runs in the mind begins to feel more flavorful, more colorful.
When sex is arranged in this way within the mind, confusion arises within us. Sex is not the work of the mind. Gurdjieff used to say: “When people try to make the intellectual center do the work of the sexual center, their intelligence becomes corrupted.” And it will—because the functions are different. If someone tries to eat with his ears, his ears will be damaged and the food will not reach the stomach; both sides will be in trouble.
Within the human being, everything has a center. The mind is not the center for sex. The center for sex is the muladhara. Let the muladhara do its job for now. But do not involve the mind, the consciousness, in that work; otherwise consciousness will become preoccupied—obsessed—with it.
People look obsessed. Sitting and staring at nude pictures. Now, the muladhara has nothing to do with nude pictures; it has no eyes. The man who is looking at nude pictures is seeing with the mind. He is spinning images in the mind, making plans, fantasizing, painting colorful scenes. All this together creates a confusion of centers within him. The mind begins to do the muladhara’s work, and the muladhara cannot do the work of the mind. Intelligence is corrupted; the mind becomes confused, deranged.
Of those confined in madhouses, ninety percent are mad because they have been trying to make the mind do the work of sex. And outside madhouses as well, of all who are mad, if we inquire into the roots of their madness, we will discover that even there ninety percent of the cause is sex. Read their poetry—sex. Look at their drawings—sex. Their paintings—sex. Their novels—sex. Their films—sex. Everything around them has become surrounded by sex. This is obsession; this is madness.
If animals were aware of us, they too would laugh at us: “What has happened to man?” If they were to read our poetry—even Kalidasa’s—animals would be astonished: “What is the need of such poetry? What does it mean?” If they were to look at our paintings—even Picasso’s—they would be amazed: “What is the point of these pictures? Why this excessive depiction of women’s breasts? For what purpose?”
Man has surely gone mad somewhere. He has gone mad because the work that belongs to the muladhara, the sex center, he is extracting from the intellect. And so what the intellect could have done, there is no time left for.
The intelligence can journey toward the Divine, but it is busy doing the muladhara’s job. Consciousness can experience the supreme life, but it is living only in fantasies—sexual fantasies—wandering among images of sex.
Therefore I have said: do not think of the past, do not think of the future—especially not in relation to sex. Live now. And if, in the moment, sex arises, let it arise; do not be frightened. But even at the time of sex, if you keep a small remembrance of the journey of ascension, very soon the energy begins to flow upward. And the beatitude that is felt in that upward flow is never felt anywhere else in life.
So even one who broods over sex at the level of feeling, of emotion, of thought—he renders his energy downward, devitalized. He has not lost even an iota of bodily substance; he is merely thinking about the sex he has had, or the sex he will have—just thinking. Even that much thinking is enough to destroy the mind’s energy. And the mind’s energy is the real energy. In sexual intercourse only a few particles of the body are lost, but through this mental intercourse, this “mental sex,” this sexual fantasizing, an immense energy of the mind is squandered. The body, if not today then tomorrow, will perish altogether; the body is not so worthy of concern. The energy of the mind, however, will be with you into your next birth as well. That energy is the real issue.
Therefore, when I said that one who lives moment to moment—who does not think backward or forward in relation to sex—neither looking back nor looking ahead but living each moment—then there remains no mechanism by which his mental energy can be dissipated.
There is another interesting point: the less a person worries about the past and the less he worries about the future—doing just what is at hand, living wholly in it—the fewer tensions he has. And the less the tension, the less the need for sex. The more the tension, the greater the need for sex—because sex begins to function as relief, as a way of scattering tension.
So the more anxious a person is, the more sexual he becomes. And the more anxious a society is, the more sexualized it becomes—like Europe or America today. When anxiety is excessive, life gets filled with sex. The more at ease a person is, the less the need for sex—because tensions have not piled up to the point where one must discharge bodily energy to feel lighter.
Excessive brooding over past and future creates strain and tension. Living in the present relieves tension. The man who is digging a hole in his garden is just digging a hole. The man who is eating is just eating. The man who goes to sleep is simply sleeping; when he is in the office, he is in the office; when he is at home, he is at home; when he meets someone, he meets them; when he parts, he parts. The man who does not carry so much of before-and-after with him bears so much less weight on his mind that his need for sex steadily diminishes.
So I said this for two reasons. First, through brooding, the mind’s sex-energy is wasted. Second, by being submerged in desires of past and future, tensions accumulate—and when tensions pile up too much, the body is compelled to reduce its energy. By lowering energy one feels a certain slackness, and that slackness is mistaken for rest. We have taken collapse to be relaxation. We get exhausted and fall down and think, “Ah, now it’s restful.” We break down and feel, “Now let’s sleep; now there’s no more worry.” Even worry requires energy. But worry has become a whirlpool of energy that brings pain, so now that energy has to be thrown out. We are continually throwing energy out. And we see only one established route for throwing it out. For upward movement we have no notion; the only fixed pathway we know is downward.
Therefore, one who does not worry, who does not sink into memories of the past or fantasies of the future—who lives here and now in the present… This does not mean that if you have to take a train tomorrow morning you should not buy the ticket today. Buying tomorrow’s ticket is a task of today. But boarding tomorrow’s train today is dangerous. And sitting today and getting lost in all the troubles that might happen on tomorrow’s train—this too is dangerous.
No, sex is not as bad as thinking about sex is. Sex can be a simple, natural happening; but brooding over it is highly unnatural—it is a perversion, a distortion. A man keeps thinking, thinking, thinking—making plans—thinking twenty-four hours a day. And often it happens—psychologists say that after observing hundreds and thousands of cases—it is found that a person can become so intoxicated with mental sex that actual sex then brings him no taste at all; it seems flat. The sex that runs in the mind begins to feel more flavorful, more colorful.
When sex is arranged in this way within the mind, confusion arises within us. Sex is not the work of the mind. Gurdjieff used to say: “When people try to make the intellectual center do the work of the sexual center, their intelligence becomes corrupted.” And it will—because the functions are different. If someone tries to eat with his ears, his ears will be damaged and the food will not reach the stomach; both sides will be in trouble.
Within the human being, everything has a center. The mind is not the center for sex. The center for sex is the muladhara. Let the muladhara do its job for now. But do not involve the mind, the consciousness, in that work; otherwise consciousness will become preoccupied—obsessed—with it.
People look obsessed. Sitting and staring at nude pictures. Now, the muladhara has nothing to do with nude pictures; it has no eyes. The man who is looking at nude pictures is seeing with the mind. He is spinning images in the mind, making plans, fantasizing, painting colorful scenes. All this together creates a confusion of centers within him. The mind begins to do the muladhara’s work, and the muladhara cannot do the work of the mind. Intelligence is corrupted; the mind becomes confused, deranged.
Of those confined in madhouses, ninety percent are mad because they have been trying to make the mind do the work of sex. And outside madhouses as well, of all who are mad, if we inquire into the roots of their madness, we will discover that even there ninety percent of the cause is sex. Read their poetry—sex. Look at their drawings—sex. Their paintings—sex. Their novels—sex. Their films—sex. Everything around them has become surrounded by sex. This is obsession; this is madness.
If animals were aware of us, they too would laugh at us: “What has happened to man?” If they were to read our poetry—even Kalidasa’s—animals would be astonished: “What is the need of such poetry? What does it mean?” If they were to look at our paintings—even Picasso’s—they would be amazed: “What is the point of these pictures? Why this excessive depiction of women’s breasts? For what purpose?”
Man has surely gone mad somewhere. He has gone mad because the work that belongs to the muladhara, the sex center, he is extracting from the intellect. And so what the intellect could have done, there is no time left for.
The intelligence can journey toward the Divine, but it is busy doing the muladhara’s job. Consciousness can experience the supreme life, but it is living only in fantasies—sexual fantasies—wandering among images of sex.
Therefore I have said: do not think of the past, do not think of the future—especially not in relation to sex. Live now. And if, in the moment, sex arises, let it arise; do not be frightened. But even at the time of sex, if you keep a small remembrance of the journey of ascension, very soon the energy begins to flow upward. And the beatitude that is felt in that upward flow is never felt anywhere else in life.
Osho, you have said that if any action is total, energy is not lost. Please explain what you mean by total action. And also, in the process of sexual intercourse, what does it mean to be total or complete? Does it mean there is no loss of energy?
When an act is complete, when a deed is fulfilled, energy does not diminish. Any act that is complete does not deplete energy. When I say this, I mean: an act remains incomplete when we are fragmented within—divided, conflicted. When I am broken inside, the act is incomplete.
Suppose you meet me and I embrace you. If, while embracing, one part of my mind is saying, “What are you doing? This isn’t right; don’t do it,” and another part is saying, “No, I will—I want to,” then within me I am split and struggling. With half of me I’ll embrace you; with the other half I’ll be trying to pull away. I am doing two opposite things at once. In these opposing movements, my inner, mental energy will be depleted. But if I embrace someone wholeheartedly and nowhere in my heart is there a contrary voice, there is no reason for energy to be lost. Rather, such a complete embrace will fill me with more energy, with more joy.
Power is drained in conflict—in inner conflict. Inner strife is the basis of energy loss. However good the work may be, if there is inner opposition, energy will be wasted, because you are fighting with yourself. It’s as if I build a house: with one hand I lay a brick, and with the other I remove it. Energy will be squandered, and the house will never be built.
We are all divided into self-opposing fragments. Whatever we are doing, something within us stands against it. If we love someone, we also hate them. If we make a friendship, we also cultivate enmity. If we touch someone’s feet in respect, from another corner we are already arranging for their disrespect. We are doing double work all the time. That’s why, gradually, every person becomes bankrupt; his inner strength goes bankrupt. He dies fighting with himself.
Look within yourself and you will see what I mean. Whenever you do anything, if you are totally in it, you will always come out of it fresher and stronger. If you are partial in it, you will come out tired, shattered, broken—whatever the work may be.
So, those who can do anything totally—a painter, for example: if he pours himself completely into painting, he never gets tired. He returns more blissful, more refreshed, more alive. But employ the same painter on a job, paying him to “just make a painting,” and he returns exhausted—because his whole mind does not stand with the painting. The moment any part of our mind turns against what we are doing, our energy dwindles.
When I say “total act,” I don’t mean in relation to one particular thing, but to all things—whatever you are doing. If it is something as ordinary as eating or bathing, do that totally. While bathing, let bathing be the only act; let the mind neither think nor do anything else. Let yourself be wholly in the bath. Then not only will the body bathe; the soul will bathe too. You will step out of the bath having gained something.
But no, you are “bathing,” and it may be that your feet have already reached the road and your mind is already at the office—you are running. There is no taste, no joy in the bath. That bath is a broken act. You splashed a little water and ran. In this hurry you are losing energy. And this is what is happening every moment, twenty-four hours a day. You lie down in bed, but you don’t truly sleep—because sleep will refresh you only if the act of sleeping is complete. You lie down, you dream. You lie down, you think. You lie down, you toss and turn. A thousand thoughts, a thousand doings: what you did today is still there; what you will do tomorrow is there too. Then in the morning you rise from bed even more worn and shattered. Even sleep can’t give you rest, because even in sleep you can’t be total; you can’t simply fall asleep.
Hence sleep is fraying, ebbing away. One of the great questions in the world today is: what will happen to sleep? Sleep is disappearing. It will disappear—because sleep says: only if you sleep totally can you truly sleep. But if you are fragmented all day in all your acts, how can you be gathered together at night? The night is the sum of our day. As we are through the day, so we will be in the night’s sleep. And note: as we are through the night, the next day will unfold upon that basis. Then life becomes utterly fragmented. We cannot live rightly; even while living we suffer innumerable disorders.
A friend was just brought to me. Those who brought him said he had attempted suicide five times. I said, “Remarkable fellow—seems he even attempts incompletely. Five times!” And a man who has tried to kill himself five times—can he be living totally? If you are living totally, where would the need to die arise? He neither lives totally nor dies totally. Five attempts!
So I said to him, “Now at least feel ashamed—don’t try again. Five times is enough!” But what does it mean that a man attempts suicide five times and still lives? It means that some part of him was busy trying to save him. He both tried to die and arranged to be saved. Who can stop anyone from dying if he truly means it? There isn’t honesty even in dying—so will there be honesty in living? If there is no honesty even in death, then living will be wholly dishonest.
When I told him, “You should be ashamed—if you were to die, you should have died the first time. Die in one go! And now they say you are preparing a sixth attempt. Don’t do it—there’s no point inviting more bad publicity.” He was startled, because he must have thought I would tell him, “Don’t commit suicide.” He said, “What kind of man are you? Everyone else has told me it’s a very bad thing.” I said, “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m saying: doing anything incompletely is bad. If you must do it, do it totally.” The man looked at me for a while, then said, “No, I don’t actually want to die. I too want to live—but on my terms. If my conditions are not met, I will die.”
This man does not want to die—because he wants to die on his conditions; nor does he want to live—because he wants to live on his conditions. If he lives, he will live dead; and if he dies someday, he will die writhing with the desire to live. He will neither be able to live nor to die. Life has entered his death; death will enter his life. He has gone neurotic.
We are all like this. There isn’t much difference among us. This is what we are doing. The one we say we love, we don’t really love. In the evening we ask forgiveness; in the morning we think of divorce. Then at noon we repent, in the evening we ask forgiveness again, and in the morning we think of divorce again.
I once stayed at a home where the husband and wife had their divorce application fully prepared—only signatures were pending. I saw it with my own eyes. The husband showed me: “Many times the situation arises when all that remains is to sign.” They kept it ready. I said, “There’s no harm in signing it—but keeping it ready is dangerous. If the application for divorcing your wife is ready, what meaning remains in calling her ‘wife’? None. Yet the marriage goes on.” He said it had been kept ready for seven years—not a new thing.
This struggle of half-living, I call it the leakage of energy. It is the squandering of power. In this way we never achieve anything substantial in life.
Let me explain with a small story.
I have heard of a samurai lord in Japan—an emperor, a radiant master of the sword. There was no one in Japan who could wield a sword as he could. His skill became renowned far beyond Japan. One day he came to know that his guard had fallen in love with his wife. He caught them. But he was a samurai! He said, “My mind says to cut off your head. But no—you too have loved my wife; therefore it is only right that you take one sword and I take one. We will both enter the duel. Whoever survives will be the master.”
The guard said, “Master, it would be better if you simply cut off my head. Why play this game? My head will be cut anyway. I don’t even know how to hold a sword, and there may be no other man on earth who can wield it like you. Why make a mockery of it by giving me a chance to fight? My head will be cut either way; I don’t know swordsmanship.”
But the samurai said, “It would be against my honor if it were ever said that I cut off your head without giving you a chance. Take the sword and step into the field.”
There was no way out. The poor fellow, trembling, took the sword and went to the grounds. The village gathered; the news spread. Everyone knew the poor man would die—because even saving a single hand from that lord was difficult. He was so expert, so consummate a swordsman.
But the opposite happened. When the guard began to swing the sword, the lord was flabbergasted—because the guard wielded it completely awkwardly; he didn’t know it at all. It became difficult to defend, and he wielded it with such completeness—because his life and death were at stake. For the lord it was a game; he knew he could cut him down at any moment. But for the guard it was a question of life and death. The sword and the man became one. The lord knelt and said, “Forgive me! But what is it that you are doing?”
It was barely possible to stop the guard. A tree stood nearby—he cut it down with a single stroke. He had become so one that even after the lord yielded, the energy that had arisen in him did not subside until he had cut down that tree. With difficulty they restrained him. When asked, “What happened to you? From where did this power arise?” he said, “When I thought, ‘I am going to die,’ I felt I should at least swing once and die. Death was certain; there was no way to live. For the first time in my life I became integrated. For the first time I gathered myself totally. I said, ‘Now there is no other question. Death is standing before me. There is one chance—whatever I can do, let me do it.’ Then I had no thought of the future or the past; no thought of the wife, the lord, or my beloved. Gradually I didn’t even know where my hand ended and the sword began. And when you shouted, ‘Stop! Stop!’ I didn’t understand who was to stop. Whom were you stopping?”
The man had become total. The lord said, “Today, for the first time, I have understood that the greatest skill is total action. I have attained great skill, but I am not total—because for me it is an art. I wield the sword, but I am separate from it, and all the while I am watching that I don’t get hurt, thinking how to save myself.”
The guard said, “For me there was no question of saving or not saving. There was only one concern: that it should be evident even to you that the sword had been wielded—so that you did not kill me without honor. For the few moments I had, I decided to swing totally.”
This is what I mean by total action. Krishna has called yoga “skill.” This utterly unskilled swordsman suddenly became skillful. Why? Because he attained yoga. The word yoga means union, totality, joining. When someone gathers himself within, yoga happens—integrated, united, consolidated. When there are no inner fragments; when, if he loves, he loves; if he is angry, he is angry; if he is an enemy, he is an enemy; if a friend, a friend. When a person is total in any act, his energy does not leak.
And here is the delightful paradox: if one becomes total in action, anger gradually becomes impossible—because total anger burns you up, it scorches you. Hatred becomes difficult—because complete hatred becomes poison; blisters rise in every pore. Enmity becomes difficult—because enmity then appears as self-destruction, as driving a dagger into one’s own chest.
We can be angry only so long as we act incompletely. We can be enemies only so long as our acts are not total. The day our acts are complete, that day only the flower of love can bloom in our life. The day our act is complete, prayer becomes the very longing of our being. The day each act of our life becomes whole, that day God alone remains the one truth for us. When oneness arises within, oneness is seen without. As long as there are two within, there are two without. Not even two—there are many within us.
I have heard that Jesus was passing through a village. It was night, and on the cremation ground a man was beating his chest, howling, scratching himself with stones till he bled. Jesus went to him and asked, “What are you doing?” The man said, “What the whole world is doing—I am doing the same.” Then he returned to scratching himself, blood flowing, beating his head till wounds opened. Jesus said, “Madman, what is your name?” The man said, “My name is Legion. I have a thousand names. I have no one name—because I am a thousand men; I am not one man.” Jesus would often retell this story: a man once said to me, “My name is Legion.” My names are a thousand! I have no single name—because I am a thousand men; I am not one.
Our names too are legion. Within us too there are a thousand men. One wants to save, one wants to kill; one wants to love, one wants to murder; one wants to live, one is carving his tombstone; one, within us, is entering the temple of God, and another within says, “All is false; there is no God.” One rings the temple bell, and another laughs within, “What madness! What will ringing a bell do?” One turns a rosary and, at the same time, within we are running a shop. “My name is Legion!” That man spoke truly: “My names are a thousand. Which name shall I tell you? I am not one man; I am a thousand.”
These thousand inner men are the drain on our power. If they become one, our energy is preserved. Total action is the method of making one—of becoming whole. Whatever you do, stand in it totally; whatever you do, do it completely. As soon as you do, something within you will begin to gather, to join, to consolidate.
Gurdjieff used to say that a complete act is crystallization. Whenever a person completes an act, something in him crystallizes. Something gathers. This gathering is the birth of individuality, the birth of the soul. In this sense I have spoken. Use it, understand it, see it—and it will dawn on you.
Let me take one last question.
Suppose you meet me and I embrace you. If, while embracing, one part of my mind is saying, “What are you doing? This isn’t right; don’t do it,” and another part is saying, “No, I will—I want to,” then within me I am split and struggling. With half of me I’ll embrace you; with the other half I’ll be trying to pull away. I am doing two opposite things at once. In these opposing movements, my inner, mental energy will be depleted. But if I embrace someone wholeheartedly and nowhere in my heart is there a contrary voice, there is no reason for energy to be lost. Rather, such a complete embrace will fill me with more energy, with more joy.
Power is drained in conflict—in inner conflict. Inner strife is the basis of energy loss. However good the work may be, if there is inner opposition, energy will be wasted, because you are fighting with yourself. It’s as if I build a house: with one hand I lay a brick, and with the other I remove it. Energy will be squandered, and the house will never be built.
We are all divided into self-opposing fragments. Whatever we are doing, something within us stands against it. If we love someone, we also hate them. If we make a friendship, we also cultivate enmity. If we touch someone’s feet in respect, from another corner we are already arranging for their disrespect. We are doing double work all the time. That’s why, gradually, every person becomes bankrupt; his inner strength goes bankrupt. He dies fighting with himself.
Look within yourself and you will see what I mean. Whenever you do anything, if you are totally in it, you will always come out of it fresher and stronger. If you are partial in it, you will come out tired, shattered, broken—whatever the work may be.
So, those who can do anything totally—a painter, for example: if he pours himself completely into painting, he never gets tired. He returns more blissful, more refreshed, more alive. But employ the same painter on a job, paying him to “just make a painting,” and he returns exhausted—because his whole mind does not stand with the painting. The moment any part of our mind turns against what we are doing, our energy dwindles.
When I say “total act,” I don’t mean in relation to one particular thing, but to all things—whatever you are doing. If it is something as ordinary as eating or bathing, do that totally. While bathing, let bathing be the only act; let the mind neither think nor do anything else. Let yourself be wholly in the bath. Then not only will the body bathe; the soul will bathe too. You will step out of the bath having gained something.
But no, you are “bathing,” and it may be that your feet have already reached the road and your mind is already at the office—you are running. There is no taste, no joy in the bath. That bath is a broken act. You splashed a little water and ran. In this hurry you are losing energy. And this is what is happening every moment, twenty-four hours a day. You lie down in bed, but you don’t truly sleep—because sleep will refresh you only if the act of sleeping is complete. You lie down, you dream. You lie down, you think. You lie down, you toss and turn. A thousand thoughts, a thousand doings: what you did today is still there; what you will do tomorrow is there too. Then in the morning you rise from bed even more worn and shattered. Even sleep can’t give you rest, because even in sleep you can’t be total; you can’t simply fall asleep.
Hence sleep is fraying, ebbing away. One of the great questions in the world today is: what will happen to sleep? Sleep is disappearing. It will disappear—because sleep says: only if you sleep totally can you truly sleep. But if you are fragmented all day in all your acts, how can you be gathered together at night? The night is the sum of our day. As we are through the day, so we will be in the night’s sleep. And note: as we are through the night, the next day will unfold upon that basis. Then life becomes utterly fragmented. We cannot live rightly; even while living we suffer innumerable disorders.
A friend was just brought to me. Those who brought him said he had attempted suicide five times. I said, “Remarkable fellow—seems he even attempts incompletely. Five times!” And a man who has tried to kill himself five times—can he be living totally? If you are living totally, where would the need to die arise? He neither lives totally nor dies totally. Five attempts!
So I said to him, “Now at least feel ashamed—don’t try again. Five times is enough!” But what does it mean that a man attempts suicide five times and still lives? It means that some part of him was busy trying to save him. He both tried to die and arranged to be saved. Who can stop anyone from dying if he truly means it? There isn’t honesty even in dying—so will there be honesty in living? If there is no honesty even in death, then living will be wholly dishonest.
When I told him, “You should be ashamed—if you were to die, you should have died the first time. Die in one go! And now they say you are preparing a sixth attempt. Don’t do it—there’s no point inviting more bad publicity.” He was startled, because he must have thought I would tell him, “Don’t commit suicide.” He said, “What kind of man are you? Everyone else has told me it’s a very bad thing.” I said, “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m saying: doing anything incompletely is bad. If you must do it, do it totally.” The man looked at me for a while, then said, “No, I don’t actually want to die. I too want to live—but on my terms. If my conditions are not met, I will die.”
This man does not want to die—because he wants to die on his conditions; nor does he want to live—because he wants to live on his conditions. If he lives, he will live dead; and if he dies someday, he will die writhing with the desire to live. He will neither be able to live nor to die. Life has entered his death; death will enter his life. He has gone neurotic.
We are all like this. There isn’t much difference among us. This is what we are doing. The one we say we love, we don’t really love. In the evening we ask forgiveness; in the morning we think of divorce. Then at noon we repent, in the evening we ask forgiveness again, and in the morning we think of divorce again.
I once stayed at a home where the husband and wife had their divorce application fully prepared—only signatures were pending. I saw it with my own eyes. The husband showed me: “Many times the situation arises when all that remains is to sign.” They kept it ready. I said, “There’s no harm in signing it—but keeping it ready is dangerous. If the application for divorcing your wife is ready, what meaning remains in calling her ‘wife’? None. Yet the marriage goes on.” He said it had been kept ready for seven years—not a new thing.
This struggle of half-living, I call it the leakage of energy. It is the squandering of power. In this way we never achieve anything substantial in life.
Let me explain with a small story.
I have heard of a samurai lord in Japan—an emperor, a radiant master of the sword. There was no one in Japan who could wield a sword as he could. His skill became renowned far beyond Japan. One day he came to know that his guard had fallen in love with his wife. He caught them. But he was a samurai! He said, “My mind says to cut off your head. But no—you too have loved my wife; therefore it is only right that you take one sword and I take one. We will both enter the duel. Whoever survives will be the master.”
The guard said, “Master, it would be better if you simply cut off my head. Why play this game? My head will be cut anyway. I don’t even know how to hold a sword, and there may be no other man on earth who can wield it like you. Why make a mockery of it by giving me a chance to fight? My head will be cut either way; I don’t know swordsmanship.”
But the samurai said, “It would be against my honor if it were ever said that I cut off your head without giving you a chance. Take the sword and step into the field.”
There was no way out. The poor fellow, trembling, took the sword and went to the grounds. The village gathered; the news spread. Everyone knew the poor man would die—because even saving a single hand from that lord was difficult. He was so expert, so consummate a swordsman.
But the opposite happened. When the guard began to swing the sword, the lord was flabbergasted—because the guard wielded it completely awkwardly; he didn’t know it at all. It became difficult to defend, and he wielded it with such completeness—because his life and death were at stake. For the lord it was a game; he knew he could cut him down at any moment. But for the guard it was a question of life and death. The sword and the man became one. The lord knelt and said, “Forgive me! But what is it that you are doing?”
It was barely possible to stop the guard. A tree stood nearby—he cut it down with a single stroke. He had become so one that even after the lord yielded, the energy that had arisen in him did not subside until he had cut down that tree. With difficulty they restrained him. When asked, “What happened to you? From where did this power arise?” he said, “When I thought, ‘I am going to die,’ I felt I should at least swing once and die. Death was certain; there was no way to live. For the first time in my life I became integrated. For the first time I gathered myself totally. I said, ‘Now there is no other question. Death is standing before me. There is one chance—whatever I can do, let me do it.’ Then I had no thought of the future or the past; no thought of the wife, the lord, or my beloved. Gradually I didn’t even know where my hand ended and the sword began. And when you shouted, ‘Stop! Stop!’ I didn’t understand who was to stop. Whom were you stopping?”
The man had become total. The lord said, “Today, for the first time, I have understood that the greatest skill is total action. I have attained great skill, but I am not total—because for me it is an art. I wield the sword, but I am separate from it, and all the while I am watching that I don’t get hurt, thinking how to save myself.”
The guard said, “For me there was no question of saving or not saving. There was only one concern: that it should be evident even to you that the sword had been wielded—so that you did not kill me without honor. For the few moments I had, I decided to swing totally.”
This is what I mean by total action. Krishna has called yoga “skill.” This utterly unskilled swordsman suddenly became skillful. Why? Because he attained yoga. The word yoga means union, totality, joining. When someone gathers himself within, yoga happens—integrated, united, consolidated. When there are no inner fragments; when, if he loves, he loves; if he is angry, he is angry; if he is an enemy, he is an enemy; if a friend, a friend. When a person is total in any act, his energy does not leak.
And here is the delightful paradox: if one becomes total in action, anger gradually becomes impossible—because total anger burns you up, it scorches you. Hatred becomes difficult—because complete hatred becomes poison; blisters rise in every pore. Enmity becomes difficult—because enmity then appears as self-destruction, as driving a dagger into one’s own chest.
We can be angry only so long as we act incompletely. We can be enemies only so long as our acts are not total. The day our acts are complete, that day only the flower of love can bloom in our life. The day our act is complete, prayer becomes the very longing of our being. The day each act of our life becomes whole, that day God alone remains the one truth for us. When oneness arises within, oneness is seen without. As long as there are two within, there are two without. Not even two—there are many within us.
I have heard that Jesus was passing through a village. It was night, and on the cremation ground a man was beating his chest, howling, scratching himself with stones till he bled. Jesus went to him and asked, “What are you doing?” The man said, “What the whole world is doing—I am doing the same.” Then he returned to scratching himself, blood flowing, beating his head till wounds opened. Jesus said, “Madman, what is your name?” The man said, “My name is Legion. I have a thousand names. I have no one name—because I am a thousand men; I am not one man.” Jesus would often retell this story: a man once said to me, “My name is Legion.” My names are a thousand! I have no single name—because I am a thousand men; I am not one.
Our names too are legion. Within us too there are a thousand men. One wants to save, one wants to kill; one wants to love, one wants to murder; one wants to live, one is carving his tombstone; one, within us, is entering the temple of God, and another within says, “All is false; there is no God.” One rings the temple bell, and another laughs within, “What madness! What will ringing a bell do?” One turns a rosary and, at the same time, within we are running a shop. “My name is Legion!” That man spoke truly: “My names are a thousand. Which name shall I tell you? I am not one man; I am a thousand.”
These thousand inner men are the drain on our power. If they become one, our energy is preserved. Total action is the method of making one—of becoming whole. Whatever you do, stand in it totally; whatever you do, do it completely. As soon as you do, something within you will begin to gather, to join, to consolidate.
Gurdjieff used to say that a complete act is crystallization. Whenever a person completes an act, something in him crystallizes. Something gathers. This gathering is the birth of individuality, the birth of the soul. In this sense I have spoken. Use it, understand it, see it—and it will dawn on you.
Let me take one last question.
Osho, please shed some light on dietary chemistry—the alchemy of food—in relation to the conservation and upward transformation of sexual energy.
The word aahar is vast—far vaster than “diet.” First understand aahar; then we can talk a little.
Aahar means: whatever we take in from outside to inside is food. When the eyes look at a beautiful flower, you are taking in food—the eyes are feeding on beauty. When the ears hear music, that too is food—the ears are feeding on sound. When you touch someone’s body, the hands are taking in food. When a fragrance touches the nostrils, the nose is feeding. The whole body is feeding; every hair breathes and receives touch. The entire body is our food-instrument. All our senses carry the outer world within. But we think only of edible food as aahar—and that is a mistake.
For the upward movement of sexual energy, one must understand aahar in its totality. It may be that the food you eat supports the energy’s ascent, but your eyes may be seeing scenes that pull the energy downward; your ears may be hearing sounds that draw it downward; your body may be engaged in touches that take it downward. So you must look at the whole perspective of aahar.
We eat with the eyes, with the ears, with the nose, with the mouth, with every pore through touch. We are eating twenty-four hours a day. Much from the outer world keeps entering us—and there will be consequences.
Naturally, whatever we accumulate in the body does something. If a man drinks alcohol, his whole personality is altered; a stupor falls over his being. He will do the things possible only in stupor. The one who has not drunk cannot do those things—they require stupor. Whatever we take in as food will bear fruit—continuously.
Pandit Omkarnath, the Indian musician, once visited Mussolini, who had invited him to dine while Omkarnath was in Italy. Mussolini said at the table: “I have heard that when Krishna played the flute, people went mad and gathered around him. Fine—let people be drawn; I can grant that. But that deer would come running? That peacocks would dance? How can that be?” Omkarnath replied, “I am not Krishna, so I cannot play as he did, but I do know a little ‘abc’—let me show you by experiment.” Mussolini agreed.
There were no instruments at hand—it was a dining table—so Omkarnath picked up spoons and forks and began to play on the porcelain and china.
Mussolini writes in his autobiography: “In a short while I lost consciousness. My head kept dropping to the table. He struck the spoons and forks so forcefully that my head fell and rose in time with their rhythm. My head began to bleed; I shouted, ‘Stop this instrument, otherwise how will I stop my head!’ When he stopped, drops of blood had appeared; the skin of my head was grazed.”
He writes: “Forgive me—I had no idea music could produce such inner effects that I could not control myself. The body became helpless; my head was beyond my hands. I felt I would die: the more I tried to resist, the more violently my head struck the table.” Omkarnath said, “I am nobody to comment on Krishna. But if this much is possible, imagine what else is possible.”
Islam prohibited music—not because music necessarily drives sexual energy downward, but because ninety-nine percent of the forms of music in practice do so. Perhaps one percent remains that can carry energy upward—and even that is fading. There are the dances of Sufi fakirs that can make even the onlookers meditative.
Gurdjieff formed a troupe to present the dervish dances of the Sufis across Europe and America. He would say: “Just watch; do nothing.” Twenty dancers begin. It is the dance of fakirs. Soon the audience becomes meditative. They only watch the movements; those movements descend into their life-energy, and corresponding movements arise within. What is happening outside begins to sway in the same shape within. The rhythm, the cadence, the beat of the dervishes gradually becomes the rhythm and beat of the onlooker’s heart. An inner dance begins; energy is transformed.
What we see with the eyes, what we hear with the ears, what we taste with the tongue, what we smell with the nose—all these are interconnected. We once hung bells in temples. Not every bell is meaningful; only special bells can work.
The Tibetans have a special bell. Some of you may have seen it. It is not for hanging; it is large, like a vessel. You strike it by circling a mallet on the inside—like moving a stick around the inside of a bucket. There is a particular pattern of striking between the mallet and the bell. From that striking the bell resounds powerfully: “Om mani padme hum.” The entire Tibetan mantra emerges from it! And the mantra reverberates again and again in the temple. The mantra has its methods: when it enters within, it begins striking certain chakras, and the power of those centers starts rising upward.
The inner resonance of Om was used to lift energy upward. Not only Om—Muslims say “Ameen”; it is a form of Om. Christians also say “Amen”—again, a form of Om. In English we have words like omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent—they all arise from Om. Omniscient: one who has known Om; Om meaning the vast Brahman. Omnipresent: one who has become present with Om. Omnipotent: one who has become powerful like Om—filled with the seed-force equal to God.
In the sound “Om,” the primal syllables are A-U-M. If these are resonated in a particular order, they begin to move energy upward. There are reverse sounds too, which, if struck, drive energy downward.
Today in America there is jazz, twist, shake—countless dances. Their wave-patterns and rhythms draw sexual energy downward. Watch a twist for a while and you will find twisting begins within you; some force inside becomes wobbly. Almost all modern dances and musical arrangements exploit man’s sexuality.
So aahar is a big word. Whatever food we take in will have effects; we cannot escape the consequences. Our whole instrument is psycho-chemical: mind above, chemistry below—and chemistry is working all the time. What we eat and drink will have results. There are foods that make one more sexual.
In a beehive there is a special kind of jelly. You may know a little about bees: there is only one queen who reproduces; all the other female bees are merely workers—their lives have no sex in them. Fabre, who studied bees deeply, was bewildered: in the lives of hundreds of thousands of bees, why is there no sex? They are female, equipped with the full sexual apparatus—yet no sex! What is the secret? He discovered that the bees collect a special jelly that only the queen eats. The others receive it only for three days after birth; then no more. The secret lies in that jelly.
So many mad experiments were done to rejuvenate humans by making pills from that jelly—perhaps the old could become young. Many creams were made; millions of women smeared them on their faces, hoping beauty would bloom. The jelly carries special vitamins that generate extreme sexuality.
The queen’s sexuality is immeasurable—she lays two thousand eggs a day, keeps laying and laying. One female produces millions, tens of millions of eggs—a colossal sexual activity is stirred within her.
And now we know clearly through the discovery of hormones: give female hormones by injection to a man and, in a short time, his body will lose its male character and become feminine. Give male hormones to a woman and, in a short time, her body becomes masculine. After forty-five or fifty, some women begin to grow a mustache. The simple reason is that female hormones lessen, and the male hormones present in the body become dominant; hence the mustache. Women’s voices, after fifty, begin to resemble men’s. The reason is a disturbed ratio of male to female hormones. As female hormones diminish and the male increase proportionally, the voice changes. It is all a chemical matter.
Much depends on the food we take. If our food contains intoxicants, if it contains elements that induce stupor, they will channel bodily energy and sexual energy downward. If the food contains stimulants and activators, they will also push bodily and sexual energy downward. But if the food contains tranquilizing, soothing elements—those that calm the mind rather than excite it—they will assist the energy to rise upward.
This is a vast subject, but the principle can be kept in mind. Avoid foods that excite, that produce stupor, intoxication, heaviness of body and dullness of mind. Food should not weigh the body down. It should not excite the body. It should not intoxicate, stupefy, or induce torpor and sleep. Such food supports the seeker; it opens the path upward.
If the opposite kind of food is taken, the seeker’s journey becomes difficult. Not impossible—only needlessly difficult. Even with wrong food a seeker can rise, but unnecessary hardships arise.
And since I am using aahar in the full sense, remember this too: a seeker who wants to raise his sexual energy upward will not read everything, will not see everything, will not listen to everything. He will listen with discernment: music that excites is futile; music that calms is meaningful. He will not watch scenes that fill one with excitation.
Notice, even in films the most watched are those that are thrilling and exciting—“your hair will stand on end!” The advertiser writes, “Never before such a thriller; your flesh will creep.” But if your hair is standing on end, you are taking in the wrong food. Detective plots, murder, blood—they fill you with excitation.
Someday, while watching a movie, don’t look at the screen—stand in a corner and look at the audience. Then you’ll see what excites. When the exciting scene comes, people leave the backs of their chairs, straighten their spines, even their breath halts—as if lest they miss a breath. They become utterly still. When the exciting scene passes, they slump back and watch at ease. The more times a film makes a man leave the back of his chair, the more it facilitates the downward flow of sexual energy.
On the street too, we look at everything without any care—yet it is neither necessary nor appropriate to look at everything. It is neither necessary nor appropriate to read everything. A person should choose at every moment. Take in only that which will carry your life upward. And if you insist on going downward, then also go consciously—choose that which takes you down.
But we know nothing. We grope like the blind. One hand strikes upward, one downward. In the morning we visit the church; in the evening we watch a film. We hear the church bell; we go to a hotel and watch dance. Thus we go on cutting our lives with our own hands, pulling life in both directions—and reach nowhere.
Decision is needed. If you want to go down, go—and touch the very depths of hell and return. Even then, have a method, have a discipline. Then drop the upward things. Do not even look toward the church; do not turn toward the temple; do not relate to the Gita; avoid the saints; forget that they exist. These people are not right for you—they will obstruct your journey. You want to go to hell: catch your vehicle and hold firmly to it.
But man is strange: one foot on the carriage to hell, the other on the carriage to heaven—and he reaches nowhere. His whole life becomes a dragging. He is a bullock cart with oxen yoked on both sides, pulling in opposite directions. Sometimes one ox pulls a little; then the mind repents—“I missed hell; let me go that way.” Then, having gone a little toward hell, the mind repents again—“I might miss heaven; let me go that way.” And life passes like this. The frame loosens; the oxen die. Then a new world, a new life—and we start the same old game.
Decide where you want to go. Decide what you want to be, what you want to attain, what your goal, your direction, your dimension is. Then choose accordingly; change everything in life according to that decision. Change the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the hands. Touch only that which leads toward the Divine. Listen only to that whose resonance touches the life-breath and lifts it upward. Eat only that which elevates life, makes it lighter. See only that which becomes a lamp in the eyes and dispels darkness. Change everything.
There is a fragrance in temples. Muslim fakirs selected certain fragrances. In this land Hindu sannyasins also chose certain fragrances. There is a basis for them. When one reaches a deep state of meditation, a fragrance like sandalwood often arises within. So sandal is burned in temples so that perhaps the outer scent may strike the inner and evoke remembrance. When someone reaches a certain meditative state, a fragrance like loban (incense resin) arises within. Hence Muslim fakirs chose loban—perhaps its scent might strike the sleeping inner scent and awaken it. All this is choice; it is not without cause. There is a reason behind it.
One small thing, and I will conclude.
Yesterday a friend asked me as he was leaving: “Why have you chosen the ochre robe for the sannyasin?”
There is a reason. As the mind grows silent within, the light of sunrise begins to spread inside—it is ochre. The outer ochre robe keeps striking the memory of that inner color. Seeing it while rising, wearing it, sleeping, waking—again and again—it may evoke the hue of a new dawn that sometimes appears in meditation: the sun not yet risen, but the eastern sky suffused with redness; birds begin to sing; cool morning breezes spread outside. Just so, at some moment in meditation, that hue spreads within. On seeing that inner color, someone chose this outer color.
Other colors too have been chosen; they also have been seen within. Muslim fakirs chose green, because that color is also seen within. Buddha’s disciples chose yellow—that too is seen within. The Theosophical Society once searched the markets of the whole world for a single shade of blue. Colonel Olcott had seen a color in meditation, and men were sent worldwide to find it. It was difficult; years passed. Many shades of blue were found, but Olcott would say, “This is not the color.” Finally, after two or three years, somewhere in an Italian market that color was found. Then Olcott said, “Yes—now the color I saw has been found. This will work.” On seeing that color, the same resonance is evoked within another as arose in Olcott; that color can awaken.
Ochre is the color of sunrise. And when the life-breath rises within, that hue spreads.
Color, sound, fragrance, taste, touch—everything must be chosen; then the journey upward begins. We are confused because we make random, inconsistent choices—boarding many boats at once. Then life breaks, life is wasted, and reaches nowhere.
Enough for today. The rest tomorrow.
Aahar means: whatever we take in from outside to inside is food. When the eyes look at a beautiful flower, you are taking in food—the eyes are feeding on beauty. When the ears hear music, that too is food—the ears are feeding on sound. When you touch someone’s body, the hands are taking in food. When a fragrance touches the nostrils, the nose is feeding. The whole body is feeding; every hair breathes and receives touch. The entire body is our food-instrument. All our senses carry the outer world within. But we think only of edible food as aahar—and that is a mistake.
For the upward movement of sexual energy, one must understand aahar in its totality. It may be that the food you eat supports the energy’s ascent, but your eyes may be seeing scenes that pull the energy downward; your ears may be hearing sounds that draw it downward; your body may be engaged in touches that take it downward. So you must look at the whole perspective of aahar.
We eat with the eyes, with the ears, with the nose, with the mouth, with every pore through touch. We are eating twenty-four hours a day. Much from the outer world keeps entering us—and there will be consequences.
Naturally, whatever we accumulate in the body does something. If a man drinks alcohol, his whole personality is altered; a stupor falls over his being. He will do the things possible only in stupor. The one who has not drunk cannot do those things—they require stupor. Whatever we take in as food will bear fruit—continuously.
Pandit Omkarnath, the Indian musician, once visited Mussolini, who had invited him to dine while Omkarnath was in Italy. Mussolini said at the table: “I have heard that when Krishna played the flute, people went mad and gathered around him. Fine—let people be drawn; I can grant that. But that deer would come running? That peacocks would dance? How can that be?” Omkarnath replied, “I am not Krishna, so I cannot play as he did, but I do know a little ‘abc’—let me show you by experiment.” Mussolini agreed.
There were no instruments at hand—it was a dining table—so Omkarnath picked up spoons and forks and began to play on the porcelain and china.
Mussolini writes in his autobiography: “In a short while I lost consciousness. My head kept dropping to the table. He struck the spoons and forks so forcefully that my head fell and rose in time with their rhythm. My head began to bleed; I shouted, ‘Stop this instrument, otherwise how will I stop my head!’ When he stopped, drops of blood had appeared; the skin of my head was grazed.”
He writes: “Forgive me—I had no idea music could produce such inner effects that I could not control myself. The body became helpless; my head was beyond my hands. I felt I would die: the more I tried to resist, the more violently my head struck the table.” Omkarnath said, “I am nobody to comment on Krishna. But if this much is possible, imagine what else is possible.”
Islam prohibited music—not because music necessarily drives sexual energy downward, but because ninety-nine percent of the forms of music in practice do so. Perhaps one percent remains that can carry energy upward—and even that is fading. There are the dances of Sufi fakirs that can make even the onlookers meditative.
Gurdjieff formed a troupe to present the dervish dances of the Sufis across Europe and America. He would say: “Just watch; do nothing.” Twenty dancers begin. It is the dance of fakirs. Soon the audience becomes meditative. They only watch the movements; those movements descend into their life-energy, and corresponding movements arise within. What is happening outside begins to sway in the same shape within. The rhythm, the cadence, the beat of the dervishes gradually becomes the rhythm and beat of the onlooker’s heart. An inner dance begins; energy is transformed.
What we see with the eyes, what we hear with the ears, what we taste with the tongue, what we smell with the nose—all these are interconnected. We once hung bells in temples. Not every bell is meaningful; only special bells can work.
The Tibetans have a special bell. Some of you may have seen it. It is not for hanging; it is large, like a vessel. You strike it by circling a mallet on the inside—like moving a stick around the inside of a bucket. There is a particular pattern of striking between the mallet and the bell. From that striking the bell resounds powerfully: “Om mani padme hum.” The entire Tibetan mantra emerges from it! And the mantra reverberates again and again in the temple. The mantra has its methods: when it enters within, it begins striking certain chakras, and the power of those centers starts rising upward.
The inner resonance of Om was used to lift energy upward. Not only Om—Muslims say “Ameen”; it is a form of Om. Christians also say “Amen”—again, a form of Om. In English we have words like omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent—they all arise from Om. Omniscient: one who has known Om; Om meaning the vast Brahman. Omnipresent: one who has become present with Om. Omnipotent: one who has become powerful like Om—filled with the seed-force equal to God.
In the sound “Om,” the primal syllables are A-U-M. If these are resonated in a particular order, they begin to move energy upward. There are reverse sounds too, which, if struck, drive energy downward.
Today in America there is jazz, twist, shake—countless dances. Their wave-patterns and rhythms draw sexual energy downward. Watch a twist for a while and you will find twisting begins within you; some force inside becomes wobbly. Almost all modern dances and musical arrangements exploit man’s sexuality.
So aahar is a big word. Whatever food we take in will have effects; we cannot escape the consequences. Our whole instrument is psycho-chemical: mind above, chemistry below—and chemistry is working all the time. What we eat and drink will have results. There are foods that make one more sexual.
In a beehive there is a special kind of jelly. You may know a little about bees: there is only one queen who reproduces; all the other female bees are merely workers—their lives have no sex in them. Fabre, who studied bees deeply, was bewildered: in the lives of hundreds of thousands of bees, why is there no sex? They are female, equipped with the full sexual apparatus—yet no sex! What is the secret? He discovered that the bees collect a special jelly that only the queen eats. The others receive it only for three days after birth; then no more. The secret lies in that jelly.
So many mad experiments were done to rejuvenate humans by making pills from that jelly—perhaps the old could become young. Many creams were made; millions of women smeared them on their faces, hoping beauty would bloom. The jelly carries special vitamins that generate extreme sexuality.
The queen’s sexuality is immeasurable—she lays two thousand eggs a day, keeps laying and laying. One female produces millions, tens of millions of eggs—a colossal sexual activity is stirred within her.
And now we know clearly through the discovery of hormones: give female hormones by injection to a man and, in a short time, his body will lose its male character and become feminine. Give male hormones to a woman and, in a short time, her body becomes masculine. After forty-five or fifty, some women begin to grow a mustache. The simple reason is that female hormones lessen, and the male hormones present in the body become dominant; hence the mustache. Women’s voices, after fifty, begin to resemble men’s. The reason is a disturbed ratio of male to female hormones. As female hormones diminish and the male increase proportionally, the voice changes. It is all a chemical matter.
Much depends on the food we take. If our food contains intoxicants, if it contains elements that induce stupor, they will channel bodily energy and sexual energy downward. If the food contains stimulants and activators, they will also push bodily and sexual energy downward. But if the food contains tranquilizing, soothing elements—those that calm the mind rather than excite it—they will assist the energy to rise upward.
This is a vast subject, but the principle can be kept in mind. Avoid foods that excite, that produce stupor, intoxication, heaviness of body and dullness of mind. Food should not weigh the body down. It should not excite the body. It should not intoxicate, stupefy, or induce torpor and sleep. Such food supports the seeker; it opens the path upward.
If the opposite kind of food is taken, the seeker’s journey becomes difficult. Not impossible—only needlessly difficult. Even with wrong food a seeker can rise, but unnecessary hardships arise.
And since I am using aahar in the full sense, remember this too: a seeker who wants to raise his sexual energy upward will not read everything, will not see everything, will not listen to everything. He will listen with discernment: music that excites is futile; music that calms is meaningful. He will not watch scenes that fill one with excitation.
Notice, even in films the most watched are those that are thrilling and exciting—“your hair will stand on end!” The advertiser writes, “Never before such a thriller; your flesh will creep.” But if your hair is standing on end, you are taking in the wrong food. Detective plots, murder, blood—they fill you with excitation.
Someday, while watching a movie, don’t look at the screen—stand in a corner and look at the audience. Then you’ll see what excites. When the exciting scene comes, people leave the backs of their chairs, straighten their spines, even their breath halts—as if lest they miss a breath. They become utterly still. When the exciting scene passes, they slump back and watch at ease. The more times a film makes a man leave the back of his chair, the more it facilitates the downward flow of sexual energy.
On the street too, we look at everything without any care—yet it is neither necessary nor appropriate to look at everything. It is neither necessary nor appropriate to read everything. A person should choose at every moment. Take in only that which will carry your life upward. And if you insist on going downward, then also go consciously—choose that which takes you down.
But we know nothing. We grope like the blind. One hand strikes upward, one downward. In the morning we visit the church; in the evening we watch a film. We hear the church bell; we go to a hotel and watch dance. Thus we go on cutting our lives with our own hands, pulling life in both directions—and reach nowhere.
Decision is needed. If you want to go down, go—and touch the very depths of hell and return. Even then, have a method, have a discipline. Then drop the upward things. Do not even look toward the church; do not turn toward the temple; do not relate to the Gita; avoid the saints; forget that they exist. These people are not right for you—they will obstruct your journey. You want to go to hell: catch your vehicle and hold firmly to it.
But man is strange: one foot on the carriage to hell, the other on the carriage to heaven—and he reaches nowhere. His whole life becomes a dragging. He is a bullock cart with oxen yoked on both sides, pulling in opposite directions. Sometimes one ox pulls a little; then the mind repents—“I missed hell; let me go that way.” Then, having gone a little toward hell, the mind repents again—“I might miss heaven; let me go that way.” And life passes like this. The frame loosens; the oxen die. Then a new world, a new life—and we start the same old game.
Decide where you want to go. Decide what you want to be, what you want to attain, what your goal, your direction, your dimension is. Then choose accordingly; change everything in life according to that decision. Change the eyes, the ears, the mouth, the hands. Touch only that which leads toward the Divine. Listen only to that whose resonance touches the life-breath and lifts it upward. Eat only that which elevates life, makes it lighter. See only that which becomes a lamp in the eyes and dispels darkness. Change everything.
There is a fragrance in temples. Muslim fakirs selected certain fragrances. In this land Hindu sannyasins also chose certain fragrances. There is a basis for them. When one reaches a deep state of meditation, a fragrance like sandalwood often arises within. So sandal is burned in temples so that perhaps the outer scent may strike the inner and evoke remembrance. When someone reaches a certain meditative state, a fragrance like loban (incense resin) arises within. Hence Muslim fakirs chose loban—perhaps its scent might strike the sleeping inner scent and awaken it. All this is choice; it is not without cause. There is a reason behind it.
One small thing, and I will conclude.
Yesterday a friend asked me as he was leaving: “Why have you chosen the ochre robe for the sannyasin?”
There is a reason. As the mind grows silent within, the light of sunrise begins to spread inside—it is ochre. The outer ochre robe keeps striking the memory of that inner color. Seeing it while rising, wearing it, sleeping, waking—again and again—it may evoke the hue of a new dawn that sometimes appears in meditation: the sun not yet risen, but the eastern sky suffused with redness; birds begin to sing; cool morning breezes spread outside. Just so, at some moment in meditation, that hue spreads within. On seeing that inner color, someone chose this outer color.
Other colors too have been chosen; they also have been seen within. Muslim fakirs chose green, because that color is also seen within. Buddha’s disciples chose yellow—that too is seen within. The Theosophical Society once searched the markets of the whole world for a single shade of blue. Colonel Olcott had seen a color in meditation, and men were sent worldwide to find it. It was difficult; years passed. Many shades of blue were found, but Olcott would say, “This is not the color.” Finally, after two or three years, somewhere in an Italian market that color was found. Then Olcott said, “Yes—now the color I saw has been found. This will work.” On seeing that color, the same resonance is evoked within another as arose in Olcott; that color can awaken.
Ochre is the color of sunrise. And when the life-breath rises within, that hue spreads.
Color, sound, fragrance, taste, touch—everything must be chosen; then the journey upward begins. We are confused because we make random, inconsistent choices—boarding many boats at once. Then life breaks, life is wasted, and reaches nowhere.
Enough for today. The rest tomorrow.
Osho's Commentary
Just as there is an iron magnet. One is the piece of iron that is plainly seen, and around it there is a magnetic field that cannot be seen. Yet if we place bits of iron nearby, that magnetic force of the magnet draws them in. There is a field within which that force functions. Tomorrow this piece of iron may lose its magnetic force; still it will remain a piece of iron. Its weight will not change, its constitution will not change, nothing in its build and structure will appear different—yet a fundamental difference will have occurred: the magnetism in it has died, the magnet is gone. I say this as an example.
The soul is a field, a magnetic field. The body is visible; only the effects of the soul are visible, just as the effects of a magnet are seen. The earth is visible, this ground is visible—but all the while the earth is pulling us; that is not visible. If the earth were to let go of us, we could not remain upon it for a single moment.
For travelers in space, the most difficult thing is this: the moment their craft rises a couple of hundred miles beyond the earth’s magnetic field, the earth’s pull takes leave of them. Then they drift in their craft like balloons filled with air. If their straps are unfastened from their seats, just as a gas-filled balloon would touch the roof of a house, they too begin to touch the ceiling of the spacecraft.
The earth holds us, but we do not notice—because it is not a visible thing. What is seen is the earth; what is not seen is its gravitation. What is seen is the body; what is not seen is the mind and the soul. Exactly so with kama and sex: it is necessary to understand two aspects. What is seen are the biological cells; what is not seen is sex-energy. Without understanding this truth rightly, it becomes difficult to look further.
In this country great experiments have been made on sex-energy. There is a long history of five thousand years—perhaps still more ancient, because in Harappa and Mohenjodaro such statues have been found that indicate the conception of yoga had already developed by then. The figures of Harappa are some seven thousand years old. In this long history of seven thousand years this land has made very unique experiments upon sex-energy. But a mistake often occurs in understanding them—because we take sex-energy to mean biological energy, and we are thrown into difficulty.
The yogis of this country have said that sex-energy can move upward, from below to above. The scientist says, ‘We can even cut open the yogi’s body and see—his semen remains exactly where it is in an ordinary man. It does not appear to rise.’
Semen does not rise, nor can it. But we have not understood the energy whose ascent was spoken of. It is not about the semen-cells; along with the semen there is another energy joined, which is not visible—that energy can ascend. And when a person passes through sexual relation, then while the biological particles leave his body, at the same time his sex-energy also goes out of the body. That sex-energy dissolves into the vast sky; and the sexual cells set out upon the journey to give birth to a new person.
At the moment of intercourse two events occur: one biological and one psychic. One, from the viewpoint of biology, is the event the biologist studies—ejaculation, the semen setting out in search of its opposite, so that a new life may be born. And there is a second event, which yoga investigates—that second event is that in this act, along with it, the power of the mind also is ejaculated; it simply dissolves into emptiness.
There are methods to carry this mind-power upward. And when the ascent of semen is spoken of, let there be no mistake—let no physiologist, no doctor, mistakenly suppose that semen-cells are being taken upward. Semen-cells cannot go up; there is no pathway for them in the body to reach the sahasrar, the brain. What goes up is energy—it is the magnetic force that moves upward. It is under this magnetic force that, when it moves downward, the semen-cells too become active.
When a child is born—boy or girl—he or she is born with the entire sexual apparatus. A woman is born already carrying all the ovums she will ever use. No new ovum is produced later. A woman is born carrying some three hundred thousand tiny eggs. In a one-day-old girl this material of three hundred thousand ova is present. Of these, at most around two hundred become prepared for life and reach the possibility of conception; of those, ten or twelve, at most twenty, become active and successful in entering life.
Yet until thirteen or fourteen years of age, the girl will know nothing of this entire arrangement. The body is fully prepared, but as yet her sex-energy has not reached the ovaries. At thirteen or fourteen, when the brain completes its development, then the brain sends sex-energy downward—and the moment the brain’s command arrives, her sex-instrument becomes active. And the reverse event also occurs: at forty-five or fifty the entire stock of eggs is finished; her biological sex comes to an end. But the energy of her mind still keeps descending below.
Thus even a seventy-year-old woman can be sex-hungry, although there is no longer any biological possibility left in her body. The biological aspect has ended. A man, even at ninety, his sex-energy continues to descend from his mind into the lower parts of the body. It is that sex-energy that keeps afflicting him. Though the body is no longer meaningful, the mind goes on desiring.
I say this so that we may understand: until thirteen or fourteen, until the command does not arrive from the brain—and now even biologists accept this—they too accept that until the order comes from the brain, the sex-instrument of the body does not become active.
Therefore, if we cut certain parts of the brain, a person’s sex ends for life. Or, if we prepare certain parts of the brain by means of hormone injections to issue orders early, then even a seven-year-old boy or a five-year-old girl—their sex-instrument will become active. If we can inject semen-cells into an old man, then even at eighty he will be able to impregnate. If we can place eggs in a ninety-year-old woman’s ovary, even then conception will occur—because the sex-energy is flowing; only the bodily part, the physical apparatus, has ended.
This sex-energy is inexhaustible. Mahavira called it anant virya—Infinite Virya. In truth Mahavira received the very name Mahavira because he spoke of this anant virya. By anant virya is not meant biological semen; it is not ‘semen’ at all. Anant virya means that sex-energy which continually descends from mind into body. And what descends from mind into body does not arise from the mind—it comes from Atman to mind, and from mind to body. It will descend from Atman to mind, from mind to body—these are its steps. Without them it cannot descend. If the mind is broken in between, all connection between soul and body is broken.
This virya, this sex-energy—the power I am speaking of—which yoga and tantra have called sex-energy, is not biological sex-energy. This sex-energy can again move upward. And if even in an old person this sex-energy starts moving upward, his life becomes as simple, as innocent, as guileless as that of a small child. The same simplicity begins to shine again in his eyes; the same childlike quality returns to his personality—and even more. For the child’s innocence is filled with danger; it is going to be lost. Beneath the child’s innocence volcanoes are smoldering, getting ready—they have yet to erupt. If in the old man sex-energy returns upward, then a simplicity, a purity, an innocence greater than the child’s descends into his life. Saintliness is the name of this innocence. The ascent of sex-energy is the journey of the sadhu.
This sex-energy is operated by the mind. It is the mind’s very resolve. Without the mind’s command this sex-energy does not flow downward. Therefore, if the mind can be so arranged that it sends less of this energy downward, then sex will be less in one’s life; if it sends more, there will be more; excite the mind very much, and it will be very much.
In America the age of maturity in boys and girls has dropped by two years in the last twenty years. Where girls were sexually mature at thirteen, they have begun at eleven. Upon America’s psyche there are pressures of every kind that command sex-energy so strongly that it is natural this age will drop still further—it can reach nine, it can reach seven, even five.
If we fill the whole air around with a sexualized atmosphere—if all around there is nothing but sex and the incitement to sex; if everything becomes a sexual symbol; if even to sell a car one must pose a half-naked woman by it; if to sell cigarettes one must bring a woman; if whatever one does must exploit the sex-symbol—then the effects upon the psyche will be terrible. And the order which the mind would have given two years later, it will give two years earlier. This is a premature order, and its consequences are dangerous.
The reverse has also happened in this country. We had succeeded in keeping young men and women utterly untouched by the world of sex up to twenty-five. But we had done the opposite of what is done today—we had changed the whole arrangement. Every measure was taken so that the mind would not issue the command; every arrangement so that the mind would not order. Exercises of that kind were used, asanas of that kind, meditations of that kind, contemplation and reflection of that kind, vows and will-power of that kind which prevent the mind from issuing the order.
And if for twenty-five years the mind can be prevented from letting sex-energy descend, then one experiences such joy that, even if later he enters the realm of sex, there is a comparison before him. He knows the difference between the joy of when he had not entered, and the joy of when he did. Therefore his mind constantly says, ‘When shall I return?’ Hence, one who has lived in brahmacharya up to twenty-five begins to turn again toward the world of sannyas after fifty—because he has the means of comparison.
Today, when we speak to someone of the joy of brahmacharya, the talk has no meaning—for he has no idea of its joy. He knows only one kind of pleasure, that which comes from sex. Therefore the talk of brahmacharya seems utterly futile; the talk of non-desire seems meaningless to him. It is not part of his experience.
And the interesting thing is that once energy has started flowing downward, then to make it flow upward becomes difficult. Paths are formed. If you spill a glass of water on the floor, the water makes a channel and flows away. Then the sun shines, the water evaporates—nothing remains on the ground. But the dry line of the water’s flow remains. If you pour water in that room a second time, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the water will again follow that same dry line. It is the nature of energy to choose the path of least resistance. Wherever there is the least trouble, there it longs to flow.
Once an immature mind descends into the world of sex, then all his life, whenever energy gathers, obeying the law of least resistance it shows readiness to flow along that same path. And until it flows out there is inner pain and restlessness; when it does flow, a relief is felt—the mind feels light, the burden has been dropped. But if once the path leading upward opens, then the remembrance of it keeps returning.
By what method can the mind make sex-energy upward flowing? Three things in this regard must be understood.
First, understand this: whatever can go down can also go up. This can be taken as a scientific axiom. In truth, wherever there is a way to go downward, there must also be a way to go upward—whether we know it or not. The very path by which we can go down can be used to go up. The path is the same; only the direction changes.
By the path you came here from your home, by that very path you will return home. A moment ago your back was toward home; now your face will be toward home. There is no door that can bring one out but cannot take one in. Life spreads in two dimensions. If energy can descend, energy can ascend. This first rule the mind must understand rightly—because the mind will only agree to do that which is possible; it leaves the search for the impossible. It must be clear: this can be done, this can be done.
From a mountain water falls downward. Ordinarily it only falls downward; it does not go upward. For thousands of years we knew nothing of taking it up. But what can come down can go up. Now we can lift water to heights higher than the mountains—because by applying the principle opposite to the one by which water comes down, water can be sent up.
Sex-energy comes down naturally—by the side of nature. If a person is to take that energy upward, it will not be natural; it will not be of nature. It will be through resolve, through will. It will be through human effort, human aspiration, human endeavor. A man will have to labor in this direction—because he will have to swim against nature’s current. In a river, if one wants to flow down toward the ocean, then there is no need to swim; one can drop hands and feet and be swept to the sea. The river itself will carry us; nothing needs to be done. But if one wants to go toward the source, the origin, then one must swim, one must labor. Then there will be a struggle—struggle against the current of the river.
So, those who wish to go upward must understand a second point: the path will be of resolve and struggle. One can go up, and above are incomparable joys. Because when going below one gets pleasure—momentary, yes, but it is pleasure—what might be obtained by going above, we cannot even imagine.
Sex-energy going down brings pleasure; sex-energy rising up brings bliss. What it brings below is momentary—because the event is of loss, and loss can only be momentary. The event of gathering can be eternal. Going down you lose; the event of loss is momentary. A single moment of losing—that moment is all. But above you gather; above you build a reservoir. That reservoir can become infinite; it grows by the day.
With pleasure, the event of diminishing begins; with bliss, the event of growth begins. And as pleasure diminishes, pain increases. Therefore behind every pleasure stands the dark shadow of pain; and behind bliss there is a world ever more luminous—no shadow of sorrow behind bliss. Bliss goes on deepening—because the gathering increases daily, and the possibility of infinite gathering is there.
Second: resolve and struggle. It is useful to understand a little what resolve means, and how energy can go up through resolve. Let me give two or four examples so it may come to your mind.
Just yesterday a friend was asking me, ‘Muslims keep fasts, Jains and Hindus fast, Christians fast—what is the relation? What will come from staying hungry?’
From staying hungry, nothing ever happens. From hunger nothing can happen. But these people are not mad. I am not speaking of those who do it—most of them may be mad, because they do not know what they are doing. But those from whom these formulas began their journey were not mad.
In a human life, the urge for food is the deepest—because it is the most necessary for survival. A man can leave love for the sake of food. A mother can cut her child for food. In the Bengal famine, mothers sold their children. A husband can cut and sell his wife; a wife can throw away her husband. In the moment of death, when the ultimate position of saving arrives, the mind will cry with all its force: save yourself—because all else can happen again; but to be again yourself—what way is there? A husband can be found again, a son can be born again—but to obtain oneself again, how? Therefore food is the deepest of survival urges.
Now a man has been kept hungry for a month. While he is hungry, for twenty-four hours the thought returns: food, food, food. Twenty-four hours every pore of his body cries: food. Twenty-four hours his body shouts: food. Awake and in dreams the body says: food. A gap has been created inside, a biological gap. The body says: food—and at the very same time he is engaged in the prayer of God. The body is shouting for food’s thirst, and he is shouting for God’s thirst. In a short time—two days, four days—the body’s thirst for food will convert, and become the thirst for the Divine. The body’s demand for food—if he does not bow to it and goes on resolving: no, not food—God; no, not food—God; if he does not bend before the body and keeps saying: not food—God!—then within four to six days the body itself will begin to call not for food but for God.
This is transformation—transmutation. The energy that was demanding food begins to demand God. In this way the resolve that ordinarily moves toward food is turned toward the Divine. This is a great transformation!
Resolve is the name of the transformation of forces. When the mind asks for sex, for the other, for the opposite—woman for man, man for woman—when the mind asks to flow toward the other, then the flow must be transformed. Then the manner in which the mind asks for the other must be reversed, so that this demand of the mind becomes a demand for God, for moksha, for nirvana.
For this, two or three points must be kept in mind.
The moment the mind demands—demands sex—the body begins to prepare for sex. In the sex-center, the muladhar, the surge of the demand for the other begins to pulse; the sex-center becomes outward-bound. In that moment tantra says: if the sex-center can be made inward, drawn within—what is called yoni-mudra; if the sex-center, the muladhar, can be drawn inward—then immediately, in two moments, you will find the body has stopped its demand for sex. But the demand had arisen; the energy has awakened—and now the demand has stopped. This energy can be taken upward.
As soon as we think of sex, our mind begins to flow toward the genitals. So, the instant the genitals are drawn inward, all the doors leading outward are closed. And the energy that has arisen—if in that moment we close the eyes, and begin to look in such a way as if we are looking within toward the dome of the head—the energy begins to flow upward.
With a month’s practice this can bring any person into an unprecedented experience. Whenever the sexual thought arises, at once draw the sex-center, the muladhar, inward; close the eyes and begin to see from within as if looking upward toward the roof of the head. And within a month—within twenty-one days—you will find that within you something has begun to move from below to above. It will be an actual experience that something is flowing upward, something is rising. One may call it kundalini; another may give it some other name.
Two points need attention here: one at the sex-center, the muladhar, and the other at the sahasrar. Sahasrar is our topmost center, and muladhar our lowest. Contract the muladhar inward; then the energy born there is seeking a path. And take your mind upward—then that alone remains open. Wherever the mind looks, in that very direction the energies of the body begin to flow. This is a small method of transformation.
And if you practice it, then brahmacharya without suppression... this is not suppression; this is sublimation. Suppression means the upper door is not open, and one keeps blocking at the lower door. Then there will be turmoil, derangement, madness. If there is a pathway for the energy, there will be no suppression—there will only be ascent. The energy will begin to rise from below to above.
This is a practical point I have shared—practice it and understand. It is not theoretical, not merely intellectual or scriptural. It is the experienced event of millions. And it is the simplest of experiments—not very difficult. And once nectar-like flowers begin to blossom upon the upper reaches of the brain, sex will begin to take leave of your life. Slowly it will disappear, and an altogether new energy, a new power, a new virya, a new radiance, a new light, and a new world begins.
The physiologist has nothing to do with this. The energy that rises—if we cut open the body to see it, we will find it nowhere. It is like a magnetic field. If we break the bones we will find no hole for it, no trace. It is not a bodily event; it is psychic. It happens in the mind, and yet on the bodily plane differences begin to appear. For when that energy flows downward, the body’s semen-cells also flow outward; when that energy does not flow down, the semen too stops flowing out. The body too is conserved—but this experiment is not for preserving the body.
Preserved or not, the body has its term and will die; it will decay; it will go. Between its birth and its death there is a span; that it will complete. The great event is of psychic energy—of manas-energy. And the more manas-energy a person has, the more his being begins to expand, to spread, to become vast. And the day not even a single particle of a person’s manas-energy flows downward, that very day he can declare: Aham Brahmasmi. He can say: I am Brahman.
This declaration Aham Brahmasmi is not a logical deduction, not a logical conclusion. It is an existential conclusion—an existential experience. The day the connection with the Vast happens, on that day it is known: I am not a person—I am the Vast. But this experience of the Vast can be through the conservation of the Vast Energy. And that conservation is impossible until sex-energy begins to flow upward.