One night—midnight had passed—and Socrates had not returned home. His friends and disciples grew restless. Since morning he had been out, and till midnight he had been seen nowhere in the village, met no one in the village. And now, with midnight past, there was still no trace of him. At last they went out to search. They combed the lanes and alleys. Then outside the village... it was a moonlit night; they wandered far and wide beyond the outskirts looking for him. Toward dawn they found him, sitting by a tree. The last star of night was about to sink, and his eyes were fixed upon the sky. As if he had turned to stone, as if frozen in the cold of the night!
His friends went and shook him. As though he were not upon this earth at all—somewhere else, in another realm, perhaps near those stars he had gazed at all night. He lowered his eyes. He stirred. He recognized his friends and said: How much time must have passed?
They said: The whole night has passed. It is close to the next morning. You left at sunrise. Where were you?
Socrates said: I came here. I watched the morning sun rise, I watched noon come, I watched the evening sun set. I journeyed with the sun the whole day. Then night came, then the moon, then the stars. They led me astray, I was lost in them—and I did not even know how much time had passed!
His friends asked: What was there in the moon and the stars? What was there in the sun, that twenty-four hours went by and you knew nothing?
Socrates said: You are surprised—it is I who should be surprised. What is there not in the moon and stars? What is there not in the sun, that would not enchant a man, would not lift him out of himself in wonder, would not call him near; would not drown him in its song, its music! What is not there? I should be the one to ask, and instead you ask me what there is in the moon and stars! That the night passed and you knew it not—blessed are those who discover something in the moon and stars, in trees, in oceans, in mountains, in the eyes of man; to whom something becomes visible there. Perhaps they alone are the ones with eyes. The rest are blind.
We too are blind. Nothing appears to our eyes!
How has this blindness been fashioned within us? We must understand a little about this—and how to break this blindness is also essential to know. No one can enter the world of sadhana if he walks with a fundamental blindness toward life.
If we cannot even see a flower, how shall we see Paramatman?
If even the roaring of the ocean is not heard by us, how shall we hear the voice of the Lord?
If the moon and stars are not visible to us, how shall we find that light which is the breath of life?
We see nothing. We pass almost as if asleep. We move with our eyes closed. From birth to death, the waves of life stir our being nowhere; no sensitivity seizes us; nothing can bewitch us.
Religion’s first concern is the experience of life’s mystery—that which is the mystery of life. And the whole of life is mysterious—from a small stone to the sun in the sky; from a tiny seed to trees that touch the heavens—everything that is, is profoundly mysterious.
But that mystery does not appear to us. For the capacity required to see the mysterious—we perhaps have not earned it. The receptivity required, the openness required, the doors of the heart that must be flung wide—perhaps our heart’s doors are not open, they are shut. Perhaps we sit in some inner prison, with all the windows and doors closed, with eyes closed. And then if our life is dark and filled with gloom; if foul airs and stench surround us; if anxieties and tensions take up residence in our home—there is no surprise in it. It is natural; it will be so.
How have we adopted this numbness toward life! And then we ask: Is there God? We ask: Is the soul immortal? We ask all the questions—but one question we forget to ask: Do we have eyes to see life’s mystery or not?
Day by day man has been losing the eye to see the mystery of life. The more civilized we became, the more that eye was lost. The more “understanding” we became, the more our knowledge grew, the more we turned our back upon life’s wonder—the unfathomable, the enigmatic for which there is no solution. We have withdrawn from it.
We have forgotten that life is an insoluble riddle—forgotten within our knowledge, our information, our cleverness. Man has concluded that almost everything is known, and what is not yet known will be known. There is nothing unknowable in life; everything can be known. This is utterly contrary to truth.
In life, everything is unknowable. And that which we think we know is not knowing. Nothing whatsoever can be known in life. From a tiny leaf to all that appears—everything is very, very unknown, very unknowable, very unfathomable, deeply mysterious. This mystery can never be broken. What little we “know” is acquaintance, not knowledge—acquaintance. We mistake acquaintance for knowledge! For a few days we become acquainted with some things...
We sit here in this cypress grove, on the seashore. When you came yesterday, these cypress trees and this shore must have felt a little unfamiliar. Today you are acquainted; tomorrow more so; the day after, still more. By the time you leave, this cypress grove will no longer be seen; the roar of the ocean will no longer be heard—it will seem “we know it.” Those who live nearby, nothing is visible to them here.
People travel to Kashmir. Those who live there see nothing. The hills of the Himalayas—people journey from afar like madmen to behold them. Those who live there see nothing. Do they know? No—only acquaintance has happened. By living near, by seeing daily, the illusion arises that we know.
Acquaintance gives birth to the illusion of knowledge.
Man is becoming acquainted with the world and takes this to be knowing. This illusion of knowing—this knowing attitude that “I know”—is shattering life’s entire mystery.
A seeker should break this illusion of knowing and become available to wonder.
Can you sit near these trees as if for the very first time you have descended into an unknown realm, where nothing is familiar? Can you listen to the ocean’s roar as though hearing and knowing it for the first time, the very first time? As the first man on earth must have seen the earth—can you see like that? When the first man steps on the moon and looks at it—dumbstruck, wonder-struck, silent—everything unfamiliar, everything unknown—can you stand upon the earth for a moment like that? If you can, the first step of sadhana is crossed.
In these three days I will ask you to stand here in that way—as if your boat has struck upon the shore of Nargol and you have disembarked in an unknown land where nothing is familiar. Everything is unfamiliar—the sand, the trees, the shore, the sky. All unfamiliar.
And this is the truth: when we are born, we come knowing nothing; we are born wholly unknown, utter strangers. Birth sets us in a strange land. And when we die, we depart without knowing a thing! With what does a man finish? Even at the last moment, our consciousness is where it was at the first moment of birth. We know nothing, and we go.
This illusion of knowing that arises between birth and death is only the illusion of acquaintance.
A father thinks, I know my son; a wife thinks, I know my husband; a friend thinks, I know my friend. No one knows anyone.
This unknownness, this strangeness—this is what must be grasped, recognized. Turn your attention to it; let it become part of meditation; let this be the center of your dhyana, your contemplation and reflection—that we do not know anything. Can it become so?
It can, if we show a little courage and drop the ego that has been created by “knowing.” The deepest ego within man is the ego of knowing.
Ask anyone: Is there God? He will say, Yes, there is God—or he will say, No, there is no God. And in both cases he will assert, I know. Rarely will you find a person who can remain silent and say, I do not know.
I would want you to be that person who can say, fearlessly and with certainty: I do not know. Ask yourself: Do I know anything? Raise the question deep within: Do I know? What do I know?
Let alone knowing anything else—I do not know myself. I do not know myself; I do not know that which I am! Then what else will I know? That which is closest, which is within me, is unfamiliar and unknown—how will that which is outside and far from me be familiar and known? Do you know yourself? Perhaps you have never asked.
We accept some things without ever asking! Everyone simply accepts, “I know myself!” and then lives and moves as if he knows. We have never questioned—how can the journey move forward without the question?
The first question each must ask himself is this: Do I know myself? Who am I? What am I? From where am I? For where am I?
And there is no answer to these four basic questions! Neither is it known who I am, nor what I am, nor whence I come, nor whither I go. There is no answer to these four fundamental questions—yet we have accepted that we know ourselves!
One morning—about three o’clock—Schopenhauer went into a small garden. It was still night, dark. The gardener was puzzled: who could have come so late? He took his lantern and his spear and went inside. Schopenhauer was walking there among the trees, talking to himself.
The gardener suspected: surely a madman has entered—talking alone to himself! From a distance he called out, Who are you? From where have you come? For what have you come? What do you want?
Schopenhauer laughed loudly and said: You ask such difficult questions as no man has ever answered till today. You ask, Who are you? I have spent my whole life asking—and I have yet to find who I am. You ask, From where have you come? No one has ever been able to tell from where he came. I am also unable. You ask, For what have you come? I have no idea for what I have come!
Surely that gardener must have concluded: this man is mad, who does not know even this much. But who was mad—the gardener, or the man who did not know? Who was mad?
If you know—or you are under the illusion that you know—then you may be mad. But if you do not know, that is the human condition; the human situation is that man does not know. There is no question of madness in this.
But lest we be taken for mad, we have made arrangements. We have organized an identity and knowledge of ourselves. We have devised ways to feel as if we know ourselves. We have taken names, made castes, created religions, created nations!
So that when someone points toward us and asks, Who is this man?—we have a name, a caste, a religion, a country; we have parents, their names; lineages, ancestries! We have arranged things so that we may be recognized. And all our arrangement is false—imagined, dreamlike. What is anyone’s name? What is anyone’s caste? What is anyone’s religion? What country—whose?
We have drawn false lines on the earth—of India and China, of Russia and America—false lines that exist nowhere on the ground. But... so that we can say: I am from here!
And we have pasted false names and labels on man as well—someone is Ram, someone is Krishna, someone is some other. These names are utterly false. Man is born with no name.
We have pasted the names of castes as well—and they too are utterly false. Man is not born into any caste. All castes are superimposed upon man.
And we have attached our parents’ names to ourselves. Neither did they truly have a name, nor their parents, nor theirs.
But we have carved out a small corner of knowledge and created the illusion that we know ourselves. In that illusion we live and perish.
A seeker should break that illusion—raze that corner. He should know precisely: I have no name, no caste, no country; I have no identity. I am wholly unknown—like these gusts of wind are unknown; like these trees are unknown; like the moon and stars of the sky are unknown; like the ocean’s water is nameless, unfamiliar, unknown—so too are the waves of a man’s life unknown, unfamiliar, unknowable.
And not only has man made an outer identity, he has made an inner identity as well. Ask someone: Who is within you? He will say, Within me is Atman. The Atman is immortal. I had past lives. There is the fruit of karma. There will be future births. There is heaven and hell. Those who become pure go to moksha.
In the unknown, in the dark—we have written we know not what. This knowledge, too, is man’s contrived and imagined knowledge. We do not know this either—we know nothing at all. Yet we go on repeating these words. We cling to them. We even “meditate” upon these very words.
A sannyasin came to me recently. I asked him, What do you meditate upon? What sadhana do you do? He said: When I sit in solitude I think, I am sat-chit-ananda, the form of the Divine. I am the pure, intelligent Atman. I am immortal life. I have no death. I am not the body. I am not the mind. I am the Atman. This I meditate. This is my meditation!
I asked him: Do you know these things? Are these known to you? Are these your experience—your own knowing—that you are the pure, intelligent Atman? Or are these heard and learned words? Then I asked him: If you truly know that you are the pure, intelligent Atman, what need is there to repeat it every day? What is known is never repeated.
What is not known we repeat again and again—to create the illusion that it is known.
If it is known that I am Paramatman; if Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman—is truly your knowing, what need is there to keep repeating it? No one repeats what he knows. What we do not know, that we repeat. By repeating again and again the illusion arises—we become acquainted with the words. Through constant repetition acquaintance arises. We forget that when we first said it, we did not know. After saying it fifty times, it seems we do. But if at the very first step it was not known, repeating it fifty times cannot make it known.
Repetition leads nowhere except to illusion.
If at first I did not know, what will happen if I repeat a thousand times? A lie repeated a thousand times does not become truth. And ignorance repeated a thousand times does not become knowledge.
Yet we repeat. When we want to deceive others, we take recourse to repetition. When we want to deceive ourselves, we take recourse to repetition.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: There is no falsehood which cannot be made into truth by repeating it again and again. He wrote rightly.
Any falsehood, repeated again and again, begins to appear true.
Most of the truths we “know” are such repeated falsehoods which, by repetition, we have accepted as truth. We can believe anything. Through constant repetition the illusion is created.
We have created an identity for the body and an identity for the within. We know nothing of either. If any step is to be taken toward truth, first of all our state of ignorance should become clear. From a clear awareness of ignorance, the journey can begin—because that ignorance is factual.
This not-knowing is a fact—a factuality. I am not teaching you that you do not know. Not-knowing is our real situation. But in the world you are constantly taught to “know yourself” in such and such a way—repeat these things, keep repeating them, keep repeating them—and through repetition, knowledge will be born!
For thousands of years man has been taught to repeat certain formulas. Sit and repeat: I am God, I am Paramatman, I am Atman, I am this, I am that. If a man repeats his whole life long, the illusion arises that “I am that.” But what was untrue at the first step cannot be true at the last.
What do I want to say to you?
Even by mistake, do not repeat such things. They create the illusion of knowledge; they do not create knowledge. What is man’s actual situation? What is the actual state of our chitta—our state of mind?
The plain and simple thing is: we do not know; we know nothing. But man does not want to accept ignorance. Man’s deepest denial is the denial of ignorance. If someone says to us, You do not know, we are ready to fight. If anyone says in any matter, You do not know, we are ready to quarrel. The greatest hurt to our ego happens when someone says, You do not know—or, You know wrongly.
Why does it hurt?
Perhaps because he exposes our truth which we have concealed within, covered with many veils. If someone lifts even a corner of the veil, we are in trouble. We are ready to fight, to enter into argument.
What quarrel have the religions of the world been engaged in till today?
Only one quarrel: Every religion claims, We know. And if someone says, No—you do not know, and you know wrongly—swords begin to flash. As if the sword were any evidence of knowing. As if murdering someone were an argument. As if putting fire to temples and mosques were any witness, any testimony.
Man’s ignorance is deep, fundamental—and upon that ignorance he has pasted all his talk of knowledge. A slight breeze, and the labels begin to fly off—and he is filled with rage. A small denial from someone, and anger surges.
But I say to you: If you are to take even a single step toward the truth of life, then the first acceptance—first acknowledgment—must be of our foundational ignorance: We do not know. We know nothing.
Why my insistence on this?
Because from fact one can go to truth; from theories one never reaches truth. From what is actual, from man’s real situation, one can move onward.
And further—if you remember that your state is ignorance, that you do not know—then you are no longer Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian. All those are prides of the “knowers.” What religion can an ignorant one have? What philosophy? What scripture?
The learned may have scriptures, doctrines, sects. The ignorant can have none—no sect, no scripture. No Gita, no Quran; no Krishna, no Mahavira. He has only one thing to say: I do not know. Therefore he has no claim, no assertion, no opposition, no dispute. Such a person stands in non-dispute. And remember—so long as there is the claim of knowledge, no one can be free of dispute. One may say as much as he likes, “I do not argue,” but if he harbors the idea “I know,” he is already in dispute.
Every knower is in dispute. He will remain in dispute—and die in dispute.
Only one who has no illusion of knowledge can be without dispute. The moment the illusion “I know” breaks, a humility, a gentleness begins to arise, unprecedented, unknown to you. You become as a small child.
What is the difference between the old and the child? Only one: children do not know; the old “know.” But the knowing of the old is false, and the not-knowing of the child is true.
The seeker again attains childhood. He wipes the memory clean and stands where the child stands. How small, shiny pebbles fill children with such wonder! The song of a little bird carries them to some other worlds! A tiny leaf trembling in the breeze ushers them into another life, another state! For children, the world seems filled with a thousand colors, with songs and sounds. This sunlight seems so golden. This moonlight so like silver. All that appears to us the most ordinary, appears to them utterly extraordinary. Why?
Within, there is the eye of wonder—not the conceit of knowing. The conceit of knowing erects walls around a man—shells, iron walls. Man becomes imprisoned within. Then his relationship with the world is broken. His dealings with life cease. Dialogue ends. The seeker must reattain this dialogue. Communion with life is needed. And communion with life is possible only when the shell of knowing cracks.
I tell friends: I teach ignorance. Knowledge has been taught too much. Knowledge has taken man nowhere—except into trouble. Knowledge has been over-taught—and man has fallen and reached nowhere. Between God and man, obstacles were erected. Knowledge did not become the bridge between God and man.
The learned scarcely ever know life—for the idea of knowing fills one with such ego that all humility is destroyed; the heart becomes hard and rigid.
Harder than the learned you will not find. The learned are the hardest. They have done the most killings—and got them done. The learned are supremely hard. Knowledge hardens.
There is a story I love. A great fair was being held. Near the fair, a man fell into a well. He cried out, Take me out, take me out—I’m drowning, I’m going down!
He was somehow clinging to the bricks, somehow holding on. The well was deep, and he did not know how to swim. But there was such noise in the fair—who would hear? A Buddhist monk came near the well, bent to drink water, and heard the voice below. He looked down. The man shouted: Bhikshuji, take me out! I am dying. Do something. My hands are slipping...
The monk said: Why are you troubling yourself to come out? Life is dukkha—suffering. God has said, life is suffering; Buddha has said, life is suffering. Life is a pain. And Buddha also said, whatever happens in life is the result of past karma. You must have pushed someone into a well in some past birth—therefore you have fallen. One must suffer one’s fruits. Suffer the fruit and you will be freed from the net of karma. Do not try uselessly to come out. And the monk drank water and went on.
He did not say wrong things. He said what is written in the scriptures. He knew. The dying man did not appear to him—for in between came the scriptures he knew. The man was drowning—he did not see him. He saw the doctrine of karma. He saw the futility of life. He gave a sermon and moved ahead. No one is harder than a sermonizer.
He had not gone far when a Confucian monk arrived—a sannyasin who followed Confucius. He also heard the cry. He looked down.
He said: My friend, in his book Confucius has written that every well should have steps, a parapet; a wall should surround it so that no one can fall. This well has no wall, therefore you fell. We have been telling people in village after village that what Confucius has said must be done. Do not worry—I will go and start an agitation. I will explain to people. We will go to the king. We will say: Confucius has said every well must have a wall, so that none can fall. In your kingdom there are no walls, people are falling.
The man said: All that is fine—but I will die by then. First take me out.
The monk said: It is not your question—it is the question of the people. The life and death of one man makes no difference. It is a question for all. Consider yourself blessed that you initiated a movement. You are a martyr!
Leaders of the world make people fools in this very way: You are a martyr—die, so that a great movement may arise—socialism will come, communism will come! Democracy will come in the world. You die.
The individual has no value; what has value is humanity. And “humanity” is nowhere except in words. Wherever we look, we find only man. “Humanity” is found nowhere—humanity is only a word. Scriptures write of humanity. Search, and you always find a human being. But those who follow scriptures say humanity must be saved. They do not care a whit for the sacrifice of individuals. Let one after another be sacrificed—humanity must be saved!
The man kept drowning, kept shouting. The Confucian monk went and climbed a platform. He gathered thousands in the fair and said: Look—until parapets are built on wells, mankind will suffer much. Every well must have a parapet—this is the sign of a good state. Confucius has written in his book. He opened the book and showed people.
The man kept shouting. In that fair, who would hear? A Christian missionary passed by. He heard the voice. He quickly took off his clothes, pulled a rope from his bag—he always kept a rope. He threw the rope down, jumped into the well, and brought the man out.
The man said: You alone seem human to me. A Buddhist monk passed by—preaching and gone. A Confucian monk passed by—he started an agitation. See, there he stands on the platform, stirring up a movement! Your great kindness—you did well.
The missionary laughed and said: The kindness is not mine upon you; it is yours upon me. Had you not fallen into the well, I would have been deprived of merit. Did you not know that Jesus Christ has said: Service is the path to God. I am seeking God. I roam around only in the hope that someone may fall into a well so I may jump, that someone may become ill so I may serve, that someone may go blind so I may bring medicine, that someone may get leprosy so I may treat him. I wander searching for such chances. Therefore I always keep a rope—lest someone fall into a well... You have done kindness to me; for without service there is no way to attain salvation. Always... always keep such kindness upon me, so that I may go to moksha. It is written in our book.
The poor fellow must have thought he helped me out of compassion—but he was mistaken. No one cares for this man. This man is visible to no one. Everyone has his own book, his own doctrine. Everyone has his own knowledge.
Between man and man stand walls of knowledge. Between man and trees—walls of knowledge. Between man and oceans—walls of knowledge. Between man and Paramatman—walls of knowledge.
A seeker must break these walls of knowledge—ruthlessly, mercilessly. Drop every brick of “knowing,” and stand in such a way that: I know nothing. Then a relationship with life can happen—otherwise, not. Then we can be connected. Then, in this very moment, dialogue can happen—relationship can blossom—this very moment. Who then can prevent it? Who remains to obstruct?
Kabir had a son—Kamal. One morning Kabir said: Kamal, go to the forest and cut a little grass.
Kamal went. Morning passed into noon. Kabir kept watching the path, watching. Evening began to fall. Kabir thought: What is Kamal doing! I sent him to cut grass—we needed it to feed the cow. Where is he?
Kabir went seeking him into the forest. There stood Kamal, up to his neck amidst the grasses. The gusts of wind swayed the grass. Kamal swayed with it. Kabir went and caught him, said: Mad boy—what are you doing!
He opened his eyes; they had been closed. He said: I became incapable of cutting. When I came here, the grass was swaying in such bliss. The sun was showering gold; the winds were so fresh; the grass swayed in such joy that I too began to sway. My relationship with the grass was made. You came and shook me, and only then I remembered I am Kamal. I had been thinking I am also a part of the grass—I am grass! Then who would cut whom? I became grass! Whether Kabir understood or not, Kamal said: I became grass.
If someone sits by the ocean with no knowledge at all, he will soon find he has become the ocean. The dialogue will begin. Sit by a tree, without knowledge, without conceit, without any ego—you will soon find you have become the tree. Sit by a flower—you will find you have become the flower. There is a relationship which knowledge breaks—which cannot be formed because of knowledge. If that connection is made, life sends news from every side—what we may call the tidings of the Lord.
From the songs of birds begins to arrive that sound which does not come from the Vedas. From the trembling branches of trees begins to arise that voice which is not in the Quran, which Mahavira cannot say, which Buddha cannot say—no spoken word can say it. It begins to manifest in silence.
But for it, a fitness is needed—the simple, humble heart of the ignorant. Not the proud, hard, strong mind of the learned.
Therefore, on the first step I say to you: become ignorant. Acknowledge that you are ignorant.
And it is a great secret—that the one who recognizes his ignorance has taken the first step toward knowledge. Those who come to know that they do not know—their movement toward knowing begins. One day they will truly know. But humility is needed for knowing—and humility exists nowhere except in ignorance. It can exist nowhere else.
So, the first sutra for the seeker is: the awareness of ignorance. The awareness of ignorance! For this awareness there is no need to read scriptures—indeed, those who read scriptures find nothing but difficulty in attaining it. Nor is there any need to go to a guru—for with gurus, knowledge may be obtained. How will the awareness of ignorance be obtained? Nor is there any need to attend satsangs—for there words and doctrines are found. How will this awareness be attained?
For this awareness, in solitude, alone, you must understand your actual state. Do I know? Ask yourself again and again: Do I know? The answer will arise from within: No, I do not. If learned doctrines stand in the way and say, Yes, you know—then test them a little. I learned these by hearing, by reading—or do I know? Did I glean them from scripture? Are these words and doctrines—or are these my experiences? Ask this much of them, and they will instantly fall—they cannot stand.
Knowledge is baseless. It needs only a small jolt—like a palace of cards—it collapses.
Knowledge is a paper boat. Leave it in water and it will sink.
This “knowledge” is not ours at all—we are merely sitting having made and believed that it is. So long as we believe it, it is. The day we open our eyes and recognize, that very day it is not. And the day knowledge becomes “not,” the door to enter life opens.
So, in this morning’s talk I say only one thing: become available to ignorance.
The feeling of ignorance is great blessedness, great fulfillment.
Drop the trash of what you have “known.” Ignorance has a depth that no knowledge contains. For however much knowledge there is, it is limited. Ignorance can be infinite—ignorance is infinite. Knowledge, however much, can be added to. Ignorance is endless—nothing can be added or subtracted from it. If you know, you can know more and more and more. If you do not know—you do not know. There is nothing to add or remove. Such awareness of ignorance Augustine named “divine ignorance.” Truly, there is a great divinity in ignorance—for in ignorance there is no way for ego to stand; and where ego is not, there divinity begins. Where there is a possibility for ego to stand, there divinity is shattered.
This was a little of the morning’s message. Think upon it, examine it, recognize it—and if it becomes visible, then demolish it: demolish the house of knowledge, so that the temple of ignorance can be raised.
All the edifices belong to knowledge; ignorance has its own temple.
After this, we shall sit for the morning meditation.
So I will say two or three things about the morning meditation, then we shall sit for the experiment.
Meditation is a very simple thing. Whatever is essential is simple. Difficulty always belongs to the untrue; with truth there is no difficulty.
Meditation is very simple, utterly simple. There is nothing to do—just for a little while, fall into a state of non-doing. The state of not-doing. Do nothing—drop everything for a while. This is such a good opportunity here, such a beautiful place, that to let go into not-doing is very easy.
What will be the sutras of not-doing?
First: let there be no sense of doing in the mind. When we sit to meditate, there is a sense: I am meditating, I am worshiping, I am praying, I am doing something. The sense of doing creates stress, tension. Where the sense of doing comes, tension comes; restlessness follows in its wake. With the sense of not-doing, peace can come, relaxation can come.
So first: now, when we sit for meditation—our entire language is the language of doing. We even say, We will do meditation. It is wrong to say, for there is no possibility of doing in meditation. But our entire language—human language—is the language of doing; we have no language for non-doing.
In Japan, about a hundred and fifty years ago, there was a great monastery, a vast ashram. Some five hundred bhikshus practiced there. The emperor became eager to see it and went. The ashram spread far and wide in the forest; cottages were scattered. The head monk began to show them: In this cottage our monks cook; in this cottage they study; in this cottage they sing—here they do this, there they do that; here they bathe.
In the middle stood a large building—the monk said nothing about it. The king asked again and again: Good, good—but in that big building, what do you do? Each time he heard this, the monk fell silent—as if he had gone deaf, as if he could not hear. Then he began to speak again of the other cottages. They circled the large building but not a word was said about it. They came to the gate; the king was about to depart. He said: I understand—either I am mad or you are. The building I came to see—you have not said a word about it. I asked again and again, and you turned deaf. What is done in that big building?
The monk said: You put me in great difficulty. You keep asking: What do you do in that big building? So I understood that you can only understand the language of doing. Therefore I told you: here we bathe, here we cook, here we eat, here we read books—I used the language of action, of doing. Now that building in the center—there we do nothing. When a monk desires to do nothing at all, he goes there. That is our meditation hall. And you ask: What do you do there? You put me in trouble. If I say we do meditation there, it will be a mistake, because meditation has nothing to do with doing. There we do nothing.
This meditation I am speaking of is the art of doing nothing.
You may have chanted Ram-Ram and called it meditation. You may have turned the mala and called it meditation. You may have recited the Gayatri and called it meditation. You may have chanted the Navkar and called it meditation. None of that is meditation. So long as you are doing something, you cannot enter meditation—whether turning the mala, reciting Ram-Ram, Gayatri, Navkar or anything else. So long as you are doing, you are outside meditation. When you are doing nothing—utterly silent, all at rest, the entire machinery of doing fallen still—then you enter meditation.
Meditation is non-action.
Meditation is non-action... So, how will we enter meditation here—how enter non-action?
First, know this within: I am doing nothing. Let it be clear in feeling that I am not doing anything—I am going to sink into non-doing. At the level of feeling, this awareness: I am sitting in not-doing. I will sit quietly, only relaxed; I will do nothing—this is first.
Second: Even if you sit relaxed, the winds will still blow; the winds will not relax. Birds will still speak—the crow will caw. The ocean will roar; the leaves of the trees will stir and create sound. All this will continue. You will become inactive—but the whole world will remain in activity. What will you do toward this activity?
Only remain aware of it. Remain filled with wakefulness, with alertness. Let the crow’s cawing be heard. Let the ocean’s roar be heard. Let the winds come and shake the trees—let that be heard. Let whatever is happening around be experienced within your awareness, your wakefulness. You do nothing—only remain awake. Only listen.
And remember—wakefulness is not an action. When you are engaged in action, your inner wakefulness falls asleep. When you are utterly in non-action, wakefulness manifests fully.
Wakefulness is not an act; it is man’s nature. Not an act, not a karma—it is man’s state of consciousness.
So only aware, filled with alertness, conscious—sit silently by these trees. Breath will continue—silently feel the breath. And keep listening—to whatever is heard around. Just by listening silently, you will be amazed—in one or two moments, a deep peace will begin to descend within. In a little while all will dissolve—only a vast silence will remain within. In that silence, if a bird calls, its resonance will be heard; the resonance will dissolve, and the silence will become still deeper. Nothing will obstruct. Everything happening around will become an ally, a friend.
Once you remain relaxed and silent, thoughts will fall quiet of their own accord, will dissolve. They need not be stilled, nor removed. One who sits in silence and becomes aware of the surrounding world—gradually his thoughts cease by themselves. This can happen here and now.
Before we sit—let us scatter a little, so that no one is touching anyone. Here is ample space; there are many trees—choose your own tree. Keep some distance, so you can be utterly alone and inactive. Move a little away, so that no one is touching anyone.
(Leave each other’s company a little... yes, you move forward... now you can move.)
Spread out a little from each other—keep a little distance. Do not talk; there is no need to talk. Move silently aside. Why miss the joy of being alone—move quietly aside. Sit in complete ease. Give the body no tension. Sit as is comfortable for you. No special asana is needed, no strain, no tension upon the body—sit utterly at ease.
And even in the middle, if you feel a leg has grown heavy, quietly change its position. If a hand tires, change it. Do not be anxious that if the body moves, meditation will be destroyed. Meditation has no relation to the movements of the body. The body may move, and the mind remain silent and inactive—there is no harm. But if your leg is heavy and you force it to stay, your whole attention will be trapped in the leg and go nowhere.
Leave it utterly loose. Close the eyes very gently—so gently that even the eyelids feel no strain. Let the lids fall by themselves—they will close of their own accord. Close the eyes softly. First of all, drop all tension in the brain. No strain—let it be utterly loose. We are doing nothing—we are entering rest. Do not place any burden upon the head—release it utterly. Like an opened fist, let all the nervous tensions of the mind be released. Let no weight remain upon the head.
Good. Now silence... enter the feeling: “I am doing nothing.” Enter this feeling: I am doing nothing... I am doing nothing... I am doing nothing... Enter this feeling... I am doing nothing... Then quietly keep listening to the winds, to the birds. Listen silently—just keep listening. Remain awake. Listen—keep listening to the voices of the birds, to the ocean’s roar, to the sound of the winds. Keep listening. No tension—listen in complete peace. Listening and listening, the mind will grow silent. Listening and listening, the mind will grow still. A deep silence will arise within. You will forget that you are. The winds will remain, the ocean will remain, the birds will remain—you will not. Listen... for ten minutes, only listen... silent... listen in silence...
(A woman sobbing loudly...)
(Do not talk... lay her down, lay her down...)
Keep listening in silence... keep listening in peace... slowly the mind will become utterly quiet... the mind will grow quiet... the mind will become completely silent... the winds remain, the birds remain—you have dissolved. Dissolve utterly—you are not. See... quietly... you have dissolved... the mind is becoming still...
(Birds’ voices... all is quiet...)
The mind is growing quiet... the mind is becoming utterly still... the mind is growing quiet... the mind is growing quiet... the mind has become completely still... the mind has become quiet... the winds remain, the birds’ voices remain—you have dissolved... dissolve utterly... all has become quiet... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become completely still... the mind has become quiet...
Now, slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then very gently open the eyes. As all is quiet within, so all will appear quiet without. Gently open the eyes... gently open the eyes...
One small thing I will say at the end, then the morning sitting will be complete.
It is this: in meditation it may happen that some may enter a state of emotional overflow. No one else need be worried by this. Some feelings may want to be expressed—someone may begin to weep, someone to laugh—still, others need not be concerned in the least. And if any feeling wants to arise within someone, there is no need to suppress it—let it flow quietly. To let it flow has deep consequences, profound benefits in release.
If any feeling wants to arise within, there is absolutely no need to stop it. All seekers are gathered here. They will understand each other. Whatever state arises, others need not be anxious. And if any feeling arises within anyone, there is no need to force it down. If someone feels like crying—cry. If someone’s tears begin to flow—let them flow. Let whatever wants to happen within, happen. If something has been held back, suppressed within—if it flows away, afterwards the mind attains a very deep peace. So there is no need at all to worry.
Osho's Commentary
One night—midnight had passed—and Socrates had not returned home. His friends and disciples grew restless. Since morning he had been out, and till midnight he had been seen nowhere in the village, met no one in the village. And now, with midnight past, there was still no trace of him. At last they went out to search. They combed the lanes and alleys. Then outside the village... it was a moonlit night; they wandered far and wide beyond the outskirts looking for him. Toward dawn they found him, sitting by a tree. The last star of night was about to sink, and his eyes were fixed upon the sky. As if he had turned to stone, as if frozen in the cold of the night!
His friends went and shook him. As though he were not upon this earth at all—somewhere else, in another realm, perhaps near those stars he had gazed at all night. He lowered his eyes. He stirred. He recognized his friends and said: How much time must have passed?
They said: The whole night has passed. It is close to the next morning. You left at sunrise. Where were you?
Socrates said: I came here. I watched the morning sun rise, I watched noon come, I watched the evening sun set. I journeyed with the sun the whole day. Then night came, then the moon, then the stars. They led me astray, I was lost in them—and I did not even know how much time had passed!
His friends asked: What was there in the moon and the stars? What was there in the sun, that twenty-four hours went by and you knew nothing?
Socrates said: You are surprised—it is I who should be surprised. What is there not in the moon and stars? What is there not in the sun, that would not enchant a man, would not lift him out of himself in wonder, would not call him near; would not drown him in its song, its music! What is not there? I should be the one to ask, and instead you ask me what there is in the moon and stars! That the night passed and you knew it not—blessed are those who discover something in the moon and stars, in trees, in oceans, in mountains, in the eyes of man; to whom something becomes visible there. Perhaps they alone are the ones with eyes. The rest are blind.
We too are blind. Nothing appears to our eyes!
How has this blindness been fashioned within us? We must understand a little about this—and how to break this blindness is also essential to know. No one can enter the world of sadhana if he walks with a fundamental blindness toward life.
If we cannot even see a flower, how shall we see Paramatman?
If even the roaring of the ocean is not heard by us, how shall we hear the voice of the Lord?
If the moon and stars are not visible to us, how shall we find that light which is the breath of life?
We see nothing. We pass almost as if asleep. We move with our eyes closed. From birth to death, the waves of life stir our being nowhere; no sensitivity seizes us; nothing can bewitch us.
Religion’s first concern is the experience of life’s mystery—that which is the mystery of life. And the whole of life is mysterious—from a small stone to the sun in the sky; from a tiny seed to trees that touch the heavens—everything that is, is profoundly mysterious.
But that mystery does not appear to us. For the capacity required to see the mysterious—we perhaps have not earned it. The receptivity required, the openness required, the doors of the heart that must be flung wide—perhaps our heart’s doors are not open, they are shut. Perhaps we sit in some inner prison, with all the windows and doors closed, with eyes closed. And then if our life is dark and filled with gloom; if foul airs and stench surround us; if anxieties and tensions take up residence in our home—there is no surprise in it. It is natural; it will be so.
How have we adopted this numbness toward life! And then we ask: Is there God? We ask: Is the soul immortal? We ask all the questions—but one question we forget to ask: Do we have eyes to see life’s mystery or not?
Day by day man has been losing the eye to see the mystery of life. The more civilized we became, the more that eye was lost. The more “understanding” we became, the more our knowledge grew, the more we turned our back upon life’s wonder—the unfathomable, the enigmatic for which there is no solution. We have withdrawn from it.
We have forgotten that life is an insoluble riddle—forgotten within our knowledge, our information, our cleverness. Man has concluded that almost everything is known, and what is not yet known will be known. There is nothing unknowable in life; everything can be known. This is utterly contrary to truth.
In life, everything is unknowable. And that which we think we know is not knowing. Nothing whatsoever can be known in life. From a tiny leaf to all that appears—everything is very, very unknown, very unknowable, very unfathomable, deeply mysterious. This mystery can never be broken. What little we “know” is acquaintance, not knowledge—acquaintance. We mistake acquaintance for knowledge! For a few days we become acquainted with some things...
We sit here in this cypress grove, on the seashore. When you came yesterday, these cypress trees and this shore must have felt a little unfamiliar. Today you are acquainted; tomorrow more so; the day after, still more. By the time you leave, this cypress grove will no longer be seen; the roar of the ocean will no longer be heard—it will seem “we know it.” Those who live nearby, nothing is visible to them here.
People travel to Kashmir. Those who live there see nothing. The hills of the Himalayas—people journey from afar like madmen to behold them. Those who live there see nothing. Do they know? No—only acquaintance has happened. By living near, by seeing daily, the illusion arises that we know.
Acquaintance gives birth to the illusion of knowledge.
Man is becoming acquainted with the world and takes this to be knowing. This illusion of knowing—this knowing attitude that “I know”—is shattering life’s entire mystery.
A seeker should break this illusion of knowing and become available to wonder.
Can you sit near these trees as if for the very first time you have descended into an unknown realm, where nothing is familiar? Can you listen to the ocean’s roar as though hearing and knowing it for the first time, the very first time? As the first man on earth must have seen the earth—can you see like that? When the first man steps on the moon and looks at it—dumbstruck, wonder-struck, silent—everything unfamiliar, everything unknown—can you stand upon the earth for a moment like that? If you can, the first step of sadhana is crossed.
In these three days I will ask you to stand here in that way—as if your boat has struck upon the shore of Nargol and you have disembarked in an unknown land where nothing is familiar. Everything is unfamiliar—the sand, the trees, the shore, the sky. All unfamiliar.
And this is the truth: when we are born, we come knowing nothing; we are born wholly unknown, utter strangers. Birth sets us in a strange land. And when we die, we depart without knowing a thing! With what does a man finish? Even at the last moment, our consciousness is where it was at the first moment of birth. We know nothing, and we go.
This illusion of knowing that arises between birth and death is only the illusion of acquaintance.
A father thinks, I know my son; a wife thinks, I know my husband; a friend thinks, I know my friend. No one knows anyone.
This unknownness, this strangeness—this is what must be grasped, recognized. Turn your attention to it; let it become part of meditation; let this be the center of your dhyana, your contemplation and reflection—that we do not know anything. Can it become so?
It can, if we show a little courage and drop the ego that has been created by “knowing.” The deepest ego within man is the ego of knowing.
Ask anyone: Is there God? He will say, Yes, there is God—or he will say, No, there is no God. And in both cases he will assert, I know. Rarely will you find a person who can remain silent and say, I do not know.
I would want you to be that person who can say, fearlessly and with certainty: I do not know. Ask yourself: Do I know anything? Raise the question deep within: Do I know? What do I know?
Let alone knowing anything else—I do not know myself. I do not know myself; I do not know that which I am! Then what else will I know? That which is closest, which is within me, is unfamiliar and unknown—how will that which is outside and far from me be familiar and known? Do you know yourself? Perhaps you have never asked.
We accept some things without ever asking! Everyone simply accepts, “I know myself!” and then lives and moves as if he knows. We have never questioned—how can the journey move forward without the question?
The first question each must ask himself is this: Do I know myself? Who am I? What am I? From where am I? For where am I?
And there is no answer to these four basic questions! Neither is it known who I am, nor what I am, nor whence I come, nor whither I go. There is no answer to these four fundamental questions—yet we have accepted that we know ourselves!
One morning—about three o’clock—Schopenhauer went into a small garden. It was still night, dark. The gardener was puzzled: who could have come so late? He took his lantern and his spear and went inside. Schopenhauer was walking there among the trees, talking to himself.
The gardener suspected: surely a madman has entered—talking alone to himself! From a distance he called out, Who are you? From where have you come? For what have you come? What do you want?
Schopenhauer laughed loudly and said: You ask such difficult questions as no man has ever answered till today. You ask, Who are you? I have spent my whole life asking—and I have yet to find who I am. You ask, From where have you come? No one has ever been able to tell from where he came. I am also unable. You ask, For what have you come? I have no idea for what I have come!
Surely that gardener must have concluded: this man is mad, who does not know even this much. But who was mad—the gardener, or the man who did not know? Who was mad?
If you know—or you are under the illusion that you know—then you may be mad. But if you do not know, that is the human condition; the human situation is that man does not know. There is no question of madness in this.
But lest we be taken for mad, we have made arrangements. We have organized an identity and knowledge of ourselves. We have devised ways to feel as if we know ourselves. We have taken names, made castes, created religions, created nations!
So that when someone points toward us and asks, Who is this man?—we have a name, a caste, a religion, a country; we have parents, their names; lineages, ancestries! We have arranged things so that we may be recognized. And all our arrangement is false—imagined, dreamlike. What is anyone’s name? What is anyone’s caste? What is anyone’s religion? What country—whose?
We have drawn false lines on the earth—of India and China, of Russia and America—false lines that exist nowhere on the ground. But... so that we can say: I am from here!
And we have pasted false names and labels on man as well—someone is Ram, someone is Krishna, someone is some other. These names are utterly false. Man is born with no name.
We have pasted the names of castes as well—and they too are utterly false. Man is not born into any caste. All castes are superimposed upon man.
And we have attached our parents’ names to ourselves. Neither did they truly have a name, nor their parents, nor theirs.
But we have carved out a small corner of knowledge and created the illusion that we know ourselves. In that illusion we live and perish.
A seeker should break that illusion—raze that corner. He should know precisely: I have no name, no caste, no country; I have no identity. I am wholly unknown—like these gusts of wind are unknown; like these trees are unknown; like the moon and stars of the sky are unknown; like the ocean’s water is nameless, unfamiliar, unknown—so too are the waves of a man’s life unknown, unfamiliar, unknowable.
And not only has man made an outer identity, he has made an inner identity as well. Ask someone: Who is within you? He will say, Within me is Atman. The Atman is immortal. I had past lives. There is the fruit of karma. There will be future births. There is heaven and hell. Those who become pure go to moksha.
In the unknown, in the dark—we have written we know not what. This knowledge, too, is man’s contrived and imagined knowledge. We do not know this either—we know nothing at all. Yet we go on repeating these words. We cling to them. We even “meditate” upon these very words.
A sannyasin came to me recently. I asked him, What do you meditate upon? What sadhana do you do? He said: When I sit in solitude I think, I am sat-chit-ananda, the form of the Divine. I am the pure, intelligent Atman. I am immortal life. I have no death. I am not the body. I am not the mind. I am the Atman. This I meditate. This is my meditation!
I asked him: Do you know these things? Are these known to you? Are these your experience—your own knowing—that you are the pure, intelligent Atman? Or are these heard and learned words? Then I asked him: If you truly know that you are the pure, intelligent Atman, what need is there to repeat it every day? What is known is never repeated.
What is not known we repeat again and again—to create the illusion that it is known.
If it is known that I am Paramatman; if Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman—is truly your knowing, what need is there to keep repeating it? No one repeats what he knows. What we do not know, that we repeat. By repeating again and again the illusion arises—we become acquainted with the words. Through constant repetition acquaintance arises. We forget that when we first said it, we did not know. After saying it fifty times, it seems we do. But if at the very first step it was not known, repeating it fifty times cannot make it known.
Repetition leads nowhere except to illusion.
If at first I did not know, what will happen if I repeat a thousand times? A lie repeated a thousand times does not become truth. And ignorance repeated a thousand times does not become knowledge.
Yet we repeat. When we want to deceive others, we take recourse to repetition. When we want to deceive ourselves, we take recourse to repetition.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: There is no falsehood which cannot be made into truth by repeating it again and again. He wrote rightly.
Any falsehood, repeated again and again, begins to appear true.
Most of the truths we “know” are such repeated falsehoods which, by repetition, we have accepted as truth. We can believe anything. Through constant repetition the illusion is created.
We have created an identity for the body and an identity for the within. We know nothing of either. If any step is to be taken toward truth, first of all our state of ignorance should become clear. From a clear awareness of ignorance, the journey can begin—because that ignorance is factual.
This not-knowing is a fact—a factuality. I am not teaching you that you do not know. Not-knowing is our real situation. But in the world you are constantly taught to “know yourself” in such and such a way—repeat these things, keep repeating them, keep repeating them—and through repetition, knowledge will be born!
For thousands of years man has been taught to repeat certain formulas. Sit and repeat: I am God, I am Paramatman, I am Atman, I am this, I am that. If a man repeats his whole life long, the illusion arises that “I am that.” But what was untrue at the first step cannot be true at the last.
What do I want to say to you?
Even by mistake, do not repeat such things. They create the illusion of knowledge; they do not create knowledge. What is man’s actual situation? What is the actual state of our chitta—our state of mind?
The plain and simple thing is: we do not know; we know nothing. But man does not want to accept ignorance. Man’s deepest denial is the denial of ignorance. If someone says to us, You do not know, we are ready to fight. If anyone says in any matter, You do not know, we are ready to quarrel. The greatest hurt to our ego happens when someone says, You do not know—or, You know wrongly.
Why does it hurt?
Perhaps because he exposes our truth which we have concealed within, covered with many veils. If someone lifts even a corner of the veil, we are in trouble. We are ready to fight, to enter into argument.
What quarrel have the religions of the world been engaged in till today?
Only one quarrel: Every religion claims, We know. And if someone says, No—you do not know, and you know wrongly—swords begin to flash. As if the sword were any evidence of knowing. As if murdering someone were an argument. As if putting fire to temples and mosques were any witness, any testimony.
Man’s ignorance is deep, fundamental—and upon that ignorance he has pasted all his talk of knowledge. A slight breeze, and the labels begin to fly off—and he is filled with rage. A small denial from someone, and anger surges.
But I say to you: If you are to take even a single step toward the truth of life, then the first acceptance—first acknowledgment—must be of our foundational ignorance: We do not know. We know nothing.
Why my insistence on this?
Because from fact one can go to truth; from theories one never reaches truth. From what is actual, from man’s real situation, one can move onward.
And further—if you remember that your state is ignorance, that you do not know—then you are no longer Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain, nor Christian. All those are prides of the “knowers.” What religion can an ignorant one have? What philosophy? What scripture?
The learned may have scriptures, doctrines, sects. The ignorant can have none—no sect, no scripture. No Gita, no Quran; no Krishna, no Mahavira. He has only one thing to say: I do not know. Therefore he has no claim, no assertion, no opposition, no dispute. Such a person stands in non-dispute. And remember—so long as there is the claim of knowledge, no one can be free of dispute. One may say as much as he likes, “I do not argue,” but if he harbors the idea “I know,” he is already in dispute.
Every knower is in dispute. He will remain in dispute—and die in dispute.
Only one who has no illusion of knowledge can be without dispute. The moment the illusion “I know” breaks, a humility, a gentleness begins to arise, unprecedented, unknown to you. You become as a small child.
What is the difference between the old and the child? Only one: children do not know; the old “know.” But the knowing of the old is false, and the not-knowing of the child is true.
The seeker again attains childhood. He wipes the memory clean and stands where the child stands. How small, shiny pebbles fill children with such wonder! The song of a little bird carries them to some other worlds! A tiny leaf trembling in the breeze ushers them into another life, another state! For children, the world seems filled with a thousand colors, with songs and sounds. This sunlight seems so golden. This moonlight so like silver. All that appears to us the most ordinary, appears to them utterly extraordinary. Why?
Within, there is the eye of wonder—not the conceit of knowing. The conceit of knowing erects walls around a man—shells, iron walls. Man becomes imprisoned within. Then his relationship with the world is broken. His dealings with life cease. Dialogue ends. The seeker must reattain this dialogue. Communion with life is needed. And communion with life is possible only when the shell of knowing cracks.
I tell friends: I teach ignorance. Knowledge has been taught too much. Knowledge has taken man nowhere—except into trouble. Knowledge has been over-taught—and man has fallen and reached nowhere. Between God and man, obstacles were erected. Knowledge did not become the bridge between God and man.
The learned scarcely ever know life—for the idea of knowing fills one with such ego that all humility is destroyed; the heart becomes hard and rigid.
Harder than the learned you will not find. The learned are the hardest. They have done the most killings—and got them done. The learned are supremely hard. Knowledge hardens.
There is a story I love. A great fair was being held. Near the fair, a man fell into a well. He cried out, Take me out, take me out—I’m drowning, I’m going down!
He was somehow clinging to the bricks, somehow holding on. The well was deep, and he did not know how to swim. But there was such noise in the fair—who would hear? A Buddhist monk came near the well, bent to drink water, and heard the voice below. He looked down. The man shouted: Bhikshuji, take me out! I am dying. Do something. My hands are slipping...
The monk said: Why are you troubling yourself to come out? Life is dukkha—suffering. God has said, life is suffering; Buddha has said, life is suffering. Life is a pain. And Buddha also said, whatever happens in life is the result of past karma. You must have pushed someone into a well in some past birth—therefore you have fallen. One must suffer one’s fruits. Suffer the fruit and you will be freed from the net of karma. Do not try uselessly to come out. And the monk drank water and went on.
He did not say wrong things. He said what is written in the scriptures. He knew. The dying man did not appear to him—for in between came the scriptures he knew. The man was drowning—he did not see him. He saw the doctrine of karma. He saw the futility of life. He gave a sermon and moved ahead. No one is harder than a sermonizer.
He had not gone far when a Confucian monk arrived—a sannyasin who followed Confucius. He also heard the cry. He looked down.
He said: My friend, in his book Confucius has written that every well should have steps, a parapet; a wall should surround it so that no one can fall. This well has no wall, therefore you fell. We have been telling people in village after village that what Confucius has said must be done. Do not worry—I will go and start an agitation. I will explain to people. We will go to the king. We will say: Confucius has said every well must have a wall, so that none can fall. In your kingdom there are no walls, people are falling.
The man said: All that is fine—but I will die by then. First take me out.
The monk said: It is not your question—it is the question of the people. The life and death of one man makes no difference. It is a question for all. Consider yourself blessed that you initiated a movement. You are a martyr!
Leaders of the world make people fools in this very way: You are a martyr—die, so that a great movement may arise—socialism will come, communism will come! Democracy will come in the world. You die.
The individual has no value; what has value is humanity. And “humanity” is nowhere except in words. Wherever we look, we find only man. “Humanity” is found nowhere—humanity is only a word. Scriptures write of humanity. Search, and you always find a human being. But those who follow scriptures say humanity must be saved. They do not care a whit for the sacrifice of individuals. Let one after another be sacrificed—humanity must be saved!
The man kept drowning, kept shouting. The Confucian monk went and climbed a platform. He gathered thousands in the fair and said: Look—until parapets are built on wells, mankind will suffer much. Every well must have a parapet—this is the sign of a good state. Confucius has written in his book. He opened the book and showed people.
The man kept shouting. In that fair, who would hear? A Christian missionary passed by. He heard the voice. He quickly took off his clothes, pulled a rope from his bag—he always kept a rope. He threw the rope down, jumped into the well, and brought the man out.
The man said: You alone seem human to me. A Buddhist monk passed by—preaching and gone. A Confucian monk passed by—he started an agitation. See, there he stands on the platform, stirring up a movement! Your great kindness—you did well.
The missionary laughed and said: The kindness is not mine upon you; it is yours upon me. Had you not fallen into the well, I would have been deprived of merit. Did you not know that Jesus Christ has said: Service is the path to God. I am seeking God. I roam around only in the hope that someone may fall into a well so I may jump, that someone may become ill so I may serve, that someone may go blind so I may bring medicine, that someone may get leprosy so I may treat him. I wander searching for such chances. Therefore I always keep a rope—lest someone fall into a well... You have done kindness to me; for without service there is no way to attain salvation. Always... always keep such kindness upon me, so that I may go to moksha. It is written in our book.
The poor fellow must have thought he helped me out of compassion—but he was mistaken. No one cares for this man. This man is visible to no one. Everyone has his own book, his own doctrine. Everyone has his own knowledge.
Between man and man stand walls of knowledge. Between man and trees—walls of knowledge. Between man and oceans—walls of knowledge. Between man and Paramatman—walls of knowledge.
A seeker must break these walls of knowledge—ruthlessly, mercilessly. Drop every brick of “knowing,” and stand in such a way that: I know nothing. Then a relationship with life can happen—otherwise, not. Then we can be connected. Then, in this very moment, dialogue can happen—relationship can blossom—this very moment. Who then can prevent it? Who remains to obstruct?
Kabir had a son—Kamal. One morning Kabir said: Kamal, go to the forest and cut a little grass.
Kamal went. Morning passed into noon. Kabir kept watching the path, watching. Evening began to fall. Kabir thought: What is Kamal doing! I sent him to cut grass—we needed it to feed the cow. Where is he?
Kabir went seeking him into the forest. There stood Kamal, up to his neck amidst the grasses. The gusts of wind swayed the grass. Kamal swayed with it. Kabir went and caught him, said: Mad boy—what are you doing!
He opened his eyes; they had been closed. He said: I became incapable of cutting. When I came here, the grass was swaying in such bliss. The sun was showering gold; the winds were so fresh; the grass swayed in such joy that I too began to sway. My relationship with the grass was made. You came and shook me, and only then I remembered I am Kamal. I had been thinking I am also a part of the grass—I am grass! Then who would cut whom? I became grass! Whether Kabir understood or not, Kamal said: I became grass.
If someone sits by the ocean with no knowledge at all, he will soon find he has become the ocean. The dialogue will begin. Sit by a tree, without knowledge, without conceit, without any ego—you will soon find you have become the tree. Sit by a flower—you will find you have become the flower. There is a relationship which knowledge breaks—which cannot be formed because of knowledge. If that connection is made, life sends news from every side—what we may call the tidings of the Lord.
From the songs of birds begins to arrive that sound which does not come from the Vedas. From the trembling branches of trees begins to arise that voice which is not in the Quran, which Mahavira cannot say, which Buddha cannot say—no spoken word can say it. It begins to manifest in silence.
But for it, a fitness is needed—the simple, humble heart of the ignorant. Not the proud, hard, strong mind of the learned.
Therefore, on the first step I say to you: become ignorant. Acknowledge that you are ignorant.
And it is a great secret—that the one who recognizes his ignorance has taken the first step toward knowledge. Those who come to know that they do not know—their movement toward knowing begins. One day they will truly know. But humility is needed for knowing—and humility exists nowhere except in ignorance. It can exist nowhere else.
So, the first sutra for the seeker is: the awareness of ignorance. The awareness of ignorance! For this awareness there is no need to read scriptures—indeed, those who read scriptures find nothing but difficulty in attaining it. Nor is there any need to go to a guru—for with gurus, knowledge may be obtained. How will the awareness of ignorance be obtained? Nor is there any need to attend satsangs—for there words and doctrines are found. How will this awareness be attained?
For this awareness, in solitude, alone, you must understand your actual state. Do I know? Ask yourself again and again: Do I know? The answer will arise from within: No, I do not. If learned doctrines stand in the way and say, Yes, you know—then test them a little. I learned these by hearing, by reading—or do I know? Did I glean them from scripture? Are these words and doctrines—or are these my experiences? Ask this much of them, and they will instantly fall—they cannot stand.
Knowledge is baseless. It needs only a small jolt—like a palace of cards—it collapses.
Knowledge is a paper boat. Leave it in water and it will sink.
This “knowledge” is not ours at all—we are merely sitting having made and believed that it is. So long as we believe it, it is. The day we open our eyes and recognize, that very day it is not. And the day knowledge becomes “not,” the door to enter life opens.
So, in this morning’s talk I say only one thing: become available to ignorance.
The feeling of ignorance is great blessedness, great fulfillment.
Drop the trash of what you have “known.” Ignorance has a depth that no knowledge contains. For however much knowledge there is, it is limited. Ignorance can be infinite—ignorance is infinite. Knowledge, however much, can be added to. Ignorance is endless—nothing can be added or subtracted from it. If you know, you can know more and more and more. If you do not know—you do not know. There is nothing to add or remove. Such awareness of ignorance Augustine named “divine ignorance.” Truly, there is a great divinity in ignorance—for in ignorance there is no way for ego to stand; and where ego is not, there divinity begins. Where there is a possibility for ego to stand, there divinity is shattered.
This was a little of the morning’s message. Think upon it, examine it, recognize it—and if it becomes visible, then demolish it: demolish the house of knowledge, so that the temple of ignorance can be raised.
All the edifices belong to knowledge; ignorance has its own temple.
After this, we shall sit for the morning meditation.
So I will say two or three things about the morning meditation, then we shall sit for the experiment.
Meditation is a very simple thing. Whatever is essential is simple. Difficulty always belongs to the untrue; with truth there is no difficulty.
Meditation is very simple, utterly simple. There is nothing to do—just for a little while, fall into a state of non-doing. The state of not-doing. Do nothing—drop everything for a while. This is such a good opportunity here, such a beautiful place, that to let go into not-doing is very easy.
What will be the sutras of not-doing?
First: let there be no sense of doing in the mind. When we sit to meditate, there is a sense: I am meditating, I am worshiping, I am praying, I am doing something. The sense of doing creates stress, tension. Where the sense of doing comes, tension comes; restlessness follows in its wake. With the sense of not-doing, peace can come, relaxation can come.
So first: now, when we sit for meditation—our entire language is the language of doing. We even say, We will do meditation. It is wrong to say, for there is no possibility of doing in meditation. But our entire language—human language—is the language of doing; we have no language for non-doing.
In Japan, about a hundred and fifty years ago, there was a great monastery, a vast ashram. Some five hundred bhikshus practiced there. The emperor became eager to see it and went. The ashram spread far and wide in the forest; cottages were scattered. The head monk began to show them: In this cottage our monks cook; in this cottage they study; in this cottage they sing—here they do this, there they do that; here they bathe.
In the middle stood a large building—the monk said nothing about it. The king asked again and again: Good, good—but in that big building, what do you do? Each time he heard this, the monk fell silent—as if he had gone deaf, as if he could not hear. Then he began to speak again of the other cottages. They circled the large building but not a word was said about it. They came to the gate; the king was about to depart. He said: I understand—either I am mad or you are. The building I came to see—you have not said a word about it. I asked again and again, and you turned deaf. What is done in that big building?
The monk said: You put me in great difficulty. You keep asking: What do you do in that big building? So I understood that you can only understand the language of doing. Therefore I told you: here we bathe, here we cook, here we eat, here we read books—I used the language of action, of doing. Now that building in the center—there we do nothing. When a monk desires to do nothing at all, he goes there. That is our meditation hall. And you ask: What do you do there? You put me in trouble. If I say we do meditation there, it will be a mistake, because meditation has nothing to do with doing. There we do nothing.
This meditation I am speaking of is the art of doing nothing.
You may have chanted Ram-Ram and called it meditation. You may have turned the mala and called it meditation. You may have recited the Gayatri and called it meditation. You may have chanted the Navkar and called it meditation. None of that is meditation. So long as you are doing something, you cannot enter meditation—whether turning the mala, reciting Ram-Ram, Gayatri, Navkar or anything else. So long as you are doing, you are outside meditation. When you are doing nothing—utterly silent, all at rest, the entire machinery of doing fallen still—then you enter meditation.
Meditation is non-action.
Meditation is non-action... So, how will we enter meditation here—how enter non-action?
First, know this within: I am doing nothing. Let it be clear in feeling that I am not doing anything—I am going to sink into non-doing. At the level of feeling, this awareness: I am sitting in not-doing. I will sit quietly, only relaxed; I will do nothing—this is first.
Second: Even if you sit relaxed, the winds will still blow; the winds will not relax. Birds will still speak—the crow will caw. The ocean will roar; the leaves of the trees will stir and create sound. All this will continue. You will become inactive—but the whole world will remain in activity. What will you do toward this activity?
Only remain aware of it. Remain filled with wakefulness, with alertness. Let the crow’s cawing be heard. Let the ocean’s roar be heard. Let the winds come and shake the trees—let that be heard. Let whatever is happening around be experienced within your awareness, your wakefulness. You do nothing—only remain awake. Only listen.
And remember—wakefulness is not an action. When you are engaged in action, your inner wakefulness falls asleep. When you are utterly in non-action, wakefulness manifests fully.
Wakefulness is not an act; it is man’s nature. Not an act, not a karma—it is man’s state of consciousness.
So only aware, filled with alertness, conscious—sit silently by these trees. Breath will continue—silently feel the breath. And keep listening—to whatever is heard around. Just by listening silently, you will be amazed—in one or two moments, a deep peace will begin to descend within. In a little while all will dissolve—only a vast silence will remain within. In that silence, if a bird calls, its resonance will be heard; the resonance will dissolve, and the silence will become still deeper. Nothing will obstruct. Everything happening around will become an ally, a friend.
Once you remain relaxed and silent, thoughts will fall quiet of their own accord, will dissolve. They need not be stilled, nor removed. One who sits in silence and becomes aware of the surrounding world—gradually his thoughts cease by themselves. This can happen here and now.
Before we sit—let us scatter a little, so that no one is touching anyone. Here is ample space; there are many trees—choose your own tree. Keep some distance, so you can be utterly alone and inactive. Move a little away, so that no one is touching anyone.
(Leave each other’s company a little... yes, you move forward... now you can move.)
Spread out a little from each other—keep a little distance. Do not talk; there is no need to talk. Move silently aside. Why miss the joy of being alone—move quietly aside. Sit in complete ease. Give the body no tension. Sit as is comfortable for you. No special asana is needed, no strain, no tension upon the body—sit utterly at ease.
And even in the middle, if you feel a leg has grown heavy, quietly change its position. If a hand tires, change it. Do not be anxious that if the body moves, meditation will be destroyed. Meditation has no relation to the movements of the body. The body may move, and the mind remain silent and inactive—there is no harm. But if your leg is heavy and you force it to stay, your whole attention will be trapped in the leg and go nowhere.
Leave it utterly loose. Close the eyes very gently—so gently that even the eyelids feel no strain. Let the lids fall by themselves—they will close of their own accord. Close the eyes softly. First of all, drop all tension in the brain. No strain—let it be utterly loose. We are doing nothing—we are entering rest. Do not place any burden upon the head—release it utterly. Like an opened fist, let all the nervous tensions of the mind be released. Let no weight remain upon the head.
Good. Now silence... enter the feeling: “I am doing nothing.” Enter this feeling: I am doing nothing... I am doing nothing... I am doing nothing... Enter this feeling... I am doing nothing... Then quietly keep listening to the winds, to the birds. Listen silently—just keep listening. Remain awake. Listen—keep listening to the voices of the birds, to the ocean’s roar, to the sound of the winds. Keep listening. No tension—listen in complete peace. Listening and listening, the mind will grow silent. Listening and listening, the mind will grow still. A deep silence will arise within. You will forget that you are. The winds will remain, the ocean will remain, the birds will remain—you will not. Listen... for ten minutes, only listen... silent... listen in silence...
(A woman sobbing loudly...)
(Do not talk... lay her down, lay her down...)
Keep listening in silence... keep listening in peace... slowly the mind will become utterly quiet... the mind will grow quiet... the mind will become completely silent... the winds remain, the birds remain—you have dissolved. Dissolve utterly—you are not. See... quietly... you have dissolved... the mind is becoming still...
(Birds’ voices... all is quiet...)
The mind is growing quiet... the mind is becoming utterly still... the mind is growing quiet... the mind is growing quiet... the mind has become completely still... the mind has become quiet... the winds remain, the birds’ voices remain—you have dissolved... dissolve utterly... all has become quiet... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become completely still... the mind has become quiet...
Now, slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then very gently open the eyes. As all is quiet within, so all will appear quiet without. Gently open the eyes... gently open the eyes...
One small thing I will say at the end, then the morning sitting will be complete.
It is this: in meditation it may happen that some may enter a state of emotional overflow. No one else need be worried by this. Some feelings may want to be expressed—someone may begin to weep, someone to laugh—still, others need not be concerned in the least. And if any feeling wants to arise within someone, there is no need to suppress it—let it flow quietly. To let it flow has deep consequences, profound benefits in release.
If any feeling wants to arise within, there is absolutely no need to stop it. All seekers are gathered here. They will understand each other. Whatever state arises, others need not be anxious. And if any feeling arises within anyone, there is no need to force it down. If someone feels like crying—cry. If someone’s tears begin to flow—let them flow. Let whatever wants to happen within, happen. If something has been held back, suppressed within—if it flows away, afterwards the mind attains a very deep peace. So there is no need at all to worry.
The morning sitting is complete.