Neti Neti Shunya Ki Naon #3

A little child was playing outside his house. The morning sun had risen. The sun’s golden rays were showering over the garden. The morning breeze was fresh, butterflies were flitting over the flowers, and the child lay in the grass, playing. Then a thought came to him: if only he could capture these dancing sunrays, lock them up, keep them safe with him. He went inside and brought out a box. He shut the sunrays in that box, shut in the breezes. Then, dancing with joy, he carried the box inside to his mother and said, “You have no idea what I’ve captured in this box. The dancing sunrays, the morning winds—I’ve locked them all in here!”

He didn’t know that what he had tried to imprison cannot be imprisoned. He didn’t realize that while he brought the box inside, the sunrays remained outside.

His mother laughed and said, “Open it—open your box. Let me see which rays you’ve caught; I’ve never heard of anyone catching sunrays! Nor have I heard that morning breezes can be shut in boxes!”

Eager to amaze his mother, he opened the box—and stood stunned. Tears filled his eyes. Inside the box there was pitch darkness, not a single sunray. There was no fresh morning air. He began to cry, “But how? I closed them in—where did they go?”

Man too, standing on the shore of the ocean of truth, tries to lock into the boxes of words and scriptures the breezes of life and the rays of the divine that he experiences. We labor mightily to seal these boxes, but whenever anyone opens them there is nothing there except bare words, empty boxes.

Whatever is essential in life cannot be confined.

Whatever the method of confinement—words are nothing more than boxes for experiences. What life knows, we try to imprison in words and express. We try to seize what we have known and bind it in language. But only the words remain in our hands. That which was to be bound remains forever outside the bondage.

There is no way to bind the divine in any fetter.

Only in silence can he be spoken; there is no way to speak him in words.

Only in emptiness can his experience be found; there is no path to extract him from scriptures.

Yet whatever we get from scriptures we imagine is knowledge. They are mere words. Those who spoke them may have thought that what they were knowing could perhaps be bound in words. Behind this is their compassion, their love—that the human race might know what had become known to them.

But no—nothing descends into words; they are like empty cartridges. All such words are like empty shells; no experience comes tied within them.

If you have your own experience, then words become meaningful; but without your own experience the words are empty cartridges—nothing is inside them. Go on collecting such words—Brahman, nonduality, atman, sat-chit-ananda. Pile them up, fill your vaults with them, and only an illusion will arise that you have known something. You will not know anything. And that illusion is the obstacle.

Therefore I have said: knowledge does not lead to the door of the divine; what leads you there is the felt recognition, “I do not know.”

This illusion of knowing is produced by words. It is produced by scriptures, by doctrines. Whoever would search must dare. To attain truth one must dare to drop words.

What is our knowledge beyond a mere heap of words?

And what have we done within ourselves with this knowledge? Except that our selfhood, our ego, has grown stronger—we begin to feel, “I am something, because I know.” Our “I” becomes heavier and more weighty. Why have we gathered these words? Perhaps only so that I can feel, can experience, that I am something—that I know, that I am not ignorant.

Let me tell you one thing in this regard: whatever strengthens your ego—know it well—it will become a wall in the search for life’s truth, an obstacle, a stone—anything that fortifies your “I,” makes it dense, and creates the illusion that “I am.”

On a sea-shore, just as we are sitting here today, one evening the sun was setting. A father was sitting with his little son by the sea. The sun began to sink. The father pointed his finger at the sun and said, “Go down, go down!”

The sun was already going down. It went down and set. The child was amazed at his father’s power. His father is so mighty that when he says to the sun, “Go down,” the sun goes down!

The boy looked up at his father, took hold of his shoulders, and said, “My father, if you are so powerful, then grant me one more favor. Do it, Daddy, again—do it again; show me once more!”

The father must have felt great difficulty. But the clever always find a way out. He said, “This is the kind of work that can be done only once a day. Tomorrow evening I’ll show you again.”

Fathers become wise and powerful before their sons. Husbands become wise and powerful before their wives. Teachers become powerful and learned before their students. The old inflate their egos by displaying their knowledge to the young.

But life cannot be deceived in this way. We certainly deceive ourselves. All our knowledge is driven by this single attempt—to show that I am something. I know, I am powerful; I am not ignorant, I am not weak.

And what is the truth?

Our knowledge and we are like lines drawn on sand—vanishing. Our knowledge and we are like dry leaves—blown away by the winds and gone. Our knowledge and we are like houses of paper—collapsing in the slightest gust.

What, after all, can a man’s knowledge be? What power or strength does a man himself have? In this vast, immense existence, what is man? What is his capacity?

The moon and stars scarcely even know that you are. The moon and stars are far; even these trees hardly know that you are. The trees are far; even this sand hardly knows that you are. In this vast existence, what is the being of you, of me, of us human beings?

Yet man has nourished many, many false egos. Among them the deepest and most fundamental is this: that we know the truths of life. None of life’s truths are known to us. Life is profoundly unknown.

In life there is no distinction or distance between big and small things. Neither is the sun big, nor is a small lamp small. Not even a pebble is small, because the same mystery, the same secret of existence, is present in a tiny pebble as would be in the great Himalayas. A drop of water is just as mysterious as the Indian Ocean. The distinction between small and big is in man’s imagination. In existence there is no gap between small and big.

I have heard: one evening, when the sun began to set in the west, he cried out, “I am going now, and the dark night is about to descend. Who will fight with the darkness in my place, who will struggle?” The moon was silent, the stars were silent, but a small earthen lamp said: “I—I will keep fighting all night, until you return.” And all night a tiny lamp—fought with the darkness all night! The sun may be very great, but have you seen the struggle of a little lamp in the dark? Have you seen the flame of a small lamp trembling in storms? That tiny flame has its own mystery, which is no less than any sun. Within that little flame everything is hidden that is or could be in the greatest of suns. Who is small and who is big?

A poet has said that if we could know even a small flower in its totality, we would know the whole universe, the whole world, the whole of life. If a person could know completely even a small flower—a little grass flower—then nothing would remain to be known. Does knowing a single drop not make the ocean known? By knowing a tiny grain of sand, are not all mountains known? By unveiling a small atom, does one not come to the realization of the entirety of existence?

But no, nothing is truly known to us—and what we take to be knowledge is not knowledge; it is only a makeshift, utilitarian acquaintance. Because of that acquaintance, the illusion arises that we know.

I am fond of mentioning one person. Edison once went to a small village. Edison made a thousand inventions in his life. Perhaps no scientist has ever made so many—one thousand! In matters of electricity there was no greater authority than him. There was no one who knew as much about electricity as Edison. He went to a little village. The villagers did not even know who he was. In the village school, a small exhibition was on. The schoolchildren had made many playthings. The science students had also made electrical toys: a small boat, a train, a motorcar.

And the children, with great delight, were explaining each thing to the visitors who had come to see the exhibition. Edison, wandering around, also reached that exhibition. He went to the science section. The little children were explaining to him, “This boat runs on electricity. This car runs on electricity.” He watched with joy—awestruck, filled with wonder. The children, even happier, kept explaining to him.

Then suddenly that old man asked the children, “It’s all right that you say this machine, this boat, this car runs on electricity. But if I were to ask you, could you tell me? A small question has arisen in my mind: What is electricity? What is electricity, what is power?” The children said: “Electricity! We know how to run the boat by electricity, but what electricity is, that we do not know. We’ll call our teacher.”
They brought their teacher, and Edison asked him as well: What is electricity?
The teacher was taken aback. He was a science graduate. He said, "We do know how electricity works, but we have no idea what electricity is. But wait—our principal is a D.Sc., a great scholar of science. We'll call him."

They brought their principal. And no one knew that the man standing before them was the one who knew the most about electricity. The principal came and tried to explain. But Edison kept asking, "I am not asking how electricity works. I am not asking what things it is made of. I am asking: What is electricity?"

The principal said, "Forgive me. We do not know that." They all became very puzzled, very anxious. Then the old man began to laugh and said, "Perhaps you do not know—I am Edison, and I also do not know what electricity is."

This humility—this humbleness—is the first requirement for a seeker of truth. Edison could say, "I too do not know what electricity is." It is a sign of a religious mind that it accepts the infinite mystery of life.

One who accepts the mystery of life cannot at the same time accept himself as a knower, because the two are opposed. When someone says, "I am knowledgeable," he is saying that there is no mystery left in life; I have known it. Whatever we know is no longer a mystery.

The one who says, "I do not know," is saying that life is a mystery—an endless mystery.

Why do I put so much emphasis on a person’s not-knowing? Precisely so that the mysteriousness of life can return to your remembrance.

For the so‑called knower there is no mystery. Wherever we have known, the mystery ends. For thousands of years theologians have been murdering the mystery of man. They behave as if they know everything. Ask them who created the world and they have a readymade answer: God created it. Some even go so far as to say he made the world in six days and rested on the seventh. Some even give the date—telling you that so many thousand years ago, in such‑and‑such year, on such‑and‑such date, four thousand years before Jesus, the earth was created, life was made. They are always ready with an answer to everything.

How can man know when life was made and how it was made? Man comes into the midst of life—how can he know its beginning? How can a wave know when the ocean came into being? Only when the ocean is does the wave arise. When the ocean was not, the wave could not be—so how can the wave know? How can man know—how can anyone know—when and how life was born?

But no, the arrogance of the so‑called knowers is very strong. They are always ready to answer everything. There is no question they will refuse, no question for which they will say, "We don’t know." Take any question to the theologians; they always have answers ready.

That is why I tell you: a scientist may perhaps someday come close to the truth of life, because there is humility in the scientific mind. But the priests of religion can never reach God, because they have an answer for everything, knowledge about everything. They are omniscient; they know it all. Their omniscience is destroying the mystery of life, and they have no idea of it. In this way religion has gradually withered from human life.

If man is to be led back toward religion, its mystery has to be born again. That is why I said to you this morning: a person must become aware of his ignorance. This awareness is very… this awareness is absolutely essential. Without it there can be no movement.

I don’t know what his circumstances are, but I do not know of a single circumstance—nor can I even imagine one—in which practice cannot be done. Speaking of “circumstances” is always man’s excuse, and we are very skilled at inventing excuses. Whatever we don’t want to do, we always fabricate a justification for it.

A temple was being built. People from all the surrounding villages were offering voluntary labor, coming to help build it. The builders had requested that every village send people to contribute a little: someone bring a brick, someone place a brick; someone bring a stone, someone set a stone; someone carry earth—so that the temple would be raised by everyone’s labor.

The villagers must have been wise. For when one man builds a temple, it turns into a temple of his ego. But when thousands come together in love and build something, that very love turns the place into a temple. People had come from far and wide to build. It was not to be a temple erected around one man’s stone. The work had begun.

But one man had been standing there silently, looking sad, since morning. He did not lift a hand. He stood quietly under a bush. A few of the builders went to him and said, “Friend, won’t you lend a hand? Won’t you help at all?”

The man said, “I too wish to serve in the Lord’s temple; I too wish to taste that joy—but what can a man do on an empty stomach? I am hungry. How can a hungry man work?”

It sounded reasonable. They took him to their home and fed him to his fill.

Then they all returned to the temple. The four men started working. The other man went right back to stand under his tree as before. After a while they saw he was again just standing there, sad, neither lifting a stone nor carrying a brick. They went to him once more: “Sir, has some other difficulty arisen? You still aren’t helping.”

He said, “I too wish to serve in the Lord’s temple—but can anyone work on a full stomach?”

In the morning he couldn’t work because he was hungry; now he couldn’t because he was full. When will such a man ever work?

One person can’t practice because he is poor; another can’t practice because he is rich. One says an empty stomach prevents him; another says a full stomach holds him back. I meet people of every circumstance and I find all of them saying that their particular situation prevents them from doing anything. I have not yet met one person who said, “My circumstances are such that I can do it.”

Clearly, something else is at work—circumstances are not the real cause. The real cause is that for what we don’t want to do, we always find justifications and feel at ease. In what circumstance can a person not be silent? In what circumstance can a person not be loving? In what circumstance can a person not enter, even for a little while, into silence and peace? In every situation, under all conditions—if one wants—one absolutely can.

In Greece, a vizier was sentenced to death by his emperor. Everything was fine in the morning. In the afternoon soldiers came to his house, surrounded it from all sides, and informed him that he was under arrest and that by the emperor’s order he would be hanged at six o’clock that evening.

Friends had gathered at the vizier’s house. A grand feast had been arranged. It was his birthday. A great musician had been invited; he had just arrived with his veena. The music was about to begin. The musician’s hands went limp. He set the veena aside. The friends became sad. The wife began to weep.

But the vizier said, “There’s still a long time before six; the song will be finished by then. The feast will also be finished by then. The king is most gracious—for at least he hasn’t ordered the hanging before six. But why has the veena fallen silent? Why has the feast stopped? Why are my friends sad? There’s still a long time before six. There is no need to stop anything until six.”

His friends said, “How can we eat now?”
The musician said, “How can I play the veena now? The situation is no longer favorable.”

The man who was to be hanged began to laugh. He said, “What could be more favorable? I will die at six. Would it not be fitting that before that I listen to music? Would it not be fitting that before that I laugh and talk and be with my friends? Would it not be fitting that my home become a place of celebration—because at six this evening I must bid farewell forever?”

The family said, “This is no longer a favorable situation for playing the veena, for feasting.”
He said, “What could be more favorable? When at six I must leave forever, would it not be right that in these departing moments I listen to music? That my friends celebrate? That my home become a festival—so that in my memory those few moments remain etched, the moments I experienced at the end, at the moment of farewell.”

And in that house the veena continued to sound, and the feast continued. Though the people were sad, and the musician was sad, the vizier was happy, he was joyful.

The king heard of it and came to see whether the vizier had gone mad. When he arrived, the veena was playing and the guests were gathered. Entering, he found the vizier himself sitting, blissful. The king asked, “Have you gone mad? Did you not get the news that at six, death is coming to you?”

He replied, “The news arrived—that is why we intensified the celebration of joy; there was no question of slackening it. Since at six I will depart, till six we have intensified the celebration—so that these final moments of farewell may be remembered.”

The king said, “It is pointless to hang such a man. The one who knows how to live cannot be given the punishment of death.” He said, “I withdraw the sentence. It would not be right for me to kill such a lovely man with my own hands.”

What opportunity or circumstance life offers does not depend on the circumstance itself; it depends upon how we take it—what attitude, what vision we bring to it. So I do not think there can be any circumstance that can stop you from moving toward the Divine. If you yourself wish to stop yourself, that’s another matter—then every circumstance can stop you. And if you do not wish to stop yourself, then there never was, nor ever can be, any circumstance that can stop you.

Try, with a little awareness, to look at your own vision. Don’t blame circumstances. Look instead to see whether your approach, your way of understanding a situation, is not itself faulty—whether you are not taking things in the wrong way.

Another incident comes to mind. In Korea, one night a bhikshuni—a nun, a sannyasini—lost her way and reached a village other than the one she intended. At midnight she knocked at a door. The door opened. But the people of that village followed another religion; she belonged to a different faith. The householder shut the door and said, “Lady, this door is not for you. We do not follow your religion. Try elsewhere.” And as she left he added, “In this village you will hardly find a door that opens to you, for all here follow another religion—we are enemies of your faith.”

You know, religions are often enemies. One village one creed, the next village another. For those of one religion there is no shelter, no hope, no love at the door of another. The doors close.

All the doors in that village closed to her. She knocked at two or three more; all were shut. It was a cold night, a dark night; she was a lone woman. Where would she go?

Religious people never seem to think in human terms. They haven’t thought of simple humanity. They always think: Is she Hindu or Muslim, Buddhist or Jain? The human being as such has no worth in their eyes.

The woman had to leave the village. Near midnight she went and lay under a tree outside. Two hours later the cold woke her. She opened her eyes. Above, the sky was filled with stars. On the tree, flowers had blossomed—night-blooming flowers. Their fragrance spread everywhere. The buds were bursting open; you could hear them, and they kept flowering. For half an hour she silently watched the blossoming, watched the stars in the sky.

Then she ran back to the village and knocked on the doors that had been shut to her. “Who is it again at midnight?” They opened: the same nun stood there. They said, “We already told you—this door is not for you. Why have you come back?”

But tears of gratitude were flowing from the nun’s eyes. She said, “No, I haven’t come to ask you to open your doors, nor to stay. I have come only to thank you. Had you given me shelter tonight, I would have missed the stars and the bursting of the blossoms. I have come simply to say thank you. Your great kindness was in closing your doors—you saved me from the walls of a house and sent me into the open sky.

“When you sent me away, my mind thought, ‘What awful people!’ Now I have come to say, ‘How good the people of this village are.’ I have come to thank you. May God’s grace be upon you. You have given me a night of such experience—the joy I have known tonight, the flowers I have seen burst into bloom—as if some bud within my own life-force also burst and opened; as if, in the solitude of this night, I have seen the stars in such a way that an inner sky has become clear and stars have blossomed within. I’ve come to thank you. Your village has good people.”

It does not depend on what the circumstances are; it depends on how we take them.

Each person should learn how to take circumstances. Then even the stones lying in the path turn into steps. And when we become habituated to taking things wrongly, even steps begin to look like the temple’s stones that block the way. Stones can become steps; steps can look like stones. Opportunities can appear as misfortunes; misfortunes can become opportunities. How do we take things? What is our vision, our grip, our angle toward life? How do we approach and see life?

Look upon life filled with hope.
If a seeker views life with despair, he cannot move. Look upon life filled with hope. If you look upon life—and your own mind—with impatience, a seeker cannot move even a single step. With patience, with infinite patience, look upon life. If you look upon it in haste, in urgency, rushing, a seeker cannot progress an inch.

Look upon life with waiting—with infinite waiting: what is not today may be tomorrow; what is not tomorrow may be the day after. It can be—waiting and hope! On the unknown path of human life, where there are no mile-stones to tell how far you have come, where no crowd walks with you to assure you how much you’ve advanced—on the path of aloneness, in solitude, man moves toward the Divine. There, if he does not have infinite waiting, patience, hope, a joyous outlook toward life, a prayerful heart—then it is very difficult to move on.

Regarding this, a few things should be understood—and if questions remain, we will take them up tomorrow.

After understanding these two or three points, we will sit for the night meditation.

I said: a seeker needs a hopeful outlook. Ordinarily, our outlook is very despairing. We tend to see things from the dark side. We always look from the place where things appear painful, distressing, adverse.

A man went to a strange village. He asked inside the village, “I have come looking for a certain young man. I have heard he plays the flute beautifully.” The man he asked said, “Forget it—what flute would he play? That man is a thief, a cheat, a liar. How would he play the flute? There’s no bigger thief in our settlement!”

So he said, “Then what should I ask? I have to find him. Should I ask, ‘Where does the biggest thief of your village live?’” The man said, “If you ask that way, you might indeed find him.”

He asked another person, “I have come to look for a certain man in this village—he’s a big thief, a cheat, a liar.”

That man said, “I can’t even believe he would lie or steal. He plays the flute so beautifully!”

There is one man who plays the flute. One person sees: he plays so beautifully—how could he steal? Another sees: he is such a terrible thief—how could he play the flute?

How do we see? From where do we see? In life, in people, in situations, in events—what do we look for? Do we look for a luminous side, or for a dark thing? Do we seek a ray of light, or a stream of darkness? When we go near flowers, do we count the thorns or the flowers? When we sit with someone, what do we see within him—a door for appreciation, or some filthy alley of condemnation? What do we seek? What is our vision? And the vision we carry—slowly, slowly the same quality congeals within us.

Clearly, a seeker needs a very optimistic vision—the capacity to see the bright side. In every situation he can search out what is auspicious. Even in the densest thicket of thorns, he can find one flower. If he finds even one, his path gradually becomes free of thorns. Day by day paths of deeper flowers open for him.

It is no wonder that we receive what we search for. That is what we get.

So reflect a little on your circumstances. Is there truly no possibility of the good within them? No favoring wind at all? No possibility of friendship? Is there nothing from which a door could be opened, a wall broken, a path made, a lamp lit?

Search, and you will find—there is much, very much. Don’t search, or keep searching for the wrong thing, and you will find there is nothing.

A man injured his foot. He was very restless, very unhappy, cursing God, riding an elevator to a high floor in a New York building. As the lift began to rise, he noticed another man on it as well. Both his legs were gone; seated in a chair, he was smiling and humming a song. The first man had a mere scratch and was filled with anger toward God. He asked the other, “My friend, what do you have? Both your legs are gone, yet you hum and laugh!”

The man said, “I still have both my eyes; I still have both my hands. I’ve seen someone who had lost both hands. I’ve seen someone with no eyes. So what if both my legs are gone? My hands remain; my eyes remain; so much still remains. Shall I express anger toward God for the two legs that are gone, or give thanks for what remains? What shall I do?”

Shall we give thanks for what we have—or complain for what we don’t?

It is up to a man—complain if you wish, praise if you wish; no one will stop you. But between the two stances lies the distance of earth and sky, and from that difference you yourself will suffer or rejoice. A mind of complaint slowly becomes sad and hopeless. A mind of gratitude slowly fills with joy, freshness, and hope.

The one filled with hope can step forward. The one filled with despair finds even his raised foot turning back.

So I say to you: in your circumstances, search—Is there truly no hopeful possibility?

Second: In the twenty-four hours, can you not be free of your circumstances for a few moments?

Every night sleep frees you; all your circumstances lie outside. You are neither poor nor rich. Neither unhappy nor happy. Sleep takes you somewhere beyond circumstances.

Can you not, knowingly, be outside your circumstances for a little while? And remember: the person who consciously steps outside his circumstances even for a few moments comes to know that he is in fact always outside them—the circumstances come around him and pass; he is always beyond them.

Just one moment of transcending circumstances, and it is seen that human consciousness is always outside them. Evening comes, morning comes, the sun rises, night falls. All passes around the man—and he remains standing apart.

The day this separateness is felt, the day in the midst of life the sense of the witness arises—that I remain standing afar while the currents come and flow by, winds come and pass, sunshine comes, cold, rain, heat come, and I remain standing apart, separate—nothing touches me, nothing transgresses my life-breath, nothing enters and alters me within; I remain as I am; things come and change. The day even for a moment this is glimpsed, on that very day a lifelong state begins to settle.

So one should cultivate the capacity to be outside circumstances for a little while. To keep weeping over circumstances yields no fruit.

Meditation means only this: that for a little while we go beyond circumstances.

That is the very meaning of meditation—to rise outside them, to step aside, to stand above and beyond.

Like someone flying in an airplane: the trees are left below, the mountains below, the clouds below. Just so, as one enters the emptiness of meditation, circumstances, home and door, wife and child, wealth—everything is left behind. The life-consciousness begins to take wing in a new direction. And then you realize that though surrounded by circumstances, you were always outside them. Like the sun surrounded by clouds—so is man’s consciousness: encircled, yet always beyond. Always beyond! This experience of being beyond is obtained through meditation.

Do not blame circumstances; find a way. A way is always found. There is no place from which no path leads to the Divine. Perhaps the path is stony; perhaps it is uneven; perhaps you will have to knock, to break through, to run, to win, to struggle. But there is no place from which a path does not lead to Him.

And finally I want to say this: those who come by the more difficult paths—their attainment has a different flavor; the joy of their finding is different. The tale of their victory carries another kind of glory. So do not be disheartened. It may be that by passing through difficult tracks you will reach even more honeyed springs.

The one who keeps walking, filled with hope and waiting, surely arrives.

Now a few words about the night meditation; then we will sit for it.

Two things about the night meditation. The morning meditation is to be done after waking. The night meditation is to be done before sleeping.

Night is a very wondrous opportunity. If you enter meditation rightly and then fall asleep, the whole night, gradually, turns into meditation in a short time. If, at the moment of falling asleep, consciousness enters meditation, then slowly the whole night, the whole sleep, becomes part of meditation. You may not have noticed it.

In the final moments before sleep, the last instant as you pass through the doorway of sleep—the transitional moment where waking ends and sleep begins—whatever state your mind is in at that last moment, your consciousness keeps circling around that state throughout the night. If you fall asleep in worry, the night is spent in worry. If you fall asleep in anger, the night’s dreams revolve around anger. Students know: when they fall asleep while studying, all night they wander around the exam.

Where the mind is in that last moment before sleep, a nucleus is formed there; a center forms; the mind circles there all night.

And in the morning too, when you wake, perhaps you have never observed it; if you do, you will see that in the very first moment of waking, the mind immediately picks up the very feeling that was the last at the time of sleep—the last thought. You stand in the very spot in the morning where you lay down at night.

Therefore there is great value in falling asleep from meditation. If it becomes possible that every night you enter meditation and then go to sleep, a radical transformation will begin in your whole life. You will rise in the morning as a totally new person—and the very first thing to come to memory will be meditation. And if six or seven hours of night pass in tranquil sleep, your entire twenty-four hours will be quieted, freshened, renewed.

Those who have gone into sleep with meditation tell me, “Such sleep we have never known.” When sleep is joined with meditation, a unique happening occurs.

This night meditation is to be done before sleep—when you are in bed, all work finished, nothing left to be done. Then, for fifteen minutes, do this meditation. And after the meditation, simply fall asleep—do not get up, do not do anything. Let the current that begins in meditation flow into sleep—let its undercurrent enter the whole sleep. This is a lying-down practice. Lie in bed and do it. There are two or three points to keep in mind.

First, the whole body must be left loose—relaxed. No tension in the body; let it go completely limp, as if there were no life in it. Leave each limb loose—no strain, no pull anywhere; relax completely and lie at ease. Then gently close your eyes. Then give a few suggestions to the body for relaxation. For one or two minutes repeat within: “The body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing.” In five to ten days of such suggestion for a minute or two, you will find the body becomes completely relaxed.

And when the body relaxes, a sense of bodilessness arises. When the body is utterly at ease, you experience being without a body. You feel as if there is no body. The body is noticed only because of tension, because of strain. A relaxed body is not noticed at all.

You know—if a thorn pricks your foot, the foot is felt; if there is a headache, the head is felt. If there is no thorn, you don’t feel whether the foot exists or not. If there is no headache, you don’t feel whether there is a head or not. Wherever there is tension in the body, there the body is perceived.

A healthy person has but one sign: he does not feel his body anywhere. There is no other sign of health. Illness is felt; health is not.

So before meditation, relax the body so deeply that it is not felt. In fifteen days of practice—and for those who practice sincerely, even today—it can happen that when we experiment here you feel as if the body has disappeared, as if it is not there. So for two or three minutes, give the suggestion: “The body is relaxing.”

Then relax the breath. Do not hold it—let it be easy; let it go as it goes, come as it comes. For two or three minutes, suggest: “The breath is calming… calming… calming.” With the suggestion, the breath will become calm—so gentle it will seem scarcely to come and go. After some days you won’t even notice whether it is coming or not—it becomes that quiet.

When the body relaxes, the breath naturally calms; as the breath calms, thoughts become thin. Then give a third suggestion to the mind: “Thoughts are becoming quiet.”

These three suggestions are to be given. And then what we did in the morning—the fourth thing—is simply to lie silently and listen: to the wind, the trees, the sea; to any sounds—voices on the road, vehicles passing, a taxi, a cart—just listen silently.

Three things—body, breath, and thoughts—leave them quiet. Then, silently, do what we did in the morning—lying down—for about ten minutes. After that, quietly roll over and go to sleep.

Here we will do the experiment so that you understand. Then do it at your place at bedtime and fall asleep. Here it is necessary so that you grasp it; and even here the result can be very significant—exactly as significant as our readiness, our inquiry, our longing.

So now we will experiment.

Let everyone move far enough apart that you can lie down. Then the lights will be dimmed. Today I will give the suggestions so you get the feel of what to give yourself; then, in your own room, do the practice and go to sleep.

Find your place, move a little apart. Do not touch anyone. Make enough space to lie down, and keep silence—no talking.

Yes, move a little, because you will have to lie down. Do not talk at all; conversation is of no use here. Not even a little. Disturb no one. Make your own space, move anywhere.

Yes, I take it that… please find your place quickly. Be absolutely by yourself, and lie there at ease, so you can do the whole experiment and go deep.

(Let the light remain… let it remain… good.)

All right! Lie down in your places. Lie down where you are. Make full use of this chance, this opportunity. Who knows if such a wondrous night, such solitude, such a golden opportunity will come again or not.

Lie down completely. Close your eyes. Let the body go loose.

Close your eyes. Let the body go loose. Now I give the suggestions—experience them with me. With the feeling itself, the results will begin.

All right—experience: The body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… Let it go completely limp, as if there were no life in it. The body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is becoming completely relaxed… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing…

Feel: the body has relaxed… the body has become utterly calm and relaxed… as if it is not there, as if the body has no existence. There is the breeze, the sky, the trees—but no body. The body has become utterly relaxed and quiet…

Let the breath slow as well… the breath is becoming calm… let the breath be absolutely gentle… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm…

Thoughts are becoming quiet… thoughts are becoming quiet… thoughts are becoming quiet… thoughts are becoming quiet… thoughts are becoming quiet… thoughts too have become quiet… everything is silent… Now simply listen—to the winds, to the sounds… just keep listening… Inside, slowly, there will be complete stillness. As quiet as the night is outside, so it will become within. Listen… keep listening to the quiet winds… for ten minutes, listen silently…

The mind is becoming quiet… slowly, slowly, the mind is becoming quiet… everything is becoming quiet… within, a stillness and a void will descend… the mind is becoming quiet… keep listening… keep listening silently… the mind is becoming quiet… only the winds will remain—you will dissolve… dissolve completely… everything is becoming quiet…

The mind has become quiet… utterly quiet… the mind has become quiet… only the winds remain, the night remains… you have become completely still… completely dissolved… keep listening… keep listening…

The mind has become quiet… an extraordinary peace has descended within… everything has become quiet… everything is silent… you have completely disappeared—you are not.

The mind has become utterly quiet… recognize this peace—understand this peace… everything has become quiet… it is into this peace that you have to enter every day… each day, deeper and deeper… this very peace finally leads to the temple of the Divine.

Now slowly take two or four deep breaths… two or four deep breaths… and then very gently open your eyes… as it is peaceful within, so will it appear without. Lying where you are, open your eyes slowly… outside too all is quiet.

Then, very gently, sit up where you are. Disturb no one. Make no noise. Sit up quietly. If you cannot get up, take two or four more deep breaths, then slowly rise and sit.

If you cannot rise at once, lie a little longer. Rise gently. Sit quietly. Do not disturb your neighbor. Come up slowly.

Do this practice when you go to bed tonight, while it is still fresh in your awareness. And after doing it, simply go to sleep.

The night’s sitting is over.