My beloved Atman! The greatest misfortune in human life is perhaps this: our unity with life, our unison with it, has been broken. We stand a little apart from life. Between life and us no bridge remains, no relation remains. When a child is born from the mother’s womb, the bodies separate. A journey of difference, of separateness, begins; that which was joined and gathered in the mother becomes separate. Perhaps from that very separateness the delusion arises that since the body is apart, prana too must have become separate. Perhaps since the body has become separate, some split must also have occurred in the inner life. The child’s body separates from the mother’s body, but the soul is one and indivisible with all of life. There, there is no division, no difference. Yet of that non-division, that Advaita, we have no experience, no remembrance, no awareness. This is man’s misfortune. To go beyond this misfortune is the second step for the sadhaka. In the first step I told you: knowledge is false, knowledge is untrue. Learned words, doctrines, scriptures—nothing more. Ignorance is man’s fact. The one who accepts ignorance and becomes filled with the remembrance, "I do not know," finds the first wall between him and life falling down. But there is a second wall too. It is about that I must speak with you this morning. That too must fall—only then can one experience the truth of Paramatma. The truth of Paramatma is one’s own truth as well. Whether one calls it Life, or Moksha, or Ishvara—it makes no difference whatsoever. The wall of the second misfortune... The first wall is the wall of knowledge. What is the second wall? Whatever can be lived, whatever can be known, becoming one with it is indispensable. Let me try to make it clear through a small incident. Some fifteen hundred years ago, a Chinese emperor sent word throughout his kingdom that he wished to make the royal seal. On the seal he wanted the image of a rooster, crowing—alive. The painter who could bring the most living depiction would be rewarded and made the royal master of arts. Great prizes were announced. From distant corners of the land the finest painters arrived in the capital with paintings of a crowing rooster. But who was to decide which painting was the most beautiful? Thousands of paintings had come. In the capital there lived an old artist. The emperor summoned him to choose which painting was supreme. That one would become the state seal. The artist locked those thousands of paintings in a great hall and locked himself in with them. By evening he sent word: not one painting is right. All are faulty. The emperor himself had been astonished, seeing one painting more exquisite than the next. But the old artist said: none is worthy. The king was perplexed. He asked: What are your standards? By what measure did you judge that the paintings are not right? He said: There could be only one criterion—and it was this: I took a living rooster to the paintings, and the rooster neither recognized nor cared about the roosters in the pictures. Had those roosters in the paintings been alive, this rooster would have been alarmed or crowed, or fled, or prepared to fight. But he was utterly indifferent; he did not even look at them. There is but one criterion. I used it. No rooster accepts that these are roosters. The emperor said: This is a great difficulty. I never imagined that the paintings would be tested by roosters! But the old master said: Besides roosters, who can truly recognize whether a rooster is there or not? The king said: Then you yourself must paint it. The old man said: Very difficult. In this old age to paint a rooster is a very difficult thing. The emperor said: You are such a great artist—will you not be able to paint a rooster? The old man said: The rooster can be painted very quickly—but first I shall have to become a rooster. Before that, to paint is very hard. The king said: Do whatever is needed. The old man said: It will take at least three years; I do not know whether I shall still be alive. Arrangements were made for three years at the cost of the capital, and the old man went into the forest. Six months later the king sent people: Find out what happened to that madman—what is he doing? They went. The old man was sitting beside wild roosters. A year passed. Again people were sent. The first time he had recognized them as his friends from the capital. When they went again, the old man had become almost a rooster. He did not care, did not even look at them; he remained sitting among the roosters. Two years passed. Three years were complete. The king sent word: Bring that painter now, if the picture is ready. When they went, they found he had become a rooster—he was making the sounds of a rooster, sitting among roosters, roosters sitting around him. They brought the old man back. He arrived in the court. The king said: Where is the painting? He crowed like a rooster! The king said: Madman, I do not want a rooster, I want the painting of a rooster. You have come back as a rooster—where is the painting? The old man said: The painting can be made now. Let the materials be brought—I shall paint. And within a few moments he made the painting. And when roosters were brought into the room and shown the painting, they were frightened and fled out of the room. The king said: What magic have you put into this painting? The old man said: First I had to become a rooster; only then could I create him. I had to know the rooster from within—what he is. Until I become one, self-assimilated, how could I know what a rooster is from within—what his soul is? Without self-unity, without becoming one with life, the life-breath, the soul of life cannot be known. The very life-breath of life is the Lord. That is the Truth. Without becoming one with life there is no way to know life. And that which we do not know—how can we live it? That is why we appear only nominally alive—only nominally. That is why we seem afraid of death—because for one who has once tasted the flavor of life, death simply does not remain; for him there is no death. Fear of death is the sign that we have no inkling of life. We will not have an inkling of life either. We have never forged a unity, a one-taste with life; we have never come into rhythm. How has this rhythm broken? How has our music become disjointed? How has this crack, this gulf between us and life arisen? Understand this—and perhaps this very moment the gulf can be bridged. This gulf has arisen in mankind—because of those who have so far tried to explain man and who have condemned life, opposed life, called life futile, called life suffering, called it something to be renounced, taught that one must be liberated from life. Whoever, whichever teaching has condemned life—those very teachings have raised a gulf between man and life. That which is condemned, opposed, called futile and worthless—how shall any way remain to relate with it? And we have condemned life in every way. We have condemned the body—because the body is life’s manifestation. We have condemned the world—because the world is Paramatma’s manifestation. We have condemned matter—because matter is the manifestation of prana. Whatever is manifest—we have condemned it all. And we have praised the unmanifest. The unmanifest cannot be grasped in the fist, cannot be touched, cannot be seen. Of the invisible one can only speak; what is visible is what is seen. Of the formless one can only discuss; what is caught is form. And form, shape, the visible—these have been condemned. Naturally, only talk of the formless remained in our hands. Remember: the one who knows form can come to be acquainted with the formless. The one who knows matter can come to be acquainted with the non-material. The one who recognizes the body can relate to the soul. But the one who opposes form itself—he breaks his own ladder to the formless; he knows nothing of it. Yet form and shape, life and matter and body and world—these have been so condemned, so opposed, with such aversion, that it is difficult now even to measure it. Ah, if only life had been praised so much! If only so many had sung the songs of life’s bliss! If only from so many mouths, so many voices, the dignity and grandeur of life had been expressed—then today the earth would be different, filled with dharma; today life would be filled with bliss; today life would have become a music. But the teachers of mankind so far have condemned life, opposed it. This opposition, this fundamental condemnation of life—if it has raised a wall between us and life, it is entirely natural. The very thought of religion begins to evoke the idea that life is futile, that it must be renounced, that one must withdraw from it, be free of it, be freed from the wheel of birth and death. The contemplation of religion has become somewhat death-oriented, somewhat suicidal, somewhat life-negating. Religion does not seem an invitation to join in life’s delight; it seems an invitation to close one’s eyes to life, to move away from it, to become indifferent. And when inwardly we are indifferent, and inwardly deem it valueless, and our mind keeps saying "all is futile"; and we are told our birth is due to our sins, and the day those sins are destroyed there will be no cause for our birth—then we shall enter Moksha, that place where there is no birth, no death; where there is no body; no senses; no form—in that formlessness we shall enter. With such a state of feeling, how can one relate to this vast play of life? Mark this first: those who make man irreligious are not those who deny Ishvara, nor those who deny the soul. Rather, those who have negated form, who have condemned it, who have called the manifest expression of life hollow—these are the ones. A memory comes to me. A friend, a sannyasin, stayed with me as a guest for a few days. The moment he arrived, he looked at the large garden around me, full of flowers, as one might look upon an enemy. And he said to me: You too love flowers? You too have some attachment to flowers? I remained silent—for one who cannot understand flowers, how can he understand anything said in their praise? Then evening came. A friend came to sing a few songs, and I sat to listen. The sannyasin said: You too are attached to songs, you too love music? I laughed again and kept silent—for one who does not understand music, how can he understand anything said in its praise? Then at night we sat to eat. He began to eat as if performing a burdened task, something forced, some necessary evil—he had to do it, compelled to eat food. I said to him: What is this you are doing? He said: I am a votary of non-taste. I have taken the vow of tastelessness. One must eat as if eating clay. No taste must be taken. I said: I had already understood. The feeling that arose in your heart upon seeing the flowers; the feeling that arose upon hearing the song—I had already understood. If we see rightly, flowers are food for the eyes, and song and music—food for the ears. Everything is nourishment. Life on all sides is nourishment, is food. When the eye is gladdened by seeing a green tree, the eye has received its food; when the ear becomes exhilarated by the vina, it too has received its food. For twenty-four hours nourishment is flowing through all the senses. Paramatma is entering through many doors. If all these entries of Paramatma are received with joy, with welcome, with grace, with gratitude—then only can a person have a relationship with life. But one who stands at these doors with aversion, with opposition, with enmity; who closes his ears lest music be heard; who becomes the enemy of taste; who therefore closes his eyes—there have been those who even plucked out their eyes; those were their own to damage. But under their influence the eyes of the whole of mankind have become dim—this was not their right. People have gouged out their eyes, lest form attract them. Wherever life could enter into man, all those doors are to be shut. A person of such closed doors may attain to the ego, but never to Brahman-bhava. Such a person may slowly become filled with the feeling "I am something," but what life is—he will never find any end to it. The possibility of knowing life arises only when our whole being becomes an opening, a door—for song, for the winds, for beauty, for music, for taste, for fragrance—on all sides our life becomes a doorway. In my vision the sadhaka becomes a door. In every way he becomes a door. The very smallest of life appears to him as a limb of the Vast. Those tiny atoms appear to him as the cosmos. A little flower that blossoms... That cuckoo calling somewhere unknown... all becomes the inner song of his prana, an inner resonance. He accepts all. Whatever life gives—he accepts it all with grace. Eating becomes like prayer to him; bathing becomes like worship. Breathing the winds becomes thanksgiving to God. Connection with life, self-unity, can be only when the feeling of condemnation toward life falls away. Yesterday I asked you to drop knowledge. Today I want to ask you to drop the feeling of condemnation toward life. But deep, very deep in our mind, conditioning has sat; very deep samskaras of condemning everything of life. If you were to meet Buddha somewhere laughing, you would become very anxious. If Mahavira were found listening to a vina, you would be astonished. Christians say: Jesus never laughed. We have become habituated to seeing only sad saints. Those who have adopted the feeling of the dead toward life—who are trying to die while living—their shadow upon man’s mind has become deep, very dark. A laughing saint does not even arise in our imagination. We can see a bad man laughing, but not a good man. Laughter has no relation with goodness; nor the joy of life. We think the religious are those who in some way are sickly, sad, diseased. The religious are those who, having taken an enmity toward life, stand off in some corner. What relation have colors, tones, fragrances to a religious man? No—I want to tell you, a truly religious person is of a different kind altogether. I have heard of three saints. They lived in Tibet. And their very name was "The Three Laughing Saints." They had no other name—three laughing saints. Thus were they known. Wherever they went, a wave of laughter, of joy, would arrive in that village. They laughed; they laughed so much that laughter became infectious, and slowly the whole village would begin laughing. Wherever they stood in the marketplace, fountains of laughter would burst forth. People would ask: Do you have no teaching? They would say: We have only one teaching—that life should be accepted with the mood of laughter. One who accepts life weeping—he can have no relationship with life. They told people: No one filled with tears has ever entered the temple of the Lord, nor will it ever be possible. Smiles can become his path. Rainbows of laughter can become bridges to him—but not weeping faces. Our single message is that people learn to embrace life with a cheerful heart. They grew old, wandering from village to village. I do not know if such saints arose anywhere else. Ah, if only there had been more such saints, this world would be different today. Then among the three—they all grew old—and one saint died. In the village where he died, the people said: Now they will surely weep; today we shall see tears in their eyes. The villagers gathered by the hut. But the two came out laughing with their dead companion. And they said to the people: Come, see, what a wondrous man he was. People saw—the corpse lay there, and his lips were smiling! The man who died died laughing. And as he died he told his friends: Do me a kindness—when you carry my bier to the burning pyre, do not remove my garments; do not bathe me. In Tibet there is a custom: when a man dies, remove his clothes, bathe him, dress him in new clothes. When one journeys anew, at least one should be given new garments. But he had said: No—do not change my clothes, do not bathe me; in these very clothes place me on the pyre. Then the whole village carried his bier to the cremation ground. Thousands gathered; the pyre was lit; the bier was placed upon the fire. As the fire caught and the body began to burn, suddenly, slowly, laughter spread among the crowd. People began to laugh; laughter became utterly contagious. What had happened? As the fire reached the corpse, people discovered that the man had hidden firecrackers and sparklers inside his garments. He had hidden them within his clothes. The fire reached the body, the crackers began to go off, the sparklers to burst—and people laughed. They said: Wondrous was that man! He lived laughing, died laughing—and even after death he arranged that people should bid him farewell laughing! In that village people learned: One can live laughing, one can die laughing. Even after death one can create the possibility of laughter. Such a one, I call religious. Bid farewell to the weeping, the sad. Religion has suffered much from them. Among the greatest misfortunes to fall upon human life is the influence of the weeping. We are afflicted by the weeping, by the sick and sad. Those who cannot attain life’s joy are in the same state as that fox you have heard of that came beneath a vine of grapes. The grapes were hanging, ripe; she began to leap. But the vine was high and she could not reach. She turned back, saying along the way: The grapes are sour—why bother to have them! Those who cannot attain life’s joy, life’s flowers, life’s songs—say: Life is sour; the grapes are sour; life is bad; life is futile. They conceal their failure in the condemnation of life. And those who could not attain the grapes of life—what hope is there that they will attain the grapes of God? From the sap of life one could have gotten an inkling of where Paramatma is—but becoming sapless toward life, even his whereabouts will not be found. By entering within life one might have learned where the path leads, how to go to the Lord—but those who have turned their back upon life—there is no path for them. If the Lord is anywhere, he is within life; not in opposition to life, not contrary to it. But the unhealthy, the sick, the defeated, the vanquished—rather than blaming themselves, they blame life. The defeated man always seeks some excuse so he need not blame himself. The defeated... remember, the defeated have until now been those most eager for religion. The congregation of the defeated has gathered around religion. Go to temples and mosques—you will see the defeated and the vanquished. When a man nears death, when life’s fingers loosen their hold, when he grows old and feels life is about to go, he begins the pilgrimage to the temple. He thinks: Now the time of the temple has come. When the time of life passes, then the time of the temple arrives! If there is any temple, it is in the density of life itself. This assembly of the sad, the hopeless, the unsuccessful has besieged religion. In this second discourse I want to beseech you: free yourself from the weeping and sad. Free yourself from the sick, the unhealthy, the deranged. If the grapes of life do not come to hand—do not call them sour. Rather say: My leap is small. The leap can be made larger. The sadhaka tries to make the leap larger. The escapist says: The grapes are sour—and turns back. Make the leap larger. If life does not come into your hands, extend your hands further. If the eyes cannot see, open them wider. If the ears cannot hear, train them more. If Paramatma is not found in food, do not return to tastelessness. Because tastelessness is an argument for calling the grapes sour. Educate taste, refine taste—because those who knew have seen Brahman even in grain. Those who know have seen Brahman in sound. Those who know have had his darshan even in form. Beauty too has become his message to them. Everything has become his message. The beauty of the body too becomes a clue to the indwelling Paramatma—but one needs the seeing eye. Do not pluck out the eyes—educate them. The education of the senses is sadhana. Not opposition to the senses, not repression, not suppression. Each sense can be so refined that through its door the path to the Lord opens. So I say to you: If there is taste—taste fully, not tastelessness. When you eat—let eating be the only act. Let the whole prana, the whole body, all energy, total consciousness eat. Let not even a trace of taste be missed. Such absorption, such immersion, such self-forgetfulness in taste! Then you will come to know that food becomes Brahman. Then you will know that taste too is his message. And then, after eating, if your heart overflows with gratitude toward Paramatma—it is no wonder. Then look upon beauty too—with complete absorption, with complete oneness. And then if behind beauty the formless begins to be seen—it is no wonder. Form is only the outer shell; within, the formless is hidden. When a flower seems beautiful to you—what is it that seems beautiful there? Are the petals of the flower, the chemicals and minerals coursing through them—are these beautiful? No. Not the petals, not the substance of the flower, not its minerals, not its chemistry. But through the harmony of them all the formless begins to be glimpsed. That which is hidden behind all this—the hint of that begins to be received. When you hear the vina—is it the twang of the strings that delights, the impact of the hands? No. But by way of the notes, that which is hidden between the notes—the note-less, shunya—its hint begins to be received. That which is hidden as silence behind music—by way of music it begins to appear. This is life’s wondrous play: here, whatever appears, appears in contrast, in opposition. In school we teach children using a blackboard. We write on it with white chalk. White chalk appears fully upon the background of black. White boards could be made—but then reading would become difficult. White chalk upon white boards—nothing would be seen. Life always appears in contrast. For the soul to appear, it appears through the body. The body becomes the blackboard-like ground for the soul’s manifestation. For beauty to appear, it appears in form—so that the formless may take contrast and be seen. For shunya to appear, it appears through music. Paradoxical it is. Music is sound; shunya is soundless. But for the soundless to appear, sound is needed as the medium, as the background, as the backdrop. For Paramatma to appear, the world of matter is needed. Life always demands a background for expression. Without a background, life cannot appear. All expression of life is in contrast. But if we erase the board, then the white letters too will vanish. If we become the enemies of the body, the soul too will go far from us. If we become enemies of the world, our journey toward Paramatma too will cease. Is this simple arithmetic not visible? This utterly two-plus-two-equals-four kind of truth—why could we not see it? There are reasons. We accept only that which suits our life-situation. We are also defeated people; thus the message of the defeated sounds right to us. We too are vanquished; thus when the vanquished say, "Life is futile," it appears entirely right to us. What becomes habit in us, that alone we understand; the rest we do not. I have heard of a fisherman who all his life made his living by killing fish. Once he reached the capital of the country. He roamed to see the capital—astonished, wonder-struck. Then he came upon that street where the perfumes of the capital were sold. It was the market of fragrances. He reached there. At once he had to cover his nose—for it felt like stench. He had known only the fragrance of fish. That he called fragrance. He was much bewildered. He tried to flee the market—but it was long. The capital’s market—there were the finest perfumes of the world. At last he fainted and fell. The scents seemed so overpowering he collapsed. A crowd gathered. Shopkeepers brought their costliest perfumes, thinking perhaps the smell would revive him. They did not know that it was because of the perfumes that he had fainted. They brought the vials to his nose. He began to writhe, to fling his arms and legs. He could not even speak. He fell into deeper unconsciousness. In that crowd there happened to be a man who had once been a fisherman. He said: Friends, you are creating a great mishap. The man will die. Move! Take your perfumes away! It is these that have made him faint! The fisherman’s basket was there, with fish he had brought to sell. The man sprinkled a little water upon it and held it by the unconscious one’s nose. The fisherman drew a deep breath, opened his eyes and said: "This is real perfume!" Natural—what seems right to us is that to which we are habituated. The fragrance we recognize is the one we know. Since most humans are untrained in the art of life, and are defeated, when a defeated person stands and says: All is empty, futile, to be renounced—our hands too are raised: You speak rightly. The art of life has not been taught! Life is an art. With birth alone, life is not obtained. Life is a long training. It is the subtlest art. The second sutra of this art of life I wish to give you: Whatever is—whatever is available—whatever comes through the senses—accept it all with utmost joy, with deep gratitude—and you will find your relationship with life beginning. Our feelings break; our feelings can also join. Our ill-will breaks; our good-will joins. Good-will toward life. Those who teach ill-will toward life—I call them enemies of God. Just yesterday a friend came. He said: I am sixty now, yet when I see a beautiful woman I become restless and perturbed. All my life I have tried to detach my mind from woman, detach it, detach it. Yet even at this age woman still pursues me! I said: She will keep pursuing. You will go to the grave, and she will still pursue. You are having her pursue you. The art of life does not teach fleeing from woman, nor turning the eyes from beauty. Rather, it rises higher in the inquiry: From where is this beauty arising? What is this beauty? And if beauty can be seen in a flower—why not in a woman, why not in a man, why not in eyes, why not in the body? For a flower too is a body; the moon is a body; stars are bodies; the ocean is a body; a tree is a body. What fault then has the human body? If there had been no opposition to beauty, no condemning eye, perhaps you would have entered deeper into beauty. Riding the sound of beauty, the mind would have gone further and reached that place from where all beauty arises. It would have reached the formless, from where all joys and delights of life come. Then perhaps a woman would become a temple and Paramatma would be seen within her. Then a man would become the Lord, and Paramatma would be seen within him. So I do not say: Flee from beauty, from form, from music, from fragrance, from aroma, from taste—flee from none. In each, inquire: Whatever attracts me—surely somewhere within there must be Paramatma. Wherever there is attraction, wherever there is gravitation—remember—there will be a center of Paramatma somewhere; otherwise, attraction is impossible. Let attraction be a signal—and enter within, and within, deeper and deeper. Let the mind go. Gently you will find that all messages are his messages. From flower he peeks; from ocean he peeks; from moon and stars he peeks; from man he peeks; from woman he peeks; from children—he peeks. If he is to be sought, the doors must be open. Receptivity must be total—that from all sides whatever message comes, I am always ready to carry it to my heart. This humanity can become an altogether different humanity. It can pass through a transformation. A transmutation can happen. But no—the influence of the condemners upon us is too great. The admirers of life have had no influence upon us. So this second point I want to tell you. In these three days you will of course experiment. Open the doors of the mind. Open the doors to all attraction. Open the doors to all the flavors of life. And in every experience of life seek the deepest joy and self-immersion, seek absorption—and in this honey-rain of life, drown, become one, be joined; keep no distance between it and yourself. Become as a dry leaf in the wind; if the winds take it east, it goes east; if west, it goes west; if the winds drop it to the ground, it lies on the ground; if the winds lift it to the sky, it rises among clouds. Become a dry leaf—and let all the juices of life, all the bliss of life, all the experiences of life pass through. Put up no obstruction, erect no barrier, raise no wall. Flow in the ocean of life. Remember—ultimately that ocean becomes the one that takes you to Paramatma. Those who flow in life—sooner or later they arrive. Those who stand with their backs turned in opposition to life—have never arrived, will never arrive, can never arrive. This second point I want to tell you. Tomorrow morning we shall speak on the third sutra. Only if you experiment a little will you know. That inner condemner will protest greatly: This can be dangerous. That inner condemnation will say strongly: Do not enter by mistake—there will be trouble, everything will be spoiled, sadhana will be corrupted. That condemner will speak loudly within, for he is not of today. He is a part of our collective mind, our group-mind. He has been sitting within us for five thousand years, and because of him life has become utterly poisoned. No joy of life remains accepted, no song remains accepted. Our outlook is life-negative. What is needed is life-affirmation—reverence for life. Toward life, respect; toward life, love; toward life, the feeling of gratitude. Blessed are those who fill with gratitude toward life—for whatever is highest, beautiful, auspicious in life—all becomes available to them. After this we shall sit for the morning meditation. So understand two or four things. Then we will sit separately for meditation. For me, meditation too is the acceptance of life, an embrace. These winds—let them come, let them pass. Sounds—let them arise, let them dissolve. The roar of the ocean will continue. Some bird will call. Accept all this as the blessing of Paramatma. Receive it. Until now, what has been taught in the name of meditation is resistance. Until now it has been taught: let no sound be heard; if an ant bites—let it not be known. Become like a stone; know nothing. These are processes of dying. When a man dies, then even if an ant bites, it is not known. Even if the wind blows, it is not known. Even if a child cries, it is not known. A living man will know. And the more alive he is, the more he will know; his sensitivity will increase, his sensibility will deepen. The more silent he is, the more alive—at the slightest sound a movement will arise in his prana. The slightest sound will be heard. Even if a needle falls, he will hear. The mark of life is sensitivity. The mark of death is insensitivity. But until now we have been taught such things as if—be dead, be like a corpse. No—I want to see you more alive, so alive that if a tiny leaf of a tree moves, it is known. Until now resistance has been taught; meditation means resistance! Suppress yourself, withdraw; let nothing be heard, let nothing be known; close yourself from all sides—a closing. I say: Meditation is an opening—the opening of the door, not closing it. Open the door—and whatever comes, silently keep watching. Let only a witness remain, a sakshi. The more silent you are, the more witnessing, the more you will find the doors of life breaking open. A union begins; all begins to be joined. Slowly you will know—the whole circumference is breaking; all boundaries are falling; and union with the Infinite is happening. Union with the Infinite is Samadhi—and the movement toward the Infinite is called meditation. But only he can move toward the Infinite who drops all opposition—for opposition creates boundaries. Resistance creates boundaries. No resistance. All acceptance. Let there remain in the mind only one feeling—total acceptance. All is accepted—and I sit in silence, watching, watching; knowing—I am only a witness. Now let us sit here. Move a little apart from one another—so that this little opportunity which has come... not in everyone’s life... since you have come for three days, let full use be made of it. Move a little apart... so that no one is touching anyone... silently, without talking. Sit anywhere, silently, at ease. Sit anywhere—silently, at ease, as is comfortable. If you wish to lean on a tree, lean. However the heart desires, in that mood leave the body silent and sit. Then slowly close the eyes. Gently let the lids drop; let them close by themselves. The eyes are closed. You are sitting in quiet. Now drop all opposition toward life. Leave the doors of the mind open. The winds will come and pass through the door of the mind. A bird will call; the sound will echo and pass. You remain only a witness. Sit silently, just watching... watching... listening... listening... just listening... a witness, and nothing else... slowly the mind will become absolutely quiet. Listen... listen to the winds... listen to the roar of the ocean... there are many voices of the Lord... listen... a bird has begun to call... keep listening... keep listening, and the mind will go on becoming quiet... keep listening... for ten minutes keep only listening. All will dissolve... the winds will remain, the birds will remain... you will dissolve... the world will remain—you will not remain; life will remain—you will not remain... let go... just silently keep listening... listen for ten minutes. Keep listening... only a witness... the mind will slowly become quiet... the mind will be filled with stillness... the mind will become profoundly quiet... the mind has become quiet... keep listening... keep listening... keep listening... The winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained... where are you?... the winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained, the voices of the birds have remained... where are you?... keep listening... keep listening... slowly all is becoming quiet... The mind has become quiet... you have utterly dissolved... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become utterly quiet... only a witness remains... only a witness remains... keep listening... keep listening... the mind will go on becoming deeper and deeper quiet... The winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained, the sounds of the birds have remained... you have dissolved... (A woman sobs loudly...) (Dulari, look to her a little.) Slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then gently open the eyes... gently open the eyes... The morning sitting is over.
Osho's Commentary
The greatest misfortune in human life is perhaps this: our unity with life, our unison with it, has been broken. We stand a little apart from life. Between life and us no bridge remains, no relation remains.
When a child is born from the mother’s womb, the bodies separate. A journey of difference, of separateness, begins; that which was joined and gathered in the mother becomes separate. Perhaps from that very separateness the delusion arises that since the body is apart, prana too must have become separate. Perhaps since the body has become separate, some split must also have occurred in the inner life.
The child’s body separates from the mother’s body, but the soul is one and indivisible with all of life. There, there is no division, no difference. Yet of that non-division, that Advaita, we have no experience, no remembrance, no awareness.
This is man’s misfortune. To go beyond this misfortune is the second step for the sadhaka.
In the first step I told you: knowledge is false, knowledge is untrue. Learned words, doctrines, scriptures—nothing more. Ignorance is man’s fact. The one who accepts ignorance and becomes filled with the remembrance, "I do not know," finds the first wall between him and life falling down.
But there is a second wall too. It is about that I must speak with you this morning. That too must fall—only then can one experience the truth of Paramatma. The truth of Paramatma is one’s own truth as well. Whether one calls it Life, or Moksha, or Ishvara—it makes no difference whatsoever. The wall of the second misfortune... The first wall is the wall of knowledge. What is the second wall?
Whatever can be lived, whatever can be known, becoming one with it is indispensable.
Let me try to make it clear through a small incident.
Some fifteen hundred years ago, a Chinese emperor sent word throughout his kingdom that he wished to make the royal seal. On the seal he wanted the image of a rooster, crowing—alive. The painter who could bring the most living depiction would be rewarded and made the royal master of arts. Great prizes were announced.
From distant corners of the land the finest painters arrived in the capital with paintings of a crowing rooster. But who was to decide which painting was the most beautiful? Thousands of paintings had come. In the capital there lived an old artist. The emperor summoned him to choose which painting was supreme. That one would become the state seal.
The artist locked those thousands of paintings in a great hall and locked himself in with them. By evening he sent word: not one painting is right. All are faulty.
The emperor himself had been astonished, seeing one painting more exquisite than the next. But the old artist said: none is worthy.
The king was perplexed. He asked: What are your standards? By what measure did you judge that the paintings are not right?
He said: There could be only one criterion—and it was this: I took a living rooster to the paintings, and the rooster neither recognized nor cared about the roosters in the pictures. Had those roosters in the paintings been alive, this rooster would have been alarmed or crowed, or fled, or prepared to fight. But he was utterly indifferent; he did not even look at them. There is but one criterion. I used it. No rooster accepts that these are roosters.
The emperor said: This is a great difficulty. I never imagined that the paintings would be tested by roosters! But the old master said: Besides roosters, who can truly recognize whether a rooster is there or not?
The king said: Then you yourself must paint it.
The old man said: Very difficult. In this old age to paint a rooster is a very difficult thing.
The emperor said: You are such a great artist—will you not be able to paint a rooster?
The old man said: The rooster can be painted very quickly—but first I shall have to become a rooster. Before that, to paint is very hard.
The king said: Do whatever is needed.
The old man said: It will take at least three years; I do not know whether I shall still be alive.
Arrangements were made for three years at the cost of the capital, and the old man went into the forest. Six months later the king sent people: Find out what happened to that madman—what is he doing?
They went. The old man was sitting beside wild roosters.
A year passed. Again people were sent. The first time he had recognized them as his friends from the capital. When they went again, the old man had become almost a rooster. He did not care, did not even look at them; he remained sitting among the roosters.
Two years passed. Three years were complete. The king sent word: Bring that painter now, if the picture is ready. When they went, they found he had become a rooster—he was making the sounds of a rooster, sitting among roosters, roosters sitting around him. They brought the old man back. He arrived in the court.
The king said: Where is the painting?
He crowed like a rooster! The king said: Madman, I do not want a rooster, I want the painting of a rooster. You have come back as a rooster—where is the painting?
The old man said: The painting can be made now. Let the materials be brought—I shall paint. And within a few moments he made the painting. And when roosters were brought into the room and shown the painting, they were frightened and fled out of the room.
The king said: What magic have you put into this painting?
The old man said: First I had to become a rooster; only then could I create him. I had to know the rooster from within—what he is. Until I become one, self-assimilated, how could I know what a rooster is from within—what his soul is?
Without self-unity, without becoming one with life, the life-breath, the soul of life cannot be known. The very life-breath of life is the Lord. That is the Truth. Without becoming one with life there is no way to know life.
And that which we do not know—how can we live it? That is why we appear only nominally alive—only nominally. That is why we seem afraid of death—because for one who has once tasted the flavor of life, death simply does not remain; for him there is no death. Fear of death is the sign that we have no inkling of life.
We will not have an inkling of life either. We have never forged a unity, a one-taste with life; we have never come into rhythm. How has this rhythm broken? How has our music become disjointed? How has this crack, this gulf between us and life arisen? Understand this—and perhaps this very moment the gulf can be bridged.
This gulf has arisen in mankind—because of those who have so far tried to explain man and who have condemned life, opposed life, called life futile, called life suffering, called it something to be renounced, taught that one must be liberated from life.
Whoever, whichever teaching has condemned life—those very teachings have raised a gulf between man and life. That which is condemned, opposed, called futile and worthless—how shall any way remain to relate with it?
And we have condemned life in every way. We have condemned the body—because the body is life’s manifestation. We have condemned the world—because the world is Paramatma’s manifestation. We have condemned matter—because matter is the manifestation of prana. Whatever is manifest—we have condemned it all.
And we have praised the unmanifest. The unmanifest cannot be grasped in the fist, cannot be touched, cannot be seen. Of the invisible one can only speak; what is visible is what is seen. Of the formless one can only discuss; what is caught is form. And form, shape, the visible—these have been condemned. Naturally, only talk of the formless remained in our hands.
Remember: the one who knows form can come to be acquainted with the formless. The one who knows matter can come to be acquainted with the non-material. The one who recognizes the body can relate to the soul. But the one who opposes form itself—he breaks his own ladder to the formless; he knows nothing of it.
Yet form and shape, life and matter and body and world—these have been so condemned, so opposed, with such aversion, that it is difficult now even to measure it.
Ah, if only life had been praised so much! If only so many had sung the songs of life’s bliss! If only from so many mouths, so many voices, the dignity and grandeur of life had been expressed—then today the earth would be different, filled with dharma; today life would be filled with bliss; today life would have become a music.
But the teachers of mankind so far have condemned life, opposed it. This opposition, this fundamental condemnation of life—if it has raised a wall between us and life, it is entirely natural.
The very thought of religion begins to evoke the idea that life is futile, that it must be renounced, that one must withdraw from it, be free of it, be freed from the wheel of birth and death. The contemplation of religion has become somewhat death-oriented, somewhat suicidal, somewhat life-negating. Religion does not seem an invitation to join in life’s delight; it seems an invitation to close one’s eyes to life, to move away from it, to become indifferent.
And when inwardly we are indifferent, and inwardly deem it valueless, and our mind keeps saying "all is futile"; and we are told our birth is due to our sins, and the day those sins are destroyed there will be no cause for our birth—then we shall enter Moksha, that place where there is no birth, no death; where there is no body; no senses; no form—in that formlessness we shall enter. With such a state of feeling, how can one relate to this vast play of life?
Mark this first: those who make man irreligious are not those who deny Ishvara, nor those who deny the soul. Rather, those who have negated form, who have condemned it, who have called the manifest expression of life hollow—these are the ones.
A memory comes to me. A friend, a sannyasin, stayed with me as a guest for a few days. The moment he arrived, he looked at the large garden around me, full of flowers, as one might look upon an enemy. And he said to me: You too love flowers? You too have some attachment to flowers?
I remained silent—for one who cannot understand flowers, how can he understand anything said in their praise? Then evening came. A friend came to sing a few songs, and I sat to listen. The sannyasin said: You too are attached to songs, you too love music?
I laughed again and kept silent—for one who does not understand music, how can he understand anything said in its praise?
Then at night we sat to eat. He began to eat as if performing a burdened task, something forced, some necessary evil—he had to do it, compelled to eat food. I said to him: What is this you are doing?
He said: I am a votary of non-taste. I have taken the vow of tastelessness. One must eat as if eating clay. No taste must be taken.
I said: I had already understood. The feeling that arose in your heart upon seeing the flowers; the feeling that arose upon hearing the song—I had already understood. If we see rightly, flowers are food for the eyes, and song and music—food for the ears. Everything is nourishment.
Life on all sides is nourishment, is food.
When the eye is gladdened by seeing a green tree, the eye has received its food; when the ear becomes exhilarated by the vina, it too has received its food. For twenty-four hours nourishment is flowing through all the senses. Paramatma is entering through many doors. If all these entries of Paramatma are received with joy, with welcome, with grace, with gratitude—then only can a person have a relationship with life.
But one who stands at these doors with aversion, with opposition, with enmity; who closes his ears lest music be heard; who becomes the enemy of taste; who therefore closes his eyes—there have been those who even plucked out their eyes; those were their own to damage. But under their influence the eyes of the whole of mankind have become dim—this was not their right.
People have gouged out their eyes, lest form attract them. Wherever life could enter into man, all those doors are to be shut. A person of such closed doors may attain to the ego, but never to Brahman-bhava. Such a person may slowly become filled with the feeling "I am something," but what life is—he will never find any end to it.
The possibility of knowing life arises only when our whole being becomes an opening, a door—for song, for the winds, for beauty, for music, for taste, for fragrance—on all sides our life becomes a doorway.
In my vision the sadhaka becomes a door. In every way he becomes a door. The very smallest of life appears to him as a limb of the Vast. Those tiny atoms appear to him as the cosmos. A little flower that blossoms... That cuckoo calling somewhere unknown... all becomes the inner song of his prana, an inner resonance. He accepts all. Whatever life gives—he accepts it all with grace. Eating becomes like prayer to him; bathing becomes like worship. Breathing the winds becomes thanksgiving to God.
Connection with life, self-unity, can be only when the feeling of condemnation toward life falls away.
Yesterday I asked you to drop knowledge. Today I want to ask you to drop the feeling of condemnation toward life. But deep, very deep in our mind, conditioning has sat; very deep samskaras of condemning everything of life. If you were to meet Buddha somewhere laughing, you would become very anxious. If Mahavira were found listening to a vina, you would be astonished.
Christians say: Jesus never laughed. We have become habituated to seeing only sad saints.
Those who have adopted the feeling of the dead toward life—who are trying to die while living—their shadow upon man’s mind has become deep, very dark. A laughing saint does not even arise in our imagination. We can see a bad man laughing, but not a good man. Laughter has no relation with goodness; nor the joy of life.
We think the religious are those who in some way are sickly, sad, diseased. The religious are those who, having taken an enmity toward life, stand off in some corner. What relation have colors, tones, fragrances to a religious man? No—I want to tell you, a truly religious person is of a different kind altogether.
I have heard of three saints. They lived in Tibet. And their very name was "The Three Laughing Saints." They had no other name—three laughing saints. Thus were they known. Wherever they went, a wave of laughter, of joy, would arrive in that village. They laughed; they laughed so much that laughter became infectious, and slowly the whole village would begin laughing. Wherever they stood in the marketplace, fountains of laughter would burst forth.
People would ask: Do you have no teaching? They would say: We have only one teaching—that life should be accepted with the mood of laughter. One who accepts life weeping—he can have no relationship with life. They told people: No one filled with tears has ever entered the temple of the Lord, nor will it ever be possible. Smiles can become his path. Rainbows of laughter can become bridges to him—but not weeping faces. Our single message is that people learn to embrace life with a cheerful heart.
They grew old, wandering from village to village. I do not know if such saints arose anywhere else. Ah, if only there had been more such saints, this world would be different today. Then among the three—they all grew old—and one saint died. In the village where he died, the people said: Now they will surely weep; today we shall see tears in their eyes.
The villagers gathered by the hut. But the two came out laughing with their dead companion. And they said to the people: Come, see, what a wondrous man he was. People saw—the corpse lay there, and his lips were smiling! The man who died died laughing. And as he died he told his friends: Do me a kindness—when you carry my bier to the burning pyre, do not remove my garments; do not bathe me.
In Tibet there is a custom: when a man dies, remove his clothes, bathe him, dress him in new clothes. When one journeys anew, at least one should be given new garments. But he had said: No—do not change my clothes, do not bathe me; in these very clothes place me on the pyre.
Then the whole village carried his bier to the cremation ground. Thousands gathered; the pyre was lit; the bier was placed upon the fire. As the fire caught and the body began to burn, suddenly, slowly, laughter spread among the crowd. People began to laugh; laughter became utterly contagious. What had happened?
As the fire reached the corpse, people discovered that the man had hidden firecrackers and sparklers inside his garments. He had hidden them within his clothes. The fire reached the body, the crackers began to go off, the sparklers to burst—and people laughed. They said: Wondrous was that man! He lived laughing, died laughing—and even after death he arranged that people should bid him farewell laughing!
In that village people learned: One can live laughing, one can die laughing. Even after death one can create the possibility of laughter. Such a one, I call religious.
Bid farewell to the weeping, the sad. Religion has suffered much from them. Among the greatest misfortunes to fall upon human life is the influence of the weeping. We are afflicted by the weeping, by the sick and sad. Those who cannot attain life’s joy are in the same state as that fox you have heard of that came beneath a vine of grapes. The grapes were hanging, ripe; she began to leap. But the vine was high and she could not reach. She turned back, saying along the way: The grapes are sour—why bother to have them!
Those who cannot attain life’s joy, life’s flowers, life’s songs—say: Life is sour; the grapes are sour; life is bad; life is futile. They conceal their failure in the condemnation of life. And those who could not attain the grapes of life—what hope is there that they will attain the grapes of God?
From the sap of life one could have gotten an inkling of where Paramatma is—but becoming sapless toward life, even his whereabouts will not be found. By entering within life one might have learned where the path leads, how to go to the Lord—but those who have turned their back upon life—there is no path for them.
If the Lord is anywhere, he is within life; not in opposition to life, not contrary to it.
But the unhealthy, the sick, the defeated, the vanquished—rather than blaming themselves, they blame life. The defeated man always seeks some excuse so he need not blame himself. The defeated... remember, the defeated have until now been those most eager for religion. The congregation of the defeated has gathered around religion. Go to temples and mosques—you will see the defeated and the vanquished. When a man nears death, when life’s fingers loosen their hold, when he grows old and feels life is about to go, he begins the pilgrimage to the temple. He thinks: Now the time of the temple has come.
When the time of life passes, then the time of the temple arrives!
If there is any temple, it is in the density of life itself.
This assembly of the sad, the hopeless, the unsuccessful has besieged religion. In this second discourse I want to beseech you: free yourself from the weeping and sad. Free yourself from the sick, the unhealthy, the deranged. If the grapes of life do not come to hand—do not call them sour. Rather say: My leap is small.
The leap can be made larger. The sadhaka tries to make the leap larger. The escapist says: The grapes are sour—and turns back.
Make the leap larger. If life does not come into your hands, extend your hands further. If the eyes cannot see, open them wider. If the ears cannot hear, train them more. If Paramatma is not found in food, do not return to tastelessness. Because tastelessness is an argument for calling the grapes sour. Educate taste, refine taste—because those who knew have seen Brahman even in grain. Those who know have seen Brahman in sound. Those who know have had his darshan even in form. Beauty too has become his message to them. Everything has become his message. The beauty of the body too becomes a clue to the indwelling Paramatma—but one needs the seeing eye.
Do not pluck out the eyes—educate them.
The education of the senses is sadhana. Not opposition to the senses, not repression, not suppression. Each sense can be so refined that through its door the path to the Lord opens.
So I say to you: If there is taste—taste fully, not tastelessness. When you eat—let eating be the only act. Let the whole prana, the whole body, all energy, total consciousness eat. Let not even a trace of taste be missed. Such absorption, such immersion, such self-forgetfulness in taste! Then you will come to know that food becomes Brahman. Then you will know that taste too is his message. And then, after eating, if your heart overflows with gratitude toward Paramatma—it is no wonder. Then look upon beauty too—with complete absorption, with complete oneness. And then if behind beauty the formless begins to be seen—it is no wonder.
Form is only the outer shell; within, the formless is hidden.
When a flower seems beautiful to you—what is it that seems beautiful there? Are the petals of the flower, the chemicals and minerals coursing through them—are these beautiful? No. Not the petals, not the substance of the flower, not its minerals, not its chemistry. But through the harmony of them all the formless begins to be glimpsed. That which is hidden behind all this—the hint of that begins to be received.
When you hear the vina—is it the twang of the strings that delights, the impact of the hands? No. But by way of the notes, that which is hidden between the notes—the note-less, shunya—its hint begins to be received. That which is hidden as silence behind music—by way of music it begins to appear.
This is life’s wondrous play: here, whatever appears, appears in contrast, in opposition.
In school we teach children using a blackboard. We write on it with white chalk. White chalk appears fully upon the background of black. White boards could be made—but then reading would become difficult. White chalk upon white boards—nothing would be seen.
Life always appears in contrast. For the soul to appear, it appears through the body. The body becomes the blackboard-like ground for the soul’s manifestation. For beauty to appear, it appears in form—so that the formless may take contrast and be seen. For shunya to appear, it appears through music. Paradoxical it is. Music is sound; shunya is soundless. But for the soundless to appear, sound is needed as the medium, as the background, as the backdrop.
For Paramatma to appear, the world of matter is needed.
Life always demands a background for expression. Without a background, life cannot appear. All expression of life is in contrast.
But if we erase the board, then the white letters too will vanish. If we become the enemies of the body, the soul too will go far from us. If we become enemies of the world, our journey toward Paramatma too will cease. Is this simple arithmetic not visible? This utterly two-plus-two-equals-four kind of truth—why could we not see it? There are reasons.
We accept only that which suits our life-situation. We are also defeated people; thus the message of the defeated sounds right to us. We too are vanquished; thus when the vanquished say, "Life is futile," it appears entirely right to us. What becomes habit in us, that alone we understand; the rest we do not.
I have heard of a fisherman who all his life made his living by killing fish. Once he reached the capital of the country. He roamed to see the capital—astonished, wonder-struck. Then he came upon that street where the perfumes of the capital were sold. It was the market of fragrances. He reached there. At once he had to cover his nose—for it felt like stench. He had known only the fragrance of fish. That he called fragrance.
He was much bewildered. He tried to flee the market—but it was long. The capital’s market—there were the finest perfumes of the world. At last he fainted and fell. The scents seemed so overpowering he collapsed. A crowd gathered. Shopkeepers brought their costliest perfumes, thinking perhaps the smell would revive him. They did not know that it was because of the perfumes that he had fainted. They brought the vials to his nose. He began to writhe, to fling his arms and legs. He could not even speak. He fell into deeper unconsciousness.
In that crowd there happened to be a man who had once been a fisherman. He said: Friends, you are creating a great mishap. The man will die. Move! Take your perfumes away! It is these that have made him faint!
The fisherman’s basket was there, with fish he had brought to sell. The man sprinkled a little water upon it and held it by the unconscious one’s nose. The fisherman drew a deep breath, opened his eyes and said: "This is real perfume!"
Natural—what seems right to us is that to which we are habituated. The fragrance we recognize is the one we know. Since most humans are untrained in the art of life, and are defeated, when a defeated person stands and says: All is empty, futile, to be renounced—our hands too are raised: You speak rightly. The art of life has not been taught!
Life is an art.
With birth alone, life is not obtained. Life is a long training. It is the subtlest art.
The second sutra of this art of life I wish to give you:
Whatever is—whatever is available—whatever comes through the senses—accept it all with utmost joy, with deep gratitude—and you will find your relationship with life beginning.
Our feelings break; our feelings can also join. Our ill-will breaks; our good-will joins. Good-will toward life. Those who teach ill-will toward life—I call them enemies of God.
Just yesterday a friend came. He said: I am sixty now, yet when I see a beautiful woman I become restless and perturbed. All my life I have tried to detach my mind from woman, detach it, detach it. Yet even at this age woman still pursues me!
I said: She will keep pursuing. You will go to the grave, and she will still pursue. You are having her pursue you. The art of life does not teach fleeing from woman, nor turning the eyes from beauty. Rather, it rises higher in the inquiry: From where is this beauty arising? What is this beauty?
And if beauty can be seen in a flower—why not in a woman, why not in a man, why not in eyes, why not in the body? For a flower too is a body; the moon is a body; stars are bodies; the ocean is a body; a tree is a body. What fault then has the human body?
If there had been no opposition to beauty, no condemning eye, perhaps you would have entered deeper into beauty. Riding the sound of beauty, the mind would have gone further and reached that place from where all beauty arises. It would have reached the formless, from where all joys and delights of life come. Then perhaps a woman would become a temple and Paramatma would be seen within her. Then a man would become the Lord, and Paramatma would be seen within him.
So I do not say: Flee from beauty, from form, from music, from fragrance, from aroma, from taste—flee from none. In each, inquire: Whatever attracts me—surely somewhere within there must be Paramatma.
Wherever there is attraction, wherever there is gravitation—remember—there will be a center of Paramatma somewhere; otherwise, attraction is impossible. Let attraction be a signal—and enter within, and within, deeper and deeper. Let the mind go. Gently you will find that all messages are his messages. From flower he peeks; from ocean he peeks; from moon and stars he peeks; from man he peeks; from woman he peeks; from children—he peeks. If he is to be sought, the doors must be open. Receptivity must be total—that from all sides whatever message comes, I am always ready to carry it to my heart.
This humanity can become an altogether different humanity. It can pass through a transformation. A transmutation can happen. But no—the influence of the condemners upon us is too great. The admirers of life have had no influence upon us.
So this second point I want to tell you. In these three days you will of course experiment. Open the doors of the mind. Open the doors to all attraction. Open the doors to all the flavors of life. And in every experience of life seek the deepest joy and self-immersion, seek absorption—and in this honey-rain of life, drown, become one, be joined; keep no distance between it and yourself. Become as a dry leaf in the wind; if the winds take it east, it goes east; if west, it goes west; if the winds drop it to the ground, it lies on the ground; if the winds lift it to the sky, it rises among clouds.
Become a dry leaf—and let all the juices of life, all the bliss of life, all the experiences of life pass through. Put up no obstruction, erect no barrier, raise no wall. Flow in the ocean of life. Remember—ultimately that ocean becomes the one that takes you to Paramatma.
Those who flow in life—sooner or later they arrive. Those who stand with their backs turned in opposition to life—have never arrived, will never arrive, can never arrive. This second point I want to tell you.
Tomorrow morning we shall speak on the third sutra. Only if you experiment a little will you know. That inner condemner will protest greatly: This can be dangerous. That inner condemnation will say strongly: Do not enter by mistake—there will be trouble, everything will be spoiled, sadhana will be corrupted.
That condemner will speak loudly within, for he is not of today. He is a part of our collective mind, our group-mind. He has been sitting within us for five thousand years, and because of him life has become utterly poisoned. No joy of life remains accepted, no song remains accepted. Our outlook is life-negative.
What is needed is life-affirmation—reverence for life. Toward life, respect; toward life, love; toward life, the feeling of gratitude.
Blessed are those who fill with gratitude toward life—for whatever is highest, beautiful, auspicious in life—all becomes available to them.
After this we shall sit for the morning meditation.
So understand two or four things. Then we will sit separately for meditation.
For me, meditation too is the acceptance of life, an embrace. These winds—let them come, let them pass. Sounds—let them arise, let them dissolve. The roar of the ocean will continue. Some bird will call. Accept all this as the blessing of Paramatma. Receive it.
Until now, what has been taught in the name of meditation is resistance. Until now it has been taught: let no sound be heard; if an ant bites—let it not be known. Become like a stone; know nothing. These are processes of dying. When a man dies, then even if an ant bites, it is not known. Even if the wind blows, it is not known. Even if a child cries, it is not known.
A living man will know. And the more alive he is, the more he will know; his sensitivity will increase, his sensibility will deepen. The more silent he is, the more alive—at the slightest sound a movement will arise in his prana. The slightest sound will be heard. Even if a needle falls, he will hear. The mark of life is sensitivity. The mark of death is insensitivity.
But until now we have been taught such things as if—be dead, be like a corpse. No—I want to see you more alive, so alive that if a tiny leaf of a tree moves, it is known.
Until now resistance has been taught; meditation means resistance! Suppress yourself, withdraw; let nothing be heard, let nothing be known; close yourself from all sides—a closing.
I say: Meditation is an opening—the opening of the door, not closing it.
Open the door—and whatever comes, silently keep watching. Let only a witness remain, a sakshi. The more silent you are, the more witnessing, the more you will find the doors of life breaking open. A union begins; all begins to be joined. Slowly you will know—the whole circumference is breaking; all boundaries are falling; and union with the Infinite is happening.
Union with the Infinite is Samadhi—and the movement toward the Infinite is called meditation.
But only he can move toward the Infinite who drops all opposition—for opposition creates boundaries. Resistance creates boundaries. No resistance. All acceptance. Let there remain in the mind only one feeling—total acceptance. All is accepted—and I sit in silence, watching, watching; knowing—I am only a witness.
Now let us sit here. Move a little apart from one another—so that this little opportunity which has come... not in everyone’s life... since you have come for three days, let full use be made of it. Move a little apart... so that no one is touching anyone... silently, without talking.
Sit anywhere, silently, at ease. Sit anywhere—silently, at ease, as is comfortable. If you wish to lean on a tree, lean. However the heart desires, in that mood leave the body silent and sit. Then slowly close the eyes. Gently let the lids drop; let them close by themselves.
The eyes are closed. You are sitting in quiet. Now drop all opposition toward life. Leave the doors of the mind open. The winds will come and pass through the door of the mind. A bird will call; the sound will echo and pass. You remain only a witness. Sit silently, just watching... watching... listening... listening... just listening... a witness, and nothing else... slowly the mind will become absolutely quiet.
Listen... listen to the winds... listen to the roar of the ocean... there are many voices of the Lord... listen... a bird has begun to call... keep listening... keep listening, and the mind will go on becoming quiet... keep listening... for ten minutes keep only listening.
All will dissolve... the winds will remain, the birds will remain... you will dissolve... the world will remain—you will not remain; life will remain—you will not remain... let go... just silently keep listening... listen for ten minutes.
Keep listening... only a witness... the mind will slowly become quiet... the mind will be filled with stillness... the mind will become profoundly quiet... the mind has become quiet... keep listening... keep listening... keep listening...
The winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained... where are you?... the winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained, the voices of the birds have remained... where are you?... keep listening... keep listening... slowly all is becoming quiet...
The mind has become quiet... you have utterly dissolved... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become quiet... the mind has become utterly quiet... only a witness remains... only a witness remains... keep listening... keep listening... the mind will go on becoming deeper and deeper quiet...
The winds have remained, the roar of the ocean has remained, the sounds of the birds have remained... you have dissolved...
(A woman sobs loudly...)
(Dulari, look to her a little.)
Slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then gently open the eyes... gently open the eyes...
The morning sitting is over.