Are the tears in the beloved's separation a form of meditation, or is meditation something else?

Osho, we have to leave tomorrow. Out of your grace, please tell us: are the tears that flow in the beloved’s separation themselves his meditation, or is meditation something else? If meditation is something else, what meditation is that?

Honor these tears! Do not hold them back! In this, women are more fortunate than men, because women have not been taught the stupidity of “don’t cry.” Men have been taught this stupidity a lot. To small boys we say, “You are a manly child; don’t cry! Don’t do girlish things!” As if crying had anything to do with girls! The right to cry belongs to men exactly as it does to women. Crying is an extraordinary alchemy. One who has not passed through it will be deprived of certain experiences; some depths of life will never be known to him; some music of life will never be heard; some songs will never arise within. One who has not known tears will not know compassion, will not know love, will not know sympathy, will not know kindness. Without tears, life becomes arid—a desert—without oases. In this desert-like life, tears are…

Osho, why do devotees weep? What is the relationship between weeping and meditation?

If devotees did not weep, what else would they do? Why do little children cry when they are hungry? Why does the baby in the cradle cry when thirst arises? That is why devotees cry. Devotees are calling out to Existence itself. And before this vastness the devotee is as helpless as an infant—perhaps even more helpless. Do you see this immensity? What is our strength before it? Do you see this infinity? Where are we before it? Who are we? What are we? We are not even a speck. What standing does a speck have? If this speck does not weep, what else can it do? In helplessness, in darkness, wandering for lifetimes, what else can the devotee do? Had they not been threaded on the bond of sorrow, the pieces of the heart would have lain scattered. It is this cry, these tears, that bind them together— had…

Osho, for about eight years I have been listening to you and reading you; but everything is forgotten—only you stand before me. And now there is nothing but weeping. At home I weep before your picture, here in discourse I weep. What is this? “In your friendship, Bihari has found no happiness, O maiden!”

If through tears you are wholly washed away, nothing remains to be said. Then there is no need to pray. No scripture is necessary. Your tears will say everything—even what cannot be said; as for what can be said, of course that too. Your tears will sing everything—the singable and the unsingable; even what cannot be sung will be sung. In the melody of your tears all will be revealed. They will say it better than you; what is there to say to the Divine! The first poet must have been a lonely one in separation; song must have been born of a sigh. Swelling up, it must have flowed silently from the eyes— a poem, unaware of itself. All poetry is of tears. Does laughter ever create poetry? All poetry is of tears—because laughter is very shallow, superficial, hollow. No laughter can touch the depth that tears touch. Laughter…

Osho, when I sit to pray, nothing occurs to me except to weep. What should I do?

That is prayer. Prayer is happening. Weeping is prayer. The prayer of words is paltry; the prayer of tears is deep. What is said by the tongue does not go very far; what is cried through the eyes grows wings to reach the sky. So do not stop the crying. You asked for prayer, and prayer is being given—now recognize it. Prayer is feeling. And what do you have that is more full of feeling than tears? If you speak with the mouth, the mind speaks; if you weep with the eyes, the heart speaks. And prayer rises from the heart, not from the head. Learned, second-hand prayers have no value—count them as worth a brass farthing. Prayer must be one’s own, intimate. Tears are utterly personal. As every thumbprint is unique, so is every tear from every eye. Words become stale. You speak the same words others speak. Words…

Osho, just hearing your voice, my tears start to pour. Then why does a prayer not arise such that only the prayer remains and I do not? Why does the world still entice just as much and call me toward itself? Are these tears merely crocodile tears?

What you said that day— as if those words were not words: they were trees, they were dwellings, they were persons. Sometimes beneath them, sometimes within them, sometimes clasping them, I live. And even if I turn away from them for a while, their shade comes and touches me morning and evening. What you said that day— as if those were not words, they were trees, dwellings, persons. What I am saying to you is not mere saying. I am not telling a tale; I am speaking the anguish of your life. And I am indicating the way to go beyond the anguish of your life. And beyond your life’s anguish there is a treasure; I am reminding you of it. My words are an invocation, a call—to take you on the journey to the Vast, if you consent to move. If tears have begun to come, it means your…