How is union with the Beloved attained?

Osho! I set out to seek the Beloved; how is union with the Beloved attained?

Yog Neelam! The Beloved is not far. Not even so far that any meeting would be needed. There has only been forgetfulness, not separation. Separation cannot be. The Beloved abides within. He is the breath of our breath, the heartbeat of our heart. Without him we have no being. Because he is, we are. As the ocean is, so the waves are. The ocean can be without waves, but the waves cannot be without the ocean. Yet a wave can fall into a delusion—the delusion that “I am separate from the ocean.” In that very delusion, forgetfulness happens. Only forgetfulness happens; separation cannot. The whole search for the Beloved is nothing but remembrance—re-remembering. That is why the saints have called this search surati. Surati means remembrance, recollection. Surati is the folk form of the word smriti. What the Buddha called smriti, by the time of Kabir and Nanak became surati—dearer,…

Osho, is it necessary to pass through the state of separation for union with the Divine?

I wrote and sent countless letters, still, cruel one, you did not come. The desolate garden’s days rolled by, dark monsoon clouds kept gathering; the henna beds breathed fragrance, the thresholds rang with birdsong, the neem in the courtyard flowered, the mango grove at home bloomed. Everything spoke—only you were silent; I sat alone, my heart caged. Laughter lost, joy lost, sleep was sold, peace squandered. At whose temple shall I wave the lamp? At whose door shall I surrender? To whom shall I send my silent messages, to whom my tender invitation? I wrote and sent countless letters, none ever returned to me. All came—only you did not; why this cruel spell upon me? Such intense longing took hold, such efforts did it compel. The threshold fell hush and mute, the latch kept clicking, waiting; the clouds swayed low and bowed, the rains held back, still waiting. Whenever your…

Osho, On the gallows lies the Beloved’s bed—by what method can one meet Him? Come, Beloved, come; tears stream from the eyes, the heart aches—Beloved, come and meet me.

“The Beloved’s bed is on the gallows”—it has always been so. But the gallows is what we see because we are uncomprehending. We have not yet learned the Beloved’s language; the Beloved’s symbols have not opened before us. We have tried to understand the Beloved through our own language. Therefore it seems: the Beloved’s bed is on the gallows. Anxiety arises. Who would not be afraid of dying? Coming to the master brings a tremor, a restlessness. A young woman came to me the evening before last. She had traveled from California. She said, “I want to return at once. First, I don’t even understand why I came; and now that I am here, I fear I may not get back alive.” She began to weep. “I have a child, a husband. Please let me go.” She has seen the gallows. But within those gallows there is also a faint…

There is only the way to lose yourself. Those who lose, find. Those who set out to gain, never find. People come to me and say: We want to find God. I tell them: Search, but you will not find. They ask: Why? What is our fault? The question of fault does not arise. The seeker never finds. The one ready to lose finds. Losing is the way to find Him. For He Himself is lost. Become like Him—and the union happens instantly. Become absent. Let your ego go. Become a nonentity. Become as if you are not—and the union happens in a flash. The inner sky merges with the sky without. Then the supreme radiance of love manifests. Then love’s Gaurishankar rises. Love is moksha. For love frees you from yourself. Love is the supreme light. For other than your ego there is no darkness.

Osho, when I listen to you, every word sinks to the depths of my heart and stirs me. But when I read you, it remains a mental game. Please tell me why this happens.

It’s plain. The arithmetic is simple. When you read, only you are there; I am not. What you read is nothing but you. It becomes a game of the mind. When you listen to me, then sometimes—knowingly or unknowingly—I also slip into you. You seldom give such a chance, but now and then a lapse happens on your side. Unaware, you leave the door a little open—and I come in. So when you are hearing me, it’s a different matter. That is why truth has always been spoken, not written. It cannot be written. Even speaking it is very difficult, yet it can still be said—at least a little can be said, a little news can be given. Because in speaking, many elements are involved that are lost in writing. When you read a book, the book is dead. A book cannot create an atmosphere around you. A book has…