According to Osho, union with the Divine cannot be captured in words; it is tasted, not told. The separate drop dissolves into the ocean of being: the finite breaks and the infinite is revealed. Death falls away into nectarous immortality; a small flame joins the boundless light. Inside, a festival erupts—lotuses bloom, colors explode, ecstasy and fulfillment overflow.
Meeting the Divine is when your little self melts into a vast, joyful wholeness that words can’t explain.
From the Discourses
Passages where Osho speaks to this question — each links to the complete discourse.
Osho, what actually happens in union with the Divine? I fear to ask, yet curiosity will not be satisfied without asking. Forgive me if I am mistaken!
Ramdulare! There is not the slightest mistake. Curiosity is natural. When you set out to seek, what will happen when you find? When you meet the One you are searching for, what will happen? This is the spontaneous feeling that arises in the mind. When the lotus blooms, what fragrance will there be? What color? What form? When nectar showers, the lotuses blossom! When ambrosia rains and you bathe in it again and again, what will the experience be? What ecstasy will arise? This curiosity is completely natural. There is no mistake. And yet there is no way to quiet this curiosity without experience. Without it, it will not rest. However much I say, it is like a mute tasting jaggery—only the one to whom it happens knows. Yes, I can torment you sweetly. I can make you very thirsty. But I cannot tell you what the satiation is like…
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…
I am not saying that the mind has to be destroyed; it has only to be put aside so when you need to you can use it. It is like your car parked in the garage: when you want to use it you can take it out of the garage, then you are the master. But ordinarily the situation has become just the reverse: the car insists on not going into the garage. The car says "I am not going to stop," the car says "You have to run with me," and it goes on running twenty-four hours a day. Even while you are asleep the mind goes on and on. Ordinarily once it starts in childhood it never stops before death, unless somebody starts moving into meditation. Those are the very fortunate few people who enter into meditation.
Osho, what is the relationship between meditation and patience?
If you sit to meditate to remove mental restlessness, you will keep looking back again and again: “Has it gone yet?” And the irony is that when you begin to meditate, restlessness will increase. Because what has been repressed will start surfacing; catharsis will begin. The rubbish you have kept hidden within and never allowed to express—meditation will break open those doors too. It will clean the house. Dust piled up for years, for births, will rise again; there will be gusts and storms. For a while even the little peace you had will be lost. Then you will panic: “I came for peace, and even what I had is gone.” Without patience, you could even become unhinged, because meditation brings such a great storm. The disease is not from a day or two; it’s from lifetimes. Meditation will break through all the layers to reach your innermost core. In…
Osho, is the experience of the Divine different for each person?
Think of it like this: you go home from this garden, and your children say, “Tell us—what was the garden like?” A painter might tell you by making a painting: “It was like this.” A poet will write a poem—of the trees, of the winds passing through them, of the sun filtering between their leaves. Now a poem and a painting differ greatly. Or perhaps someone is a musician; he will not even write a poem—he will lift his vina. Why write? The winds passed through the trees and there was sound and resonance—he will reproduce that resonance on the vina. The colors in the trees he will translate into tones. The sun and shade he will pour into music. He will play the garden on his vina. Another will write a poem; another will render it on paper. The three expressions will differ. And if you look only at…