Sadhana Sutra #1

I called you, and you have come. But coming from the outside is easy. Until you come to me from within as well, coming or not coming makes little difference. Yet the one who can walk to me from the outside—the one whose thirst and longing are alive—can also walk within. Coming from the outside is evidence that the search is stirring, but that much evidence is not enough. It is an auspicious sign, necessary, yet not sufficient. You will have to walk within. And before the inner journey can begin, there are a few things you must understand about yourself. For it is you who will travel; no one else can walk in your place.

In this world you can neither see with another’s eyes, nor walk with another’s feet. Here, you must die yourself and you must live yourself. No one can stand in for you. Therefore, first of all, a few things about you must be understood. If there is confusion there, even the right road will deliver you to the wrong place. If you do not rightly understand yourself, you will turn even a right path into a road to a false destination. And if you do understand yourself, then there is no path that will fail to bring you where you need to be. Even wrong roads reach the right destination—the right traveler is what is needed. It all depends on the one who walks, not on the road.

The path does not take you; the walker arrives. The path changes with you. As you are, so does the path become. Therefore there are no fixed roads on which you can walk blindly.

First matter: understand yourself rightly. For from you the path will arise, and at the end the destination will arise out of you as well. You are everything. You are the seed, and you are the tree you will become. And when flowers open and fragrance is released, there too, in those flowers and that fragrance, it will be you. If there is a wrong understanding about yourself, all effort is wasted.

First thing—first, grasp well that you know nothing. Had you known even a little, there would have been no need to come to me at all. If a single ray of the sun reaches you, the way to the sun is open—by holding that one ray, you can reach the very source. If you taste even one drop of the ocean, you have tasted the whole ocean.

If you know even a little of life, there is no need to ask anyone. Walk by the support of that little you know. If a man walks in the dark with a small lamp, only two steps ahead are lit; but when he takes those two steps, another two are lit. Two more steps, and yet two more are illumined. With a lamp that lights only two steps, you can still travel thousands of miles. There is no need to illumine the whole distance. Even a small lamp in the hand is enough to cross the darkest path. Two steps are enough.

If you knew even a little about yourself, there would be no need to come to me, or to go to anyone. So first, see clearly that you know nothing yet about yourself. And what you do know are mere words. Words have neither life nor meaning in them. There is nothing more untrue in this world than words.

Experience—experience has meaning. However much I may speak, what I know I cannot pour into words. No one ever has. No one ever will. What I know is my experience. When I turn it into words, what enters your ears is not the experience but the bare word. I say, “Paramatman.” You hear. I say, “Atman.” You hear that too. But neither Atman nor Paramatman disclose their meaning to you. Words are heard, and by hearing them often, an illusion arises that we have understood. Understanding words is another name for not-understanding.

Take it to heart: you do not know anything. This is fundamental. For the one who, without knowing, thinks “I know,” closes the door to knowing. If the sick imagine themselves healthy, the search for treatment ends. If the ignorant gain the notion of knowledge, that so-called knowledge bewilders more than ignorance ever did.

If the realization arises that “I know nothing,” that is the first ray of knowledge. Now you have become honest. Now at least you have accepted one true thing: “I do not know.” You have put aside your scriptures and dropped your words. You have become honest, authentic toward yourself: I know neither Atman nor Moksha; I do not know what life is. This acceptance of ignorance is the first step of knowledge.

If any “knower” has arrived here—let him go back. I can work only with those who sense their ignorance. Your knowledge will be a hindrance. And if you already know, do not waste your effort or mine. Understand well: if you are ill, I will offer medicine; if you are ignorant, I will try to lead you toward knowing; if you are in darkness, I will show a way toward light. But if you are already standing in light, do not squander labor—yours or mine. To awaken one who sleeps is easy; to awaken one who is awake yet believes he is asleep—that is difficult.

Second matter: every life is seeking one thing—how to end sorrow, how to attain bliss. The search is one, the thirst one. If a tree rises from earth toward sky, it is in the same search. If birds fly, animals move, man lives—the same search. If even a stone exists, its inner seeking is for bliss. So take note of what you are seeking. Many set out to search for God, but that search is difficult; difficult because there is no deep thirst for God within. Move with your own thirst—one day perhaps that thirst will become the thirst for God. But not yet. For now, understand clearly: your search is for bliss. As the search deepens, you may discover that bliss is but another name for Paramatman; that bliss is a quality of the Divine; that your search is not merely for bliss but for something even more. But the beginning is the search for bliss, not for God.

If people fall into talk of God too soon, trouble begins. They start trying to be a tree without first being a seed. Then obstacles multiply, there is running about, and no result. When result fails, despair clutches them; a great sadness descends.

So, begin with bliss. Leave God aside—there is no hurry. Begin your journey in search of bliss, and it will end in the realization of the Divine. But do not begin with God. Start at the first step, begin with the alphabet. Bliss is understood by all—atheist or Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Jain. Whether one believes in God or not, whether one has faith in religion or not—the search for bliss is universal. Begin there, with the search common to all.

If we accepted the universal search, there would be fewer religious quarrels, less strife among Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. But we begin with the search for God, of whom we have neither any taste nor a fierce longing nor any real need. Then we fight over words. Of the God we do not know, we offer different verbal interpretations. The interpretations clash; temples, mosques, gurudwaras rise; people suffer needlessly.

Begin with bliss; then there is no dilemma—even for the atheist. Whether Hindu or Muslim, it does not matter. In seeking bliss, we seek what every creature seeks—none deny it. And slowly, as the search deepens, it becomes clear that the search for bliss becomes, at the end, the search for God.

Third matter: remember—you want bliss. But what will you renounce? What will you pay? With what will you seek bliss? What do you have to give? If a man takes even one step forward, he must leave the ground on which he stood. Without renunciation there is no movement. If your hands are filled with mud, pebbles, stones—and you desire diamonds—they must be dropped. At least empty the hands; remove the useless so that the essential may descend. What do you have?

Do not be afraid. I will not tell you to abandon wealth—because you do not have it; no one truly does. Even the richest in this world are poor. Wealth does not belong to anyone.

There are two kinds of poor—the poor poor and the rich poor. But poor they all remain. I have yet to see a rich man. I see people with money, not richness. They clutch no less than the poorest beggar. As the beggar clings to the coin in his palm, so the one with the largest vault clings to his treasure. The grip is the same; hence the poverty is the same.

So do not fear—I will not ask you to renounce wealth. What is not yours, how will you drop it? Nor will I ask you to give your life—this too is not yet yours. If you were life, why would you fear death? Life does not die; how could life become death? Yet you tremble before death; every moment its shadow surrounds you. You guard yourself lest you vanish, lest you end. Life is not yours. How can you donate what you do not have?

I will ask for what you do have—and what everyone has. As I said, everyone seeks bliss; there is one wealth everyone possesses—sorrow. That you have in abundance, more than enough. For lives upon lives you have gathered nothing else. Piles upon piles. The Himalaya would look small when placed beside the mountain of your accumulated misery. Hillary and Tenzing might fail to climb it. It is vast—your life’s work over many births. You have earned nothing but sorrow, and still you are earning it.

I ask you to drop sorrow, to renounce it. No one asks for your suffering—I ask for it. If you can give your sorrow, the way to bliss opens. If you can drop your suffering, you will discover that that idea—“I live in sorrow”—was your delusion. Sorrow had not caught you; you were clinging to sorrow. Only when you drop it will you see who holds whom.

You always ask: how to be free of suffering? Your question implies that suffering has seized you, and you want release. If suffering has seized you, you will not be free—because the grip is not in your hands but in suffering’s. Then you are helpless. If for lifetimes you have not been freed, how now?

I tell you: suffering has not seized you—you have seized suffering. If you agree, you will understand it—not only understand, you will experience it by dropping it: it does drop. And when you become skilled in the art of dropping sorrow, you realize that all you were dragging—no one else was responsible. Whatever you have suffered—no one is to blame. It was your desire; you wanted sorrow. Whatever we desire, that happens. Whoever you are is the fruit of your desires. Neither God nor fate is responsible. Existence has no purpose in making you miserable.

In truth, all of existence is eager to bless you. Existence longs that your life become a celebration. Because when you are miserable you spread misery around you. The stench of your wounds reaches the whole. When you are miserable, existence also suffers. The whole world is pained with your pain and rejoices with your joy. Existence does not wish you to be unhappy; that would be suicide for the whole. Yet you are unhappy because you have created an arrangement for it. Until you break that arrangement, you will never open your eyes toward bliss.

What is your arrangement? How does man accumulate sorrow? Understand a little—then dropping will be easy. Tomorrow morning we shall begin experiments.

When a child wants to cry… Psychologists say a child’s crying is a catharsis. Whenever tension accumulates, he cries and releases it. A little child is hungry and milk does not arrive on time—he cries. Tensions mount, they must be released. He cries, tension flows out, he becomes light. But we teach him: don’t cry. We invent all sorts of devices to stop him. We put a toy in his hand so that he forgets. We put a false nipple or his thumb in his mouth so that he imagines the breast has come—and forgets. We rock him so that his attention is diverted and he does not cry. In every way we prevent him; we do not let him cry. What would have been released through tears now accumulates. In this way, layers grow. Each person sits atop a mound of uncried tears, unexpressed pain.

You have gathered countless tensions. You have never wept to your heart’s content, nor laughed to your heart’s content. Neither has anything been stopped by not weeping, nor by not laughing. You have never been utterly angry, nor utterly forgiving. You are incomplete. Branches on all sides wanted to sprout but could not; leaves wanted to unfold but did not. Your tree stands like a stump. This hoarded, un-discharged pain is hell—and you are carrying it.

I have called you here to throw your hell away. You can throw it. In this camp become like small children. Forget that you are cultured, educated, important, wealthy, respected in your village—drop it. Become as on the first day of birth: no prestige, no learning, no position, no wealth, no honor. If you want to protect prestige, position—then leave before tomorrow morning. Run away quickly and do not look back—such people are not for me. Let your status, your “understanding” be safe—run away; do not stay.

I am here for those willing to be simple as children. Only then can I do something, for only children can be taught, only children can be transformed; only in a child’s life can revolution happen.

In the meditative experiments to run here, pour out whatever sorrow is in your heart. Throw it out. If anger arises, hurl it into the sky; if violence arises, hurl it into the sky. Do not direct it at anyone. Dissolve it into open space. Pain, hurt, anguish—whatever is inside—throw it out. Express it in as many ways as you have strength. Give it everything, so that whatever sorrow is within becomes manifest. Understand: when sorrow is pushed into the unconscious, it does not leave you until it is brought forth again. Bring it into consciousness. Pull what is buried in the dark out into the light.

Some things die in the light. If you pull a tree’s roots out into the sun, they die; they need darkness. Sorrow too is like roots—its life is in the dark. Bring it out, and you will see it die. Bury it within, and it will remain your companion for lifetimes. Bring sorrow out.

Understand one more thing. You carried sorrow inward from the outside. Please return it outside. Sorrow is not in your nature—it is imported. When you are born, your intrinsic nature is free of sorrow. An insult comes from outside; you take it in and become miserable. You nurse it, save it, suppress it; it grows, spreads, becomes poison in every nerve and pore. You become a sorrowful personality. Sorrow is brought in from the outside; it is not your nature.

That is why I say: you can be free of sorrow. You cannot be free of your nature, only of what is alien to it. What is not yours—that alone can be dropped. What is truly yours—there is no way to be free of it.

So hurl sorrow out. In the coming days, discharge as much as you can. As you unburden, understanding will dawn: what madness, that we safeguarded all this! It could have been thrown away so simply—it was in our hands, yet we kept our hands clenched for nothing.

And as sorrow is thrown out—what came from outside is returned outside—inside, the first shimmer of bliss will arise. Bliss is within. No one brings it from outside; it does not arrive from elsewhere. It is your nature. It is you. It is hidden within; it is your very Atman.

If this outer rubbish is thrown out, the inner soul begins to expand. Its light becomes visible. Its music can be heard. You begin to be immersed in an inner song. But this will happen only when you cast out the garbage, so that an inner sky is created, a space in which what is hidden within can spread.

Throw sorrow out, so that bliss may begin to bloom from within. And when bliss begins to expand, understand something more. Sorrow, if suppressed, grows. Sorrow suppressed increases; sorrow expressed decreases. Bliss is the opposite: bliss suppressed diminishes; bliss expressed increases.

First, then, expel sorrow—because by throwing it out it shrinks. Do not suppress it, or it will grow. And when the first glimpse of bliss arises from within, then throw that out as well—share it. The more you pour bliss outward, the more it multiplies within; fresher strata break open. As one draws water from a well, springs pour new water in. The source of bliss is within—do not fear that pouring it out will exhaust it. Sorrow decreases by pouring out because its source is not within. Bliss increases by pouring out because its source is within.

If you want to preserve sorrow, remember this trick: never express it. If you want to increase sorrow—and it seems many are committed to that—then never express it. If tears arise, swallow them; if anger arises, repress it. Whatever turmoil arises, push it down; it will grow. You will create a great hell.

If you want to reduce sorrow, express it. If you want to increase bliss, express it. Because bliss is within, newer and purer layers will open as you share. Bliss grows by sharing.

That is why Buddhas and Mahaviras retreat to forests when they are in sorrow—because sorrow must be expressed. Better to empty it in solitude so that it touches no one. But when they are filled with bliss, they return to the crowd—to share. For when sharing, the marketplace is the right place. Perhaps someone may catch the contagion, perhaps another may find the tune, perhaps someone’s heart-veena may be touched and begin to sing.

Remember this: Christ, Mohammed, Mahavira, Buddha—when they are in sorrow, they go into solitude; sorrow must be expressed where none are harmed, where none even know. When they are filled with bliss, they return to the many—because now bliss must be poured out, and the more it is distributed the better.

Sorrow must be poured out. And when the first glimmer of bliss appears, pour bliss too. Become utterly childlike—no worry of the past, no concern for the future; no thought of what others think of you. Only then can that which I have called you for, happen. Only then can the journey begin.

A little courage is needed, and the treasure of bliss is not far. A little courage is needed, and you can slip out of hell as easily as a traveler covered in dust slips into a bath and the dust flows away. Meditation is just such a bath. Sorrow is dust. When the dust is shaken off and freshness descends, the taste of happiness and bliss that begins to arise from within is your nature.

Now let us take the sutras. Mabel Collins’ little book, Light on the Path, is a lamp for the path. Among the rarest of precious booklets in human history. Mabel Collins is not its author. This book is among those essence-words humanity discovers again and again, and again and again loses.

Truth is hard to preserve. When truth descends, only those at the very summit of life-consciousness can catch a glimpse. They speak, they write, they devise a thousand ways so that what has been seen may become everyone’s treasure. But those not at those heights never rightly understand their words. What they understand is wrong; their interpretations are wrong. Slowly, the first ray of truth is lost; empty words remain. Sometimes even the words are lost, and then again and again those essential statements must be rediscovered.

Mabel Collins says: the words gathered in this booklet she did not write; she saw them in the depths of meditation. She says—and rightly—that these words were inscribed in a lost Sanskrit book. That book vanished; humanity lost touch with it. She re-saw it and transcribed it as it was.

Whatever is precious in this world is always at risk of being lost—but not totally lost. Whenever anyone reaches the same height, the same can be rediscovered. Many scriptures have descended this way. The Quran descended thus. When the first time Muhammad heard, “Read,” he was unlettered. He said, “What shall I read?” Letters floated before him in meditation, and the voice from within kept repeating, “Read.” Muhammad said, “But I cannot read.” The voice answered, “To read these words, outer learning is not needed—read.” Muhammad trembled: Is this hallucination, a dream, or have I gone mad? He went home, hid under a blanket; fever came, his body shook. His wife asked, “What has happened?” For three days he told her nothing—he himself was unsure whether what he had seen could be true; and if he himself could not trust it, how could she? She would call him mad and summon a physician. He restrained himself three days. Yet the event repeated: “Read.” The same letters reappeared. Slowly, Muhammad recognized them and the verses of the Quran began to descend. In just such a way Light on the Path descended upon Mabel Collins. Each sutra is precious—the distilled essence of the sadhana of countless seekers across countless years. Listen to each word with utmost care.

“These rules are for disciples.” Not for all—only for disciples. What does it mean? These rules are for those who are ready to learn. Not for everyone, because many are not ready to learn.

That is why I said: if you know you are ignorant, stay; otherwise, run away. The one who knows his ignorance can be a disciple. He has the qualification to learn. The knowledgeable are not ready to learn; therefore they remain ignorant—by believing they know. The ignorant become wise—because they are ready to learn. The art and knack of learning is called discipleship.

These rules are for disciples. What is a disciple? One who is willing to bow. One who values knowing more than his ego. One who says, “I will lay my head on the earth if even a single ray of light can reach me. I am ready to lose everything—even myself.” Discipleship means deep humility—making the heart a bowl by bowing down.

The river flows. If you, thirsty, stand stiff and refuse to bend, the river will not leap into your hands. The river is not angry. It is ever ready to quench your thirst. Yet you must bend; make a cup of your palms—then the river will fill them. Knowledge too is not available without bending.

These rules are for those willing to bow. Thirst alone is not enough. You must bend, cup your hands, and say: Even if I vanish, let the secret of life be revealed. Let me become dust at the feet—no matter—if only I may taste life’s flavor, its meaning, its purpose. Why am I? For what am I?

Those intent on saving themselves, unwilling to bend—these rules are not for them. Consider for yourself: only if your tendency is that of a disciple will these rules make sense to you, and only then can you apply them.

Daily I see people come—they want to know, but not to learn. To “know” means: free of charge. To learn means: to give yourself, to pay, to bow. One man came to me, often writing, “I want to come.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “To exchange ideas.” I said, “If you are certain you have found something, I am ready to learn it from you in a disciple’s spirit. If you are not certain—and I am certain I have found something—then be ready to learn from me as a disciple. Exchange has no meaning. If both have, there is nothing to give or take. If neither has, what will be exchanged? Exchange is meaningful only if one has and the other is ready to receive. Decide first.” He became restless. He could neither say he had found nor admit he had not; he could not accept the humility of receiving. He said, “I will think and come.” I told him, “If you have found, what is there to think? If you have not, what is there to think? Clarity is enough. If you go to think, you will never come—you haven’t yet.” Exchange between two blind men is like blind men giving directions.

Buddha and Mahavira once stayed in the same inn; they did not meet. People worry: they should have met. Those without faith imagine ego prevented it. Jains think: why should Mahavira go—he is the knower! Let Buddha come. Buddhists think the opposite. But the reason is different: there is no purpose. Two ignorant men meeting—no use. Two enlightened men meeting—no use. Only when a knower meets a not-knower can revolution happen.

“These sutras are for the disciple.” Which means: when you go to a guru, and truly want revolution, go to one who knows in the posture: I do not know. For such as these, the sutras work and life changes.

“Attend to these.” “Before the eyes can see, they must be incapable of tears.” Your eyes are so full of tears that you cannot see. You are so full of sorrow that you cannot see—your sorrow will distort everything. Let the eyes weep their tears away. Let them cry until nothing remains to cry for.

You do not know: if all your tears are shed, your eyes will become so luminous that there will be no need for a third eye—or say, the third eye will be available, for these very eyes will be so clear. Not only the eyes—your whole body becomes transparent when free of sorrow. These very hands, if emptied of sorrow, will carry the same grace in their touch that is in the touch of the Divine. But filled with pain, you are closed on all sides. Your eyes appear to see, but they are blind—burdened. Your hands touch, but the touch is dead because the inner stream of life that would make it alive is blocked by pain and wounds.

In these days, free your eyes of tears. This does not mean suppressing tears—that will fill them more. Freedom from tears means allowing them to flow, not stopping them. Tears are alchemical, they have a mystery. The freshness in a child’s eyes, their innocence, is for this reason: children can cry wholeheartedly and empty their eyes.

Jesus said: unless you become like little children, you shall not enter the kingdom of my Father. Crying and seeing. The sutra says: “Before the eyes can see, they must be incapable of tears.” When no tears remain within, when no mood of crying remains, no hoarded pain—then you are ready. Then you can see. Here and now—if the eyes are empty of tears, that which is missed for lifetimes can be seen. This very existence—stones, pebbles, plants, stars, the people sitting around you—within each the supreme joy is flowering, the supreme life is flowing. But blind eyes cannot see. Empty the eyes. “Eyes” are a symbol—empty the self of sorrow.

“Before the ears can hear, they must have become deaf.” What does it mean? You hear much now, but you only hear that which you want to hear. You do not hear what is; you do not hear what is said. You hear your preferences. Your ears select; they sift the useful and discard the useless. What serves your purpose is caught; what does not is ignored or instantly forgotten.

“Before you can hear”—what? Before you can hear the one you have come to learn from, your ears must have become deaf—deaf to their habits. Your whole structure of selective hearing, meaning-making for your ends, the arrangements of self-interest—must collapse. The ears you have known must become deaf. Only then will your ears become pure, like the eyes, and you will hear exactly what is said.

It happened: one night Buddha said to his monks, “Go now and do the last work of the night.” A thief sitting among listeners heard. Buddha meant the final meditation before sleep—sink into Samadhi, then let sleep come. The monks rose to meditate. The thief thought, “How apt! Midnight approaches—time for me to do my work.” He marveled: how did Buddha know? A courtesan was also there; she too heard the same words and thought, “Time to open my shop.” Later Buddha would say: I spoke one sentence; listeners understood differently. You only understand what you want to understand. A thief’s ear hears something else; a courtesan’s something else; a monk’s something else. As long as ears impose their own meaning, they are unfit. They must become deaf—only then can you hear the guru. Otherwise you will extract your own meaning and then even blame the guru for your going astray.

Therefore the sutra says: “Before the ears can hear, they must have become deaf.” Leave your old hearing-habits aside. Listen straight. Do not interpret; do not derive meanings; do not calculate. If I say, “Before your eyes can be empty of tears, you cannot see,” many of you will think, “But I have no tears inside—this is for someone else.” If I say, “Before you can know anything, you must bow,” your mind may say, “But I have always bowed! I touch the guru’s feet, I serve sadhus. This is for others.” You escape. You withdraw yourself from what is being said. Here, whatever is said is said to you, not to someone else. Do not think about others. Think only of yourself—and when you do, be honest.

“And before you may speak in the presence of the Masters, your tongue must have lost the power to wound.” In the presence of a Sadguru, do not speak until your words cannot wound. Until then, whatever you say will be futile; it will only widen the distance between you and your guru. We wound greatly with words. We can wound by silence too. We are skilled in violence. Sometimes you do not speak in order to wound. Sometimes you speak and your words carry a blade; sweet on the surface, poison within. In your laughter, gestures, glances—there is the tendency to hurt.

The sutra says: do it elsewhere if you must; but before the guru, speak only when this tendency has vanished. Only then will speech bring you closer. Otherwise better to remain silent. Listen; do not speak. And it is fitting, because only by listening will you receive—your speaking will not help. People are amazing. Once a gentleman used to come to me. For an hour or two he would talk—about everything. I only said “Yes, hmm” once in a while so that he would not feel his talk was meaningless. When he would leave, he never failed to say, “Today, what you said gave me great joy.” I had not said a thing. He spoke; I listened. Yet he sincerely felt he had heard wonderful words. He was not deceiving; that was his experience. Such is our condition. If you go to a guru in this state and keep speaking, you waste the time that could be spent listening—and you increase the distance.

Between guru and disciple, words from the guru draw nearer; words from the disciple push away. Union happens in the disciple’s silence and the guru’s word. Then comes a moment when even the guru’s words are dropped: when the disciple’s silence is deep, union happens in silence to silence. The disciple should begin with silence. So the condition stands: until your words are free of the instinct to wound, do not speak before the guru.

This is subtle and must be recognized, for you hardly notice which words wound. I was a guest in a home. The father brought his son and said to me, “Meet him—my supu-tra!” The word means “good son,” but the tone meant “bad son.” “Here stands my good son,” he said, then told the boy, “What are you staring at? Touch his feet.” Sometimes deeper wounds are made by words than by knives. This boy will never be able to forgive his father. It is very difficult to forgive parents—because they have no idea what they are saying. You do not know what you are saying to your wife, to your husband, to your servant, to your friend. Recognize it. In this camp it will be good to remain mostly silent. And when you must speak, speak thoughtfully so that no one is hurt. You will find the quality of your words changes and your inner consciousness begins to change. Decide to speak the least—only when absolutely necessary. If one sentence suffices, speak one; if one word suffices, one word. If a gesture will do, do not use a word. If silence will do, that is best. And if a word must be used, use only those that do not hurt.

Someone is standing in meditation. You pass by with a smirk that says, “What foolishness!”—you have been violent. The other may be naive and catch your message; what was about to happen to him may not happen. You become responsible. People say anything to anyone: “What madness—has anyone ever attained meditation like that?” As if they have attained. Speak mindfully. Notice the violence of your mind. Until your words are free of violence, says the sutra, do not speak before the guru.

“Before the soul can stand in the presence of the Masters, its feet must be washed in the blood of the heart.” A symbol: before you stand before the Masters, your soul must be washed in your own heart’s blood—your life must pass through fire in every way, so that the dross is burned away and only pure gold remains. Otherwise, stand before the guru as if you are not. That is why in Tibet the disciple prostrates hundreds of times a day at the guru’s feet. Whenever he sees him, he bows down.

A young man came to me and said, “I was learning meditation with a Tibetan lama. I could not accept why there was a need to prostrate again and again.” I told him, “Forget the need—just do it for three months, then come back to me.” He asked, “What will I gain?” I said, “You will lose three months—that’s all. You have already lost thirty years—try three more months.” He went. After three months he returned and said, “What have you done! I used to think it was useless ritual, mere drill. But bowing again and again—my ego sought tricks, kept asking ‘what’s the point?’—yet by falling at his feet repeatedly, something in me bent. What I could never understand in that guru began to be clear; what he had always said but I had never heard—I heard.” Melt, burn, and efface yourself so that you become empty—and in that emptiness you can be related to the guru. Remember these things.

“Kill out ambition.” This is the first sutra the guru will give—if the previous steps have been fulfilled, all sages of all time begin here: kill out ambition. What is ambition? The craving to become something—president, prime minister, Rockefeller, Einstein, or even Buddha or Mahavira. The insanity of becoming something else. Why? Because as long as you want to become, you will not be what you were born to be. Your swarupa—your intrinsic suchness—cannot be found while you are busy becoming. What you are, you already are; it is not to be achieved. Whatever you become will be a betrayal, an escape from yourself. Imagine the rose wanting to become a lotus. It cannot. But it can live in delusion and perish. It won’t be a rose then; a lotus it cannot be.

As you are, Existence has already accepted you; otherwise you would not be. As you are, Existence approves; otherwise it would not have made you. It does not repeat. However lovely Buddha is, Existence does not make a second Buddha. Repetition is the work of poor craftsmen who lack creativity. Existence fashions each being unique. However dear Rama is—no second. Imagine many Ramas born—how stale it would become! One is enough. Beyond one, the taste goes stale. Existence does not like staleness. You were not created to become Rama, Krishna, Buddha. You were created to become that which only you can become—no one before or after can. If you miss, Existence misses that moment. Only you could have fulfilled that destiny; no one else.

Kill out ambition, so that you may be established in your own swarupa. Ambition drives you to imitation—be like someone, run, do, achieve. It will be false, superficial, a mask. What is real in you will remain a seed within; outside you will paste paper flowers.

Kill out ambition. Drop the very idea that you must become something else. Only one concern is needed: to know what Existence has made you. Not to become, but to uncover. No ideal is needed, no blueprint—“I must become like this.” The spiritual search is not for an ideal—it is a discovery of what already is within. Whatever is needed is already here. Whatever you can be—you are already, in this very moment. Not a grain needs to be added—only the rubbish removed. A diamond lies buried in a heap of dirt. Do not imitate another. To want to be another is ambition.

“Kill out ambition. Ambition is the first curse. It beguiles and diverts from the path whoever tries to be ahead of his fellows. It is the simplest form of desire for the fruits of good deeds. The wise and the strong are again and again lured away from their highest possibilities by it. Yet it is a necessary means of education. When tasted, its fruits turn to ashes and dust in the mouth. Like death and separation, it teaches at last that working for self, for the expansion of ego, ends only in disappointment.”

There is a second face of ambition—not only becoming like another, but getting ahead of another. Always worrying: how to have a house bigger than the neighbor’s, more respect than the neighbor, how to outstrip him. Measuring yourself by someone else. As long as you think of yourself in comparison, you insult yourself. Your neighbor is not you; you are not your neighbor. There is no comparison. All comparison is false. You were not sent to get ahead of anyone but to be yourself. And even if you get ahead, you will find someone ahead of you. In this world no one ever reaches a place where no one is ahead.

Life is complex. Suppose you become president; even then, seeing a street sweeper’s healthy body, you may feel envy. You may envy an ordinary man’s handsome face. There are a thousand ways to be ahead. No one ever finds that he is ahead in all respects. The pain remains. Only the one who drops the race is blessed—the one who says, “Where I am, let me be totally.” No question of being ahead. “Let what I am flower fully.” No comparison. Let my flower bloom completely—even if it is just a grass-flower. Existence accepts me. It is dancing in the winds as the big flower is.

A Zen master, Bokushu, was asked, “How can I become like you?” He said, “Wait till people leave.” In the evening, when all had gone, he took the man out where trees stood—some small, some large. “Look,” he said, “this small tree is small, that large tree is large. For years I have not heard them discussing. The small never asks the big, ‘How can I become like you?’ The big never asks the small. The small blossoms with flowers not found on the big; the big has height not found on the small. They do not compare. They are both equally delighted. Each has accepted itself. Do not ask me, if you really want peace. I do not ask you how to become like you; why do you ask me?”

The man said, “Because you are so peaceful and joyous, and I am so restless and miserable—that is why I ask.” Bokushu said, “I am giving you the device, but you do not hear. I too was miserable when I tried to be someone else. Since I agreed to be myself, the pain ended.” In comparison there is sorrow, jealousy, violence. Drop comparison. Do not weigh yourself against anyone—there is no meaning, no way. Be content as you are, and care only for one thing: that what you are reveals itself fully.

This is what we shall seek here. I do not want to make you Buddha, Rama, Krishna. No need—they have been. I want to make you what you can be. Let the seed within you sprout. I do not want you ahead or behind anyone. Each stands in his own place. Let your own flower bloom. Let the fragrance hidden in your heart come out. I want to make you you.

Tomorrow morning we will meditate. Four stages of ten minutes each. First stage: breathing—as intense as possible, like a blacksmith’s bellows; let there be only breath. Second stage: catharsis—whatever is suppressed within—weeping, tears, screams, shouts, anger, violence—throw it out. Do not think—let the body throw it out. Let the body do whatever it wants in that moment, so the load drops. Third stage: the mantra “Hoo”—with such force that the sky resounds. Throw it outward—the blow and the roar of Hoo. This roar strikes the Kundalini like a hammer; the inner energy rises upward. You will experience it: as the blows begin, you will feel fierce currents of energy rising upward—and as they rise, you enter another realm. Fourth stage: ten minutes of silence—total silence in which meeting with the Supreme happens.

Now we will meet in the morning.