Sahaj Yog #8

Taru! That is enough. If one can weep, prayer is complete. It begins with tears and ends with tears. All else are borrowed flowers; only the flowers of tears are our own. Whatever arrangements man makes are gross. There is no need for gross arrangements. Let feeling arise in the subtle, let a ripple awaken in the subtle—whether it flows as tears or becomes song, whether it turns into dance or music—the essential thing is that the feeling arises in the innermost. When feeling rises, devotion has happened.

Perhaps no one even hears; it isn’t necessary that tears actually appear in the eyes—if the eyes simply grow moist, that is enough. Even tears need not reach the eyes; if the heart becomes moist, that is enough. The heart’s moisture is prayer.

Let those who have leisure read the inscriptions of mosque and temple.
Here, as far as the eye can see, the only headline is love.

Here, wherever you look, there is only love upon love. Love alone is life’s title. Such a state of feeling is called prayer. Then nothing has to be arranged—no ritual, no trays of worship to be set.

These trees stand silently; that is their prayer. The birds sing; that is their prayer. Clouds wander in the sky; that is their prayer. Rivers rushing toward the sea are in prayer. This whole existence is absorbed in prayer. Nowhere is a prayer “arranged”; only man arranges—and so far as man arranges it, prayer becomes false. Man builds temples, carves idols, decorates trays, recites mantras—these are all false. Prayer is already afoot—in the hush of these trees, in the patter of these drops. All existence is immersed in prayer. Only man thinks he must arrange prayer. Existence is drowned in prayer—day and night, moment to moment, prayer is happening. We are in the Divine; how could we be outside of prayer?

If the urge to say something comes to you, speak—but speaking has no essential link with prayer; the unsaid is complete as well. Yes, if speaking arises, don’t suppress it, don’t block it; later, if you wish, ask forgiveness of God.

In my ecstasy I have blurted out who knows what—
God grant that no one understand a thing!

Prayer is an intoxication, a divine madness; but people have turned it into a ritual, a whole arithmetic! How many beads to turn, how many Names to chant, how many mantras to repeat, exactly how to pour water—they have made it a ledger. We have a word: kushal—“skilled.” You’ll be surprised: this word arose from the so‑called scripture of prayer. Kushal was the one who went into the forest and found the finest kusa grass for worship—because water was poured over kusa. This became so important that the one adept at finding the best kusa was called kushal. Fetching kusa is no more, but the word remains; now anyone deft at anything is called “skilled.” Yet the word began for one who was clever at arranging the arithmetic of prayer.

But prayer has nothing to do with skill—it has to do with innocence. The skilled will never truly pray; the skilled is calculating. Mathematics and God do not meet. Where mathematics enters, the relationship breaks. Mathematics belongs to the world of transaction, of accounts.

What has love to do with mathematics? The ways of love are unique.

Ah, the grace of His remembrance—
He has not let me be alone for even a single moment.

He who takes a plunge into the Beloved’s love finds a current of attention flowing within unceasingly. A tune gets fixed. Even in sleep the tune continues, like the breath continues. As the water‑bearer walks with a pitcher on her head, she gives no support with her hands; she chats with her companions, sings, gossips, laughs with those she meets on the road—and she keeps walking, yet her attention remains with the pitcher, carefully held. As a mother sleeps—thunder may roll in the sky, lightning flash, she does not hear; but let her child stir a little and she hears. How? Attention is tied! A fine thread of attention is bound. The thread of love is very subtle, but it is enough.

Ah, the grace of His remembrance! The stream of attention keeps flowing—this too is His compassion. He has not allowed me to remain alone for even a moment! And once attention is bound, even hell is heaven. Then no one can send you to hell. In hell too His remembrance will hold you. Then even the night of separation is a night of union, a bridal night. No one can distance you from Him; there is no way. Even death will not part you, for even in death the remembrance remains bound.

Let the night of separation be harsh—what of it?
Is it not enough that, all night long, your Name returns to my lips?

However long the night of separation stretches—what difference does it make? Let the night be hard—what concern is that? The longer the night, the deeper your remembrance grows.

If a person does not lose heart in trouble,
What is easy becomes easier, what is hard becomes hardest.

The world’s progress is bound to this secret:
Everything is within man’s grasp—if only he has heart.

There is just one thing to be done: let your heart begin to beat with His—and then there is no need of any other arrangement. If a person does not lose heart in adversity… And this is the hour of adversity: when we cannot make the connection, when the heart will not beat with His, when we drift far apart.

If a person does not lose heart in trouble,
What is easy becomes easier, what is hard becomes hardest.

The hardest thing in this world is to link oneself with the Divine. And that becomes the easiest of all. Only one thing is needed: let Him settle into your heartbeats.

Someone is shaking me awake!
The bird of my life longs to fly,
beating its head against the cage!

Last night—a drizzle, moonlight,
the air was mixing dreams;
somewhere far, love‑laden,
a half‑awake dove was calling;
something like a wounded bird
was dying in my chest—
someone is shaking me awake!

Let His remembrance shake you like that, like a wounded bird fluttering its wings—eager to fly out of the cage!

Someone is shaking me awake!
The bird of my life longs to fly,
beating its head against the cage!

Prayer has happened! If this feeling arises—to be free, to break all bonds—then the breaking has begun.

Last night—a drizzle, moonlight,
the air was mixing dreams;
somewhere far, love‑laden,
a half‑awake dove was calling;
something like a wounded bird
was dying in my chest—
someone is shaking me awake!
The bird of my life longs to fly,
beating its head against the cage!

Do not go to temple, nor mosque, nor gurdwara. Wherever you sit, let that place become a temple, a mosque, a gurdwara. Just awaken remembrance in the heart.

I sing each dusk and dawn!
When, eager to see you, I
find myself banished and alone,
lost in the anguished sobbing
of companionless dark,
then my thirsty songs
spread their wet hem—
in the hope, alas, that with them
I might touch, just touch, your feet!
I sing each dusk and dawn!

Sing! Hum! Weep! Dance!

I sing each dusk and dawn!
When, eager to see you, I
find myself banished and alone,
lost in the anguished sobbing
of companionless dark,
then my thirsty songs
spread their wet hem—

That is enough. Let the hem be wet with your thirst; let the offering of your tears gather in your own hem—that is enough. All is done—all worship, all adoration fulfilled. If there is no mantra, it will do; no scripture, it will do; no idol, it will do. No other arati need be arranged; let the lamp of the heart be lit.

And let me repeat: this whole existence is prayerful—except man. Only man asks: “How to pray?” All existence is praying. Just open your eyes and see! Mountains are immersed in prayer. The sky is full of prayer. The oceans hum with prayer. Only man asks: “How should I pray?” And it is in the “how” that the miss happens. There is no question of “how.”

Smiling in the buds,
the coy, delicate jasmine
sends love‑messages of its fragrance,
nurturing affection through the bee.
Hearing the homeless cuckoo’s call,
weeping in the lonely grove,
the mango blossom, quivering, quivering,
sends its urgent message of love.
Veiling his face in night’s scarf,
the dream‑bereft, love‑sick sky
spills love‑messages upon earth’s breast
like beads of tears;
in a broken garland of fireflies
love‑messages are woven and rewoven;
taking the cry of the chakravak through the night,
dawn fills her veil with it and brings it home.

Everywhere—whether the cuckoo’s lament or the fragrance rising from mango blossom—all this is offered at the Lord’s feet. All this is a call to the Beloved.

Smiling in the buds,
the coy, delicate jasmine
sends love‑messages of its fragrance,
nurturing affection through the bee—

What happens between jasmine and the bee is but one form of what happens between devotee and God.

Hearing the homeless cuckoo’s call
weeping in the lonely grove,
the mango blossom, quivering, quivering,
sends its urgent message of love.

These are varied postures of love. But man has been taught a falsehood: that love and prayer are opposites. From this the obstacle has arisen. Thus you ask: How to pray? And yet you know very well how to love. The pundits have explained: “Prayer is something else—indeed the opposite. If you abandon love, prayer will happen.” There the mistake occurred. There began man’s wandering. Now, however much he tries, he cannot understand how to pray.

Prayer is the refinement of love. Prayer is the edge set upon love. If love is the flower, prayer is its fragrance. If love is the lamp, prayer is its flame.

Let one thing become clear in your mind: love is prayer. Then there is no obstacle. You loved your wife—this too is a form of prayer. You loved your son—this too. You loved your mother—this too. You loved your friend—this too. Granted, prayer has a long way yet to rise—fragrance is still far from the seed; likewise your love is far from prayer. But fragrance is hidden in the seed. The seed must break, sprout, become a tree; years will pass, flowers will bloom, fragrance will arise—but fragrance was already concealed in the seed.

The lotus is hidden in the mud. Those who deny the mud will be deprived of the lotus. Renounce the mud—and then you will ask, “Where shall we find the lotus?” And you will not find it. Then you will make false lotuses. Then you will worship pictures of the lotus.

In the name of God, people worship pictures and idols, while God is present all around—sometimes in the face of your child, sometimes in the face of your husband, sometimes of your brother, of your friend, your neighbor! God is everywhere. Transform your love, from all directions, into prayer. Let all streams of love fall into the ocean of prayer. Then there is no obstacle.

Taru! Nothing more is needed. You asked: “Your helpless child weeps.”

That is enough. The feeling of helplessness, and the cry that rises from helplessness—prayer is complete. Beyond this there is no other prayer, nor is any needed.

Yog Chinmay! Why do you ask about “man”? Who is this “man”? Where will you find him? “Man” is only a word in the air. Somewhere you will meet a Ram, somewhere a Rahim; you will never meet “man.” Somewhere an A, somewhere a B, somewhere a C; but “man” you will not find anywhere. “Man” is a fancied word. And whenever we start asking questions about fancied words we move away from reality.

Do not ask about man; ask about yourself. Why do you ask, “A man either goes to the excess of sexual indulgence or, on the contrary, into the frustration of sexual repression”? As if this were not your question! You are asking about some man; as if it has nothing to do with you. If you have asked only for the sake of asking—then it is pointless. Or else it is your question. Then ask it straight: Why do I go to the excess of sexual indulgence, or, on the contrary, into the frustration of sexual repression?

The question must be yours—only then can I answer you. Otherwise, when this “man” shows up, I will answer him. It is not your question.

Be careful: the more real you can make your questions, the better. And your questions should be yours. Why worry about “man”? What have you to do with “man”? Let “man” fall into repression or indulgence—what is your purpose? You stand outside it all! You are not entangled! It isn’t your pain. You don’t go to a physician and ask: “Why does man get TB? What should one do so that man does not get TB?” The physician will be a little puzzled. He will ask: Where is the man? Which man are you talking about? If you have some trouble, there can be diagnosis, treatment, analysis. But “man”… there is no such man anywhere.

“Man” is a device of the individual. What we do not want to ask honestly about ourselves, we ask about “man.” The things we want to evade…

People come to me. They say: “We love humanity.” Humanity! How will you embrace “humanity”? How will you hold “humanity’s” hand? Loving humanity is a clever trick, a cunning device. You do not love the human being who lives next door; you do not love the human beings who live in your home—but “humanity”! In the name of love for humanity you can, if you wish, murder as many human beings as you like. This is exactly what has happened for centuries.

People are killing in the name of religion; killing in the name of humanity; in the name of peace, freedom, democracy, communism. The labels are excuses. And the labels are so lofty that it seems if a hundred thousand or two hundred thousand people die for so lofty a cause, what’s the harm?

Adolf Hitler could not have killed millions easily, but in the name of a great word, a principle, he could. Stalin could kill millions. If you murder even one person without a reason you will suffer; yet he could do it with ease… “communism”!

The world’s religions have caused so much killing on this earth that the whole earth has been filled with corpses; they have drenched the history of humankind in blood. Religions—from whom we expect peace! But lofty words! In lofty words reality gets concealed. Words become curtains.

Chinmay, this is your question. It should be asked straight, honestly: “I go to the excess of sexual indulgence, or, on the contrary, into the frustration of sexual repression.” Then things become easier. Then we can begin somewhere. Then a remedy is possible. And the root of all this is repression. At the root of both—excess and the frustration of repression—lies repression.

No animal or bird ever goes into sexual excess. It simply does not happen. Why? Because the fundamental accident has not occurred. No one has told them sex is wrong; hence they have not repressed it. Repress sex and the energy of sex accumulates. Whatever you repress, its energy accumulates. As if you put a kettle on the stove; the tea starts heating; steam gathers in the kettle, and you keep pressing down the lid so steam cannot escape—there will be an accident, an explosion. Someone may be killed. The house may catch fire. That kettle becomes dangerous for those around it; it could take their lives.

Every day you generate life-energy. Then a whole arrangement is set in motion to repress that life-energy. Steam is being generated in the kettle and you are trying to force it down. How long will you be able to hold it? A limit will come when you cannot. When you cannot, the pendulum will swing to the other extreme. Then suddenly, like a mad person, you will plunge into indulgence. And then, in that mad indulgence, you will soon break down; you will soon be depressed. The mind will grow heavy; sadness will descend. Everything will seem futile. Sex will appear so empty, so pointless that you will begin to repress again—“Let us go back.” And the cycle will continue throughout your life. But the beginning is in repression. If the urge to repress disappears, excess leaves on its own.

Do not repress sexual desire; transform it into urdhvaretas—raise it upward. It is energy; if you repress it, there will be an explosion. Therefore a creative use of energy is essential. Repressors never employ a creative use. You will be surprised to know: if you become absorbed in music, if you play the veena with your whole heart for an hour or two, sexual desire will not arise in your mind for days. The energy that used to manifest as sex has blossomed as music. If you paint, or carve a sculpture, if you engage yourself wholly in any work so that, while doing it, the ego is forgotten—utterly forgotten…

Understand this key. Even in sex, the little rasa that comes for a few fleeting moments comes because the ego is forgotten. The key is: ego-forgetting. The ego is a burden. The ego is false—the biggest lie. To carry it is painful. To maintain it brings suffering. One wants to forget it once in a while: sometimes with alcohol, sometimes by descending into sex. People look for ways to forget it somehow. But that forgetting lasts only for a moment; then it returns.

One who makes life creative—no matter what the creativity is—whether you cook food, only let cooking not be mere work; let it be creative. Immerse yourself totally in it. Forget yourself in it. You need some work in your life through which you can forget yourself. And as the depth of such work grows, sexual desire will grow thin by itself, and within you the energy will start moving upward.

If a person can sing, dance, play the sitar or the flute; if he can do anything in which hours pass and he does not come to himself, the ego does not get manufactured—then sex can bid farewell for months. And once this key is in your hands you will be astonished to see that sex is not a sin—you have immense energy within you, through which so much can be brought into being. Whatever is beautiful in this world—whether the Taj Mahal, the temples of Khajuraho, the caves of Ajanta and Ellora…

Do you know the caves of Ajanta and Ellora were made by Buddhist monks! They must have become utterly absorbed. Khajuraho, Konark, Puri, Bhubaneswar—those temples were made by tantrics, by practitioners of the path of spontaneity. They were immersed. Years upon years. Lives upon lives were poured in. Not even a single generation could complete them; many generations of tantrics were needed. But they remained absorbed, in rapture! And in that rapture they became free from sex.

The Taj Mahal is the imagination of Sufi fakirs. An emperor had it built, but the conception was given by Sufis. Those who built it were Sufi fakirs too. That’s why, if you sit silently and look at the Taj on a full-moon night for an hour or two, an unparalleled meditation descends. The signatures of Sufis are upon it. Its very form is such that it dissolves you into meditation.

Millions of statues of Buddha were made—who made them? Not shopkeepers. Not mere technicians either. Such images of Buddha were made that if you just sit by them—stone, yes, but they poured so much into the stone; gave it such a form, such a hue, such a feeling—that even sitting near the stone something within you becomes still.

In China there is a temple—the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas. It took centuries. Monks kept making, kept making, kept making. This is the upward transformation of sexual energy.

But in this country a fallacy spread—that a sannyasin should do nothing, build nothing. The sannyasin’s entire work is to receive service from others and do nothing himself. People should press his feet—and that alone is his great grace. If such sannyasins do not repress sex, what else will they do? And when they repress, if not today then tomorrow it will burst forth, it will find backdoors.

Yog Chinmay’s mind has not yet freed itself from this old sannyas. Even here he is working, but he does not dive in. He works looking at the clock. Those who have truly dived in do not care about the clock… They work as if forced to, because there are ashram duties to be done; but it is not that they get lost in it, that they neither see day nor night, that work is a rasa, a creativity, that whatever is given to you to do is your sadhana. Not like that. They cannot do it as sadhana. The old Indian mind says: for a sannyasin, a little meditation and a few yogasanas are enough—sufficient.

Then energy will accumulate. What will you do with it? Then trouble will arise. If you plunge into sex, there will be excess. Excess happens only when something has been repressed. If someone has fasted for a few days, when he starts eating there will be excess. He will overeat. But one who eats rightly every day will not exceed. There is no need for excess.

Scientists say that even small children, if they are doubtful whether the mother will feed them on time or not, overdo it—they drink more milk, they eat more food. But if a child has firm trust that he will be fed when needed, he not only does not overeat, he stops worrying about food; whenever there is need, it will be there. The mother runs after him saying, “Eat a little,” but he is unconcerned, for he feels assured.

You will be surprised: in wealthy homes you won’t find big bellies on children, but in poor homes you will. Why? Children of poor homes should have shrunken bellies, not big ones. But children of poor homes overeat. That big belly is a symptom of poverty. It says: Who knows whether there will be food tomorrow? Whether there will be supper this evening? Now that food is here, grab as much as you can. That is excess. It is the sign of hunger.

Excess comes out of repression. Once you have repressed sex… and what else will you do if you are not going to engage it in some creative act, not going to be creative? It will keep accumulating. Then suddenly there will be excess. Excess that is disordered. And when there is excess you will be exhausted. Energy will flow out for no reason. You will be left empty, spent, like a fired cartridge. Then melancholy will grip the mind. Then the old Indian notions will resurface: “See, the rishis say, avoid sex. You didn’t, now suffer. Now you are totally empty, now you are drained; now life feels utterly tasteless. The rishis were right.”

Then you will start accumulating again. And when energy becomes too much the mind will say: “What are you doing? The kettle is about to explode. Now Freud, Jung and Adler are right—the sexual energy needs expression, an outlet. So now provide an outlet.” When you repress, you remember Jung, Freud and Adler; when you go to excess, all the rishis come to mind. Now you are caught in a duality. Getting out will be difficult.

For the residents of this ashram I am concerned only with one thing: that their whole life become a creative life. The sannyasin has lived too long non-creatively. He has acquired a bad habit. He has become lazy, sluggish, crippled. He has forgotten how to do anything. Sitting idle and indulging in useless talk—“discourse on Brahman” and such—that has become his work. Hence he is in trouble.

But Chinmay does not understand. Even after so many days here, among those few who are not fully immersed in work, he is in the front rank.

Then such entanglements will keep arising, and you will not ask straight; you will ask about “man”… Now, what answer should be given to “man”? Who is he? One would need information about him, only then could one answer. Whatever answers I give are meaningful only if you remember who they are given to; otherwise there will be difficulty. These answers are not thrown into the air. They are not hollow platitudes. They have a context.

And you asked, “What is Sahaj Yoga’s vision on this subject?” Wherever there is a vision, the thing becomes strained. Sahaj Yoga has no vision. The very meaning of “vision” is: strain. Sahaj Yoga says: As you are, you are right. Be natural—perfectly right. Be spontaneous—perfectly right. When hungry, eat; when sleepy, sleep.

Sahaj Yoga has no viewpoint—that is precisely its naturalness. When a viewpoint appears, the trouble begins. Even now you are asking for a viewpoint. You are asking, “Tell us the standpoint—should we repress or indulge? What is Sahaj Yoga’s viewpoint?” There can be only two viewpoints: either repress or indulge. Sahaj Yoga has none. Therefore there is no question of repressing, and no question of indulging. Whatever arises in you spontaneously—live it, accept it, own it. Whatever arises, accept it unconditionally. To bring in a viewpoint means you have begun to impose doctrine upon your nature.

No animal or bird asks for a viewpoint. Yet look at them—how beautiful, how balanced, how natural!

The great poet Walt Whitman, seeing the animals in the forest, wrote a poem. In it he says: Seeing these animals and birds I was filled with envy—so spontaneous, so beautiful, so balanced, so musical! Not the slightest excess! Such naturalness!

Now think a little—what a pitiable state this is for human beings! Man has consciousness, the highest awareness in existence—and yet he feels like envying animals and birds, as if it would have been better to be an animal! How did this happen? Who created this? Who are these people who poured poison into man’s mind?

And let me remind you: your so-called religious teachers are responsible for pouring the poison into your mind. But you sit believing their words to be nectar. You follow the priests and pundits like the blind following the blind!

Sahaj Yoga has no viewpoint. That is what “sahaj” means: no viewpoint. Whatever is natural is beautiful, acceptable, worthy of welcome. Whatever arises within you—accept it quietly. Bring in a viewpoint and trouble will come. The viewpoint will say: This is not right, don’t do it. This is right, do a little more of it. This is wrong, avoid it.

Sahaj Yoga says: Whatever is, as it is—it is God’s gift, God’s grace, God’s offering. Accept it.

You will be very afraid. Your fear will arise—because of your ideas of repression—saying: there is danger in this; what if there is excess? The only way to be free of excess is this: for a few days there will be excess in the beginning, but the onus is not on Sahaj Yoga—its onus is on those who made you repress. In the beginning there will be excess. For a while let it happen. It is okay.

If you pull down a branch of a tree and then release it, the branch will tremble for a while; but with every tremor the swing becomes smaller. At first it will take big sways; then smaller, then smaller, then still smaller. Slowly, slowly a moment comes—you will find the branch has come to its equilibrium.

Such is the condition of the mind. Your mind has been tugged hard—pulled here, pulled there. Great oscillations have arisen within. So when you stop all the tugging, for a while the vibrations will continue; for from beginningless time wrong conditionings have been imposed upon your mind.

All conditionings are wrong. Conditioning as such is wrong. All viewpoints are wrong. Viewpoint-lessness is true. Viewpoint-lessness is right. When freed from viewpoints, vision happens. A viewpoint means a particular bias. Freedom from viewpoints means: now there is no bias. What is, is. There is no desire to change it, no desire to make it otherwise.

Think a little, be a little aware! If only you could let yourself go this way—then for a few days there will be vibrations; do not be frightened by them, for they are natural. The branch was pulled and pressed for so long; now, suddenly released, it will shake. But that shaking is beneficial. Why does a branch shake when released? What is its scientific meaning? The energy of suppression you forced into the branch is being thrown off by its shaking. By shivering, it expels that energy. When all that energy is thrown out, the branch becomes still. You take a stone in your hand and throw it into the sky. How far will it go? Exactly as far as the energy you packed into it. Perhaps fifty feet. That means you put into that stone the energy to go fifty feet; it was alien to it. It was not the stone’s own, not its nature. When it has shed that energy at fifty feet, the stone returns to its own nature and falls.

In the same way, your mind has been loaded with big notions, viewpoints, biases. All my effort with you is simply this—that somehow you come back to your nature. And for coming back to nature, the first thing in Sahaj Yoga is: accept whatever is, as it is. It is right as it is. Let not even a trace of desire remain to make it otherwise.

And the second thing: there will be vibrations. There will also be excess. Endure that excess with awareness. That excess is not against you. The energy that was repressed will discharge itself. Take care only of this: do not go back to repression again. Otherwise the cycle will continue. You will never be free of the duality.

And whatever energy is generated in you every day—by food, by movement, by breath—use that energy creatively. Do something in which you can immerse yourself totally!

Now, in my ashram there are both kinds of people. Those who have immersed themselves completely—their flowers are blossoming. Those who do not immerse themselves, who keep playing tricks—their flowers will not bloom, and they will slowly fall behind. They will slowly drift away.

There is only one way to be with me: take the plunge unconditionally. This lake of energy I am creating here—dive into it wholly. What is there to save, anyway? If you keep up your tricks, if you keep your mind’s calculations running—fine, keep them; but only you are deceiving yourself. No one else is deceived. I lose nothing, nor does anyone else here lose anything by your living that way. You alone will miss. Then you will repent—bitterly! For such opportunities are rare. You will find priests and pundits by the millions to make you repress; one who brings a creative revolution to your life appears only once in a while.

Veena! There is only One who comes. The very same One. The forms are many, the colors are many—yet the One comes! He comes like the sweetness of springtime, he comes like autumn’s fall. He comes like the desert, he comes like the blossoming spring. At times like a vast stillness, at times like stormwinds. Sometimes in sunlight pouring from the sky, and sometimes in a fine drizzle from gathered clouds. But the One alone comes. There is no other to come. He is the One who comes, and He is the One who welcomes. He is the guest, and He is the host. The name of that One is the Divine.

And when this begins to be understood, there is great astonishment: how did we live so long without the Divine, when it was only He who was there! Whomever we met, we met Him. To whomever we spoke, we spoke to Him. Whoever came, it was He who came and knocked at the door. Why did we not recognize?

Without you I have lived till now.
Would you believe it? Even I can hardly believe it.

And then another wonder: it no longer seems right to say “God is that,” nor “God is this,” not even “Thou,” but “I”—the distance between I and Thou falls away.

What kind of ecstasy is this? I have written down
Your name instead of my own.

Then… then a shower of bliss, a rain of nectar falls upon life.

The pilgrimage to temple and Kaaba is but a pretext;
my quest for You drives me door to door.

And it is only that quest which is going on—whether you go to Kaaba or to Kashi.

The pilgrimage to temple and Kaaba is but a pretext.

These are all excuses, mere pretexts!

My quest for You drives me door to door.

Wherever you go, the search is for Him alone. When you seek wealth, you are really seeking Him, for He is the supreme treasure; until He is found, wealth will not be found. You may collect mountains of riches, yet true wealth will elude you; you will remain poor—poor indeed.

And when you seek position, you seek Him, for He is the supreme station. Until He is found, whatever chair you may ascend to, you will remain two-penny worth. Place two pennies on the President’s chair—still they are pennies; their value does not change. Seat a crow in a golden cage—when its voice rises, it will still be caw-caw; nothing changes. A crow does not become a cuckoo because the cage is gold. Even upon a high post you will remain what you were, for until the supreme station is attained, no position truly arrives.

The pilgrimage to temple and Kaaba is but a pretext;
my quest for You drives me door to door.

And once this is seen, one says—

Why should I crave the whole world?
For me, one longing—yours—is enough.

A single yearning for You suffices; it pours all other desires into itself.

If You come to mind, the whole cosmos
becomes a half-forgotten tale.

Then the world becomes like some story once read and now faded, like a film dimly remembered, like something heard in a dream.

If You come to mind, the whole cosmos
becomes a half-forgotten tale.

When remembrance of the Divine begins, all else starts to lose its gravity on its own. You have been told again and again, “Seek God,” and also, “Renounce the world.” I say to you: do not renounce the world; seek the Divine. Find the Divine, and the world drops away by itself. That is enough. Light the lamp and darkness disappears. If someone tells you, “Light the lamp and then push the darkness out the door,” know that he is mad; he knows nothing. Neither has his lamp been lit nor his darkness dispelled, or he could not say such a thing—“Light the lamp and shove the darkness out, identify it in every corner and chase it away!” Whoever tells you, “Seek God and renounce the world,” is blind; he knows nothing. On attaining the Divine, the world dissolves by itself. It becomes a half-forgotten story.

This vault of heaven, this sun, these stars, this moon,
this rainbow’s arc, this wilderness, this fresh green,
these tall trees, these shores, these buds, this dusk—
if You were here, why would these eyes be wandering?

So much wandering among moon and stars, flowers and beauty—who knows where all we have roamed! Had You been here, why would these eyes have wandered? Sky, sun, constellations, moon, rainbow, pathways, greenery, graceful trees, riverbanks, flowers and leaves, the beauty of dawn and dusk, in fantasies, in conversations, in beguiling styles—who knows how many places we spent ourselves, in secret love-whispers.

You glitter in imagination,
you burn me, hidden, like this;
Come, come, stand before me—
why smile from behind?

This flower-like accent, this honeyed voice,
the heart-ravishing style of your speech,
that lilt, that softness, that melting, that pull—
for one word of yours I’d give a hundred realms and rites.

Once a hint of Him is caught, all is surrendered. For a single word of His, a hundred kingdoms and devotions! A glimpse of Him—and the world becomes hollow of itself. If You were here, why would these eyes be wandering! His recognition, His re-cognition, is enough. Just awaken love a little.

The word “love” has been uttered thousands of times—
before You I cannot utter it.

You will then be in a strange difficulty. Through love alone is the Divine attained—but you will not be able to say to the Divine, “You met me through love,” because you have misused the word “love” so much. Where have you not said it? To whom have you not said it? There are people who say, “I love my house.” Others say, “I love ice cream.” Where have you not fastened this word!

The word “love” has been uttered thousands of times—
before You I cannot utter it.

Memories of love turn me wild—
no one but You can soothe my heart.

From your compassionate glance I received such peace
as perhaps even in death I could not find.

But all my life, my friend, I will sing your songs—
such songs as no one in the world can sing.

When a glimpse of the Divine is received, fountains of song spring up within. You asked, Veena—

“Who has come to the doorway of my mind with the tinkling of anklets!
The eyes do not know, the heart recognizes; the image is such
that if I try to remember, the face won’t come to mind.
What kind of mad mind is this, sunk in thought, holding a unique love!
Who has come to the doorway of my mind with the tinkling of anklets!”

It is He who has come! Recognize, awaken! Other than Him there is no one to come.

Narendra! Time has not run out on the Buddha. The journey of the divine is ongoing. The divine did not end with any tirthankara or any prophet. Flowers will keep blossoming; new fragrances will keep spreading.

But your minds become creatures of habit, stuck in grooves. You just latch on and won’t let go. Because of this grip, when a new dawn arrives, you fail to see it; when a new buddha appears, you fail to recognize him. You are so filled with the image of the old buddha that the new buddha’s image does not make sense to you. You want to keep seeing the old buddha again and again. You are such old-fogies that you would prefer that buddhas come stamped out exactly the same, every time.

Just think: how bored this world would have become if only one kind of enlightened person kept arriving here! Suppose Gautam the Buddha came again and again—how utterly tedious that would be! This world is so beautiful. Sometimes Krishna comes—what has Krishna to do with Buddha’s style? Have you ever seen a statue of Krishna meditating under a tree? Is there any image of Krishna sitting in siddhasan under a tree? Yes, you have certainly seen him dancing—on a full moon night, under the trees, flute to his lips. And then there is Mahavira—his way and color are different again. And then there is Christ, and Mohammed, and Mansoor, Moses, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Kabir, Nanak, Saraha—so many different approaches. But your stubbornness is that you want buddhas minted in a single mold. If there is even a small variation, you get upset.

Look carefully: never has any awakened one ever been repeated. Gautam the Buddha happens only once, not twice. Jesus doesn’t happen twice—only once. Mahavira doesn’t happen twice—only once. Does this tell you nothing—that the divine takes on new forms every day, that new manifestations happen over and over?

Waves rise in the ocean—have you ever seen two exactly alike? The ocean produces new waves every day, sings fresh songs every day. You cannot find even two identical pebbles on the whole earth. Even twin brothers are not exactly the same—so how could two enlightened ones be identical?

I am not saying anything uniquely mine here. Those who had worshipped Krishna, when Buddha arrived, must have asked, “But Krishna played the flute—where is your flute?” And those who worshipped Mahavira surely asked Buddha—there is evidence of this, for they were contemporaries—“Why haven’t you renounced clothing?”

That is why Jains do not regard Buddha on the same height as Mahavira. Mahavira is a tirthankara, Mahavira is God. Buddha is a mahatma—still on the way, a little distance remains, he will get there. A mahatma, not God! Why? Because one shawl is keeping the mahatma from becoming God. Buddha is wearing a shawl—that shawl is the obstacle; otherwise he too would be God. The Lord is sky-clad—digambara!

And it has always been so. I am citing one country’s examples; if we take examples from other lands, it becomes even trickier. What similarity is there between Jesus and Buddha? Hardly any. Their processes are different, their angles on life are different, their messages to the world are different.

A report came to Jesus that Lazarus had died. Jesus ran there, called Lazarus forth from the tomb—and Lazarus came alive. Can you imagine Buddha doing that? A similar event happened with him, too. A woman’s only son died. Her husband had already died; that child was the apple of her eye. She roamed about wailing. People said, “We can’t help—but Buddha is in the village. Why don’t you go to him? He is supremely compassionate; perhaps he will show mercy.”

She brought the child to Buddha and laid him at his feet. Now imagine: had she put the child at Jesus’ feet, as he had said to Lazarus, “Rise,” he would have said the same to the child: “Arise”—and the matter would be finished. But what did Buddha do? He said to the woman, “All right—your son will awaken and rise. But first do one thing for me. Bring me a few mustard seeds.”

“Mustard seeds?” she said. “You know this village grows nothing but mustard. How much do you want? I’ll fetch it at once.”

“Just a handful will be enough,” Buddha said. “But remember one condition: bring it from a house in which no one has ever died.”

The woman was so overjoyed at the prospect that her son would live that she had no awareness of anything else. She ran from house to house, knocked on all the doors in the village. Everyone said, “We’ll fill sacks for you, load carts for you—take as much mustard as you like. But our seeds won’t do; many have died in our house. Buddha’s condition is such that we doubt you’ll find any house where no one has died.”

By evening she came to her senses: Buddha had played quite a joke! Where would such seeds be found? In every home someone or other has died—father, or father’s father; mother, or mother’s mother—someone has died. In truth, those who have died are many times the living.

Just think: you are three—yourself, your wife, your child. But trace the stream you come from—your father, his father, his father, all the way back to Father Adam; then your mother, her mother, her mother, all the way back to Mother Eve. How many have died—and you three remain. What a long chain of death! Innumerable have died so that you three are here—and you three will be gone soon enough. None of you will linger long.

By evening she understood the mathematics. She even laughed: “How foolish I am! When everyone has to die, how could my son be spared? If all must die, what difference does it make whether it is now or later? If he died today or tomorrow—what difference? In a way it is good that he died before me—I bore the pain. Had I died first, my son would have borne it. Someone had to go. Better that I suffered and he went peacefully.”

She returned, fell at Buddha’s feet. “Where are the seeds?” he asked. “Forget the seeds,” she said. “You picked quite a time to make a joke—my son died…!”

But now she was laughing, and she said, “Initiate me. I have understood: here there is only death upon death. Teach me how, in this ocean of death, I might experience the immortal.”

She did not even look at her son’s corpse. Buddha initiated her; she became a sannyasini.

Now consider the difference. If a Christian had been present, he would say to Buddha, “What are you doing? Jesus revived Lazarus—so you cannot be an authentic buddha unless you do the same.” And if a Buddhist had stood before Jesus watching him raise Lazarus, he would say, “Stop! Buddha asked for mustard seeds. What are you doing? Is this how buddhas behave? And what is the point of reviving the dead? He will die again. Once dead, the trouble was over; now you’ll have him die twice and create more delusion. Better give Lazarus’ family the message that death happens to all—so as quickly as possible, recognize what is hidden within you, before death arrives.”

Do you see any alignment between the two? Have you ever seen two enlightened ones aligning perfectly? Yet your demand is always this. And because of your demand, many imitators have appeared in the world. Because of your demand, there are countless monks who look like Mahavira—standing naked—standing naked only so that unless they do, you won’t accept them as knowers. They have nothing else—only nakedness. They stand nude because that is what wins your reverence, your respect, your prostrations.

I have no desire for your respect or your applause. I am not here to reproduce any enlightened one. I will live in my own way. I will say what is mine to say. So drop these expectations. Don’t keep throwing names like Buddha, Mahavira, and the rishis and munis at me; you bore me with them. Let them be. If you meet them somewhere, ask them why they don’t conduct group psychotherapy!

I will live in my own way. I am a category unto myself. I am not a repetition of anyone, nor do I have any taste for that.

Time is changing. It changes every day. What was needed then, the Buddha would have done. What is needed today, I will do. That need did not exist then. People were simple, straightforward, rural.

Understand a little. If a woodcutter who chops wood daily comes here, I will not tell him to do active meditations, because he is engaged in active meditation all day—he cuts wood. If you feel angry, go chop some wood—you will feel greatly relieved afterward, as if you had chopped all your enemies to pieces! In chopping wood, his violence is expressed, his rage and anger flow out. If a woodcutter comes here I won’t tell him to do active meditation; I will tell him, “Do Vipassana—sit silently, sit in stillness.”

A man once went to a doctor. The doctor took his pulse, put a thermometer in—must have been a novice. The temperature told him nothing; the pulse told him nothing. The man said, “All is fine—but at least walk a mile a day; your health will improve. A mile a day is necessary.” The man laughed. “Why are you laughing?” asked the doctor. “Because I am a postman,” he replied. “Give this advice to someone else. I walk all day. Give me a way to rest—I’m exhausted.”

What works for some—“Walk a mile”—will not work for a postman.

I’ve heard Mulla Nasruddin once went to a doctor. The doctor said, “Nasruddin, you will have to change your lifestyle. Drop these foods. Alcohol no more than once a week. And cigarettes—no more than two a day.” Nasruddin returned after three weeks, as advised, in worse shape—this time his sons holding him up. “You’ve gotten worse—it seems you didn’t follow my advice,” said the doctor. “The result you see is from following it,” said Nasruddin. “I somehow managed the alcohol—but those two cigarettes a day are killing me! I’ve never smoked in my life. If someone smokes a pack, you can tell him to cut down to two—but I never smoked! I thought it was a treatment, so I forced down two a day—and they’re killing me. Doctor, prescribe something else. The alcohol I managed, but the two cigarettes—I cough myself to death!”

Treatments will differ; they depend on the person. The people Buddha addressed were of another kind—farmers working the fields, woodcutters, laborers—simple, innocent folk. They had nothing much to cathart. Catharsis is needed when something has been repressed.

Psychotherapy is needed for today’s human being because he is so repressed, so “cultured,” that his culture lies upon his chest like a stone; it has to be lifted. Catharsis is necessary. There is overeating; the extra food must be expelled because it is becoming poison. The more “civilized” man has become, the more difficult his inner life.

Consider your body: it was made to walk at least fifteen or twenty miles a day, to fell ten to fifty trees without strain, to break stones—because man had to survive in the forest under great difficulty: to fight wild animals; if a lion confronted you, there were no guns or swords—your bare hands had to grapple even with a lion. Your body’s entire biochemistry was designed for that. But today everything has changed. You don’t fight wild animals—leave aside a Muhammad Ali here or there. You don’t break stones, you don’t chop wood. You sit at a desk all day, shuffling papers, selling tickets, swatting flies, moving files from here to there. Yet your biochemistry still produces energy and capacity for all that labor. That unused capacity starts whirling inside you; it turns into disease, into poison. It needs discharge. In psychotherapy that discharge happens.

Then you have become so cultured that neither your laughter is real nor your tears are real. If someone dies, you can shed false tears; if you have to laugh, you produce a polite, false laugh.

Mulla Nasruddin went to France. At a French friend’s dinner, jokes were being told. All the French guests were rolling with laughter. Nasruddin rolled even more. The host said, “Nasruddin, we didn’t know you understood French!” “I don’t,” he said, “but I trust you people; if you’re all laughing, there must be something funny. And since we’re laughing anyway, why be stingy?” But that laughing is false—laughing on trust that surely some witticism was said. Your laughter is false; your weeping is false.

In psychotherapy your truths are brought out; your authenticity is brought back to ground. Your mind is so knotted with tensions that it has become a tangle. Such tensions weren’t present in the minds of those Buddha addressed. I am speaking to twentieth-century man; I must speak in the idiom of the twentieth century. Otherwise I will be out of date, meaningless.

That’s why your priests are utterly useless—they keep repeating the old, still sitting with Krishna’s Gita. I speak on the Gita too—but note this: I say what I must say; Krishna is only a pretext. Now I am speaking on Saraha. If you were to meet Saraha, he would say, “I never said what this man is saying.” How could Saraha say it? I am saying it! Saraha is merely a pretext, an occasion. They are beloved ones; I repeat their names lest they be forgotten—these lovely footprints should not be erased. Someone must keep reminding you.

But what I say is mine. I rest my gun on Saraha’s shoulder, but I am the one who fires. Do not think I am expounding Saraha. I have no interest in such scholastic rubble. To be honest, I am having Saraha interpret me. His words are dear; I use them—but I color them with my hue. I’m not anxious that his words carry precisely the meanings he intended; I am anxious that they carry the meaning that will serve you. I care for you more than for Saraha. That’s why the pundits are upset with me.

The chief mahant of the Kabir Panth wrote to me recently: “It is good you spoke on Kabir, but you said things we cannot imagine Kabir ever said. At least you should have asked a Kabirpanthi.” Should I ask a Kabirpanthi? If I could meet Kabir, I would not ask him either. I will say what I have to say. What have I to do with Kabirpanthis? I will dress Kabir in twentieth-century clothes. He sang, “A finely woven mantle” — very well, you wove it; now wear polyester! You need not weave your own sheet; the mills are weaving. And if you cling to your homespun sheet as sacred, it becomes even easier to cling to polyester as sacred tomorrow.

When I speak on Kabir, I call Kabir into the twentieth century. Understand this distinction well. And when you say, “Buddha did this, Mahavira did that,” you needlessly drag them into the debate. They did what they did; let that be. I will do what seems right to me. I will live in my own way; I cannot live in someone else’s. I am not anyone’s imitation. So stop bringing the rishis and munis in again and again. They were lovely—when they were—but in today’s context much of it is no longer relevant, and if you keep dragging it on, accidents will happen.

We see this here daily. Recently a man came from Thailand. He had practiced Buddhist meditation there for three years. He told me he was bored, drained, utterly tired—that it was all suppression. After hearing me here, he said he had wasted three years. I said, “Don’t decide so fast. What you learned will serve you. It wasn’t a waste. It’s just that something else was needed before that—they didn’t give it to you, because they can’t. They are creatures of habit—doing only what Buddha did.”

Now consider a Westerner—this person was from Holland. Sit him straight away in siddhasan, and it takes him six months just to learn how to sit. His legs hurt—he has never sat on the floor. Those who are sticklers won’t accept that meditation can be done sitting on a chair—which it can. But they spent six months massaging his legs, forcing them to bend. Not until padmasan is perfected! Half lotus is not enough; both legs must cross over. To get a Dutchman’s legs crossed like that is not easy. But he was sincere and said, “All right—if my legs break, let them break.” Six months went just on padmasan. He thought that once padmasan came, everything else would follow. He sat in padmasan—and nothing happened. He was shocked: six months gone for nothing. Then they started breath-watching. He did that too. But inside was a boiling—thousands of things churning—while he watched his breath. Those thousands don’t disappear; they just get repressed. Then they erupt again and again.

I told him, “First pass through some psychotherapies. First do catharsis. Throw out the junk you carry. What you’ve learned will be useful—don’t worry. Padmasan will help; Vipassana and breath-watching will help. But first, something else is necessary. In the 2,500 years since Buddha, such a dust has settled on the human mind—you must clean it. Then Buddha’s process can work.”

And that is what happened. After eight or ten therapeutic groups he said, “You were right. Now when I sit in padmasan the lightness, the peace I feel—I had never even imagined it. Three years in Thailand didn’t give it to me. Now when I watch the breath it is entirely different—no suppression, a weightless, flower-like ease.”

What Mahavira realized, what Buddha realized—you too can realize. But first, in these twenty-five centuries, the junk that has collected on you needs cleaning. Psychotherapy is a kind of cleaning, a kind of bath.

You ask: “To rise above afflictions like lust, anger, greed and attachment, and states like ego and stupefaction, Buddha, Mahavira and all Indian saints have prescribed meditation, devotional singing and chanting, satsang. But why are you adding new means like therapy-groups (group psychotherapy) along with other methods for Indian friends? Please explain.”

First thing: I am not an Indian. I belong to this earth. This whole planet is my home. I am as much Indian as I am Japanese or Chinese. I take the whole earth as one. In my vision, nations have ended; national boundaries have dissolved. So stop waving the word “India” at me; it has no value for me. It is a formality—a map-trick. I am not Indian in the sense that Vivekananda is Indian. He feels India is a special, unique land of religion and merit.

I am not a nationalist. Nationalism is a disease—and the world has suffered enough from it. It should go. I am international. The Gita is as much mine as the Bible or the Quran. I am not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. I love Jesus as much as I love Krishna. Lao Tzu is as dear to me as Patanjali. I declare my inheritance of the spiritual wealth of the whole world. The spiritual testament of humanity is my legacy. So no Muslim should ask me why I speak on the Quran—the Quran is mine. No Hindu should ask me why I speak on the Gita—one need not be a Hindu to speak on it. Just as I need not be Indian to praise the beauty of the Himalayas, nor French to speak of the Alps, likewise I need not be bound to any land to speak of the Gita, the Quran, the Tao Te Ching, or the Dhammapada. The culture of the whole world is mine. The light of all the awakened ones, wherever their lamps were lit, in whatever manner, is my light. Never forget this.

Here I am conducting a unique experiment—unprecedented in human history—where all religions are diving into each other, dissolving together, effortlessly. We do not sit here chanting, “Allah and Ishwar are one—may God grant everyone good sense!” We don’t repeat it—but the event is happening. Here Allah and Ishwar are becoming one without being said. No one here knows who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Christian, who is Jew, who is Sikh. All are together.

The wealth of the whole world is mine. I claim the right to the entire spiritual treasury. I will not leave out even a little. Why should I make it smaller? The entire past of humanity is my history—and I want it to become yours too. So drop these labels—Indian, non-Indian. Let this worry end. Don’t focus on skin colors and habits. These are wrong habits, petty conditionings. Say goodbye to them.

Humanity is one. If this earth becomes one, there will be peace, harmony, brotherhood, love—and countless sufferings will end by themselves.

Here we are doing meditation, devotional singing and chanting, satsang—all of it. But along with these, some other things are happening too. Will you allow me to add a little to humanity’s spiritual wealth—or not? Will you allow me to donate a few colors to it—or not? Let me fill in a few strokes of my own! In this grand, glorious song of the spirit, let one link of mine be added too!

And I hope the same from you: add something before you go. Do not leave the world exactly as you found it. Leave it a little more beautiful, a little more filled with love, a little more prayerful. Give something back—only then is your life meaningful. Leave a little fragrance behind—only then have you truly lived. Otherwise, you have lived in vain.

Love is the most important event—and yet love is not an event. Love is life; all else is death. The one who has known love has known life. The one who has not known love has known only dying. His life is nothing but a long suicide—done slowly, slowly. He dies a little every day and does nothing else.

Love is not an incident that happens in life—love is life’s very other name. And the day this understanding dawns in you, that love is another name for life, the Divine begins to dance within you.

The skies give birth no more; for years no mad lover arises.
For years no prophet rises out of the wilderness.

Love is lost; therefore no prophet can be born. Love is lost; therefore even a true madman is no longer born. People are living without love—so how can a Mahavira be born? People are living without love—so how can a Mansoor be born?

In waiting for You, just look at my condition:
I am writhing right up to the limits of my sight.
By the blazing vintage of Mansoor—God forbid!—
No one since has dared to say, “I am God.”

Mansoor is gone; the world grew desolate! Mansoor is gone; the mad ones died out! The burning ecstasy of Mansoor’s wine…however much you sing Mansoor’s glory, it is too little. For, O Lord! No one since has said, “I am God!” How long it has been since someone proclaimed Ana’l-Haq! How many centuries since anyone declared, “Aham Brahmasmi!” Today that much strength is no more. Today no one has such a fierce passion, such divine madness.

Why has it happened? Love has died. Only the enflamed fire of love can declare, “Ana’l-Haq! Aham Brahmasmi!” Only those in whom the ego is utterly absent can say it. If even a trace of ego remains within, one cannot utter “Aham Brahmasmi”; the tongue will falter, the legs will tremble, the eyes will fill with guilt.

Love is supremely important. Nothing is more precious than love. Love is the very essence, the quintessence of life.

Tell me, O vastness of being-and-space, where can I keep this?
We have brought a little ache from His gathering.

Love is the felt sense of the Divine’s assembly—that this very moment is God’s court, His sohbet, His satsang. From that gathering, a sweet ache arises; from the recognition of the Beloved, a tender pain spreads through the life-breath—a small ache, and yet immense! So small it fits in your heart, and so vast that the whole of existence cannot contain it.

Therefore the lover cries: Tell me, O expanse of sky, give me a place—where can I keep it? We have brought a little ache from His gathering! Even the sky is too small to hold this pain. And the heart is vast enough. Such is the wondrous ache of love!

If the relish of love did not test its courage in this world,
the whole caravan of life would lie unconscious.

It is only because of lovers that the call was raised; otherwise the whole world would have remained asleep. Whatever slight awakening you see here is due to the songs of a few mad lovers. A few dared. If the zest of love did not try its courage, this whole caravan of life would be lying insensate. This caravan of life, this pilgrim-band, would be utterly stupefied.

Whatever little life is in you, whatever little sparkle in your eyes, is the gift of those few lovers who have been in this world. Those few lovers placed that gleam in your eyes, and lit a little lamp within your life-breath.

O worshipper of words—what do you really know?
When it touches the heart, even silence is a prayer.

And the lover knows that love is not a matter of words. Then even silence is enough.

Why look with contempt upon the madman?
The mad lover is the very God of love’s divinity.

In the realm of love, the mad lover himself is the Divine.

Two Kaabas walking, two temples wandering;
the destiny of prostrating foreheads sparkled at your feet.

And whenever someone is brimful with love, he has not two mere feet…

Two Kaabas walking, two temples wandering;
the destiny of prostrating foreheads sparkled at your feet.

How small man is—and how great! Man is a vast paradox.

Do not say man lacks the capacity to behold the Vision.
Take care now—the rise of my feeble gaze has begun.

Do not say that man has no capacity to see God. Do not say man cannot bear that Vision. Take care now—my feeble eyes are lifting to see You. This is a very paradoxical utterance! Man’s eyes are so small, yet they can contain God—so vast are they. Man is utterly weak, and yet his very weakness is his strength. The strength of the weak is Ram!

Take care now—the rise of my feeble gaze has begun! The lover says to God: be ready! Now my weak glance is lifting. I cannot see far, but my eyes are rising, and I will see You. My gaze is small. My hands are very small, and yet I will touch You. My hands are very small, and yet I will enfold You in an embrace.

Heart and the storm of sorrow—out of sheer fear I would have died;
but I have this one support: that You abide within my heart.

As a mere man he is small; but when the presence of the Divine in his heart is recognized, what then can be greater than man? The lover lives upon the earth, yet he looks to the sky; he lives life, yet his search goes beyond life.

Who knows what hope they had from the heavens—
even while dying they kept looking toward the sky.

Such is the lover…even in the dying moment his eyes remain fixed on the heavens. He lives upon the earth and yet does not cling to it. His bond is with the sky, his relationship with the Vast. He is wed to the Infinite.

Nothing is greater than love, for in love not only the lover is contained—the Beloved too is contained! In love the Divine is contained. Nothing is greater than love.

Honor love and awaken love. The seed is within you. The seed can become a tree. Gather a little courage; accept the challenge.

Do not say man lacks the capacity to behold the Vision.
Take care now—the rise of my feeble gaze has begun.

Enough for today.