What comes into life after being seen is not so important; more important still is that whatever enters does not come by imposition, by force, by contrivance and effort, but happens of itself, effortlessly—as flowers bloom on trees, as dry leaves are carried off by the winds, as tiny straws and bits of wood are taken by the river’s current. Let it arrive with the same ease in life. In these three days I will speak of that; you will become companions in the direction of understanding and inquiry. Tonight, I must say only a few very simple, preliminary things. But before I say them, let me also request something of you. Ordinarily those who are interested in Dharma and sadhana think that very big things are important. My vision is different. Life is woven of very small things, not big ones. And whoever becomes serious about the importance of great things often misses, misses again and again, this simple fact—that life is made of very small, minute things. Religious people ponder over Paramatma and Atman and rebirth and such themes. In this, the tiny facts of life, our ways of seeing, our modes of thinking and living—none of these find place in their attention. Then the big themes remain suspended in the air, while no change happens in the very ground on which the feet of life stand. Tonight I would like to talk of a few little things. If you give them a little attention, then in the coming three days something deeper may become possible. Before I begin, let me tell you a small story—perhaps the whole discussion will unfold from it. Two friends set out to circumambulate the earth. They wished to go round the whole world, to see, to experience the many forms of life, to gather the riches of experience. But one of them was blind. Out of great compassion the other friend agreed to take him around the earth, holding his hand. The blind man, tapping with his stick and leaning on his friend, began the journey. Soon obstacles began to appear. To remain friends from afar is one thing; to be companions and fellow travelers on a long journey is quite another. Difficulties arose in small things; quarrels and opposition started over trifles. Bitterness gathered. The earth was vast, the circumambulation immense. In a few days, discord deepened between them. One night they slept in a desert. It was very cold. At dawn the blind friend awoke, groped about to find his stick which he had kept by his side during the night. His hand did grasp a stick—he felt it and was amazed; this stick was so smooth, clean, and beautiful to the touch. He wondered, where did such a stick come from? His own had been ordinary and rough. With that very stick he nudged his sighted friend and said, wake up—the morning has come, the birds have begun to sing, the roosters have crowed; it would be good if we start early, before the sun rises high and the heat grows. The sighted friend opened his eyes, recoiled in alarm and stepped back. He said, friend, what you hold in your hand is not a stick—please, let it go at once! It is a snake, numbed by the night’s cold, and you are holding it! But the blind man said: now this is going too far! I understand I have no eyes, but I do have hands. Next you will say I have no hands either. I can feel clearly it is a stick, not a snake. And I also understand your trick: perhaps this fine stick has captivated you and you want me to drop it so that you can pick it up. But deceiving me will not be so easy. The friend pleaded again and again, please let it go—it is a snake, not a stick. But the more he pleaded, the more obstinate the blind man became. Finally it came to this: the blind man said, our companionship can go no further. They parted ways. With great sorrow the sighted one took leave, but there was no other way. After a short distance, when the sun grew strong, the snake’s cold lessened, life returned to it, and what had to happen happened: it bit the blind man, and he died. I tell this story with a particular purpose. In every human life there is a long journey, a great circumambulation of the earth between birth and death. And within every human being dwell both friends—the one with eyes and the one without. The seeing forces within are awakened and trusted by very few; most people clutch at the blind forces and become their followers. We go so far as to side with our blindness and abandon our seeing. Then there is much wandering, a groping in darkness, sorrow and pain. Life ceases to be life and becomes a long process of dying. We go on dying each day, and one day death comes and we are finished—without ever knowing the meaning and the joy of life. Only one who takes support of the seeing forces within can know life’s meaning and its bliss; one who leans on inner blindness goes astray and is lost in darkness. Blindness leads into the dark; eyes lead into light. And apart from light there is neither meaning nor joy in life. Without light, life goes astray. I will speak of which forces in us are blind, and which are seeing. I will speak of the elements that strengthen blindness and those that weaken it, and of what awakens and quickens the seeing forces. If there is sorrow, anxiety, and suffering in your life, if you have not felt any dance, any music, any joy—understand very clearly: knowingly or unknowingly you have been giving strength to the blind forces. Otherwise it could not be so. If while walking the path, your feet keep falling into the same pits, if you keep stumbling and hurting yourself again and again, you will conclude your eyes are closed or your eyes are blind. In life this happens daily: our feet fall into the same old potholes on the path—often not even new ones. The anger you had yesterday, you have again today; the anger you have today will erupt again tomorrow. Afterwards you repent, you feel miserable, you decide not to do it—and yet after a few moments the same mistake reappears: the same pit, the same person, the same feet, and the same fall. All our lives we keep repeating a handful of small mistakes. What does this constant repetition of what we repent, suffer for, and resolve not to do, indicate? Only this: either the inner eyes are closed, or the vision we have adopted in life is extremely dark and blind. There can be no other reason for the repetition of the same errors. And then, whatever we long for, just that fails to be attained. Every person desires joy, peace, a musical being, a fragrance of the soul like a flower. But it does not happen. And what we do goes on taking us in the very opposite direction from what we desire. What does this tell us? Only one thing: our longings may be right, but our eyes are blind. And remember, if your own eyes are blind, in this world no one else’s eyes can help you. The eyes of Krishna, or of Christ, or of Buddha, or of Mahavira—none will serve you. Even if the sun itself were placed in your hand, if your eyes are blind it would bring no light, no meaning. A blind man was taking leave at night from a friend’s house. The friend said: it is a dark night, silent, the new moon; the streets are deserted, people’s houses closed—take a lamp in your hand, it will be good. The blind man said: you speak crazily. Even if I carry a lamp, what is the point? I have no eyes. What will I do with light in my hand? Still, the friend insisted. Humoring him, the blind man took a lantern and went out. He had not gone ten steps before another man collided with him. The blind man said: my friend, I cannot see the lantern, but you can! Have I met another blind man? The other replied: no brother, I can see—but the wick of your lantern has gone out. You are carrying an extinguished lantern. How could I see? A blind man cannot even know whether the lantern is lit or out. All the scriptures of the world are like extinguished lanterns in our hands—of no use. Someone carries the Koran, someone the Gita, someone the Bible—and the three collide at the crossroads. All three lanterns are out. Whether the lantern is lit or not makes no difference until you have eyes. Without eyes, light has no meaning. So, however much we worship those radiant ones, however much we revere others’ words, nothing beneficial will happen in life, no benediction. Benediction happens only when eyes open. And remember: if eyes are open, even in darkness the way can be found; if eyes are closed, even in light there is no path. I repeat: with closed eyes there is no way even in light; with open eyes a way appears even in darkness. Why so many worries, so much anguish, so much anxiety, such turbulence in life? Have you ever asked why? Have you ever looked into how it arises? It does not fall from the sky; we manufacture it. The way we live each day, that is how we produce it. Our manner of living is wrong, our manner of thinking is wrong; our vision is dim; in our hands, in our life, there is no light. Whatever we do, it leads awry. Whatever we build, turns out wrong. However we walk, that path misleads us. Seeing all this, one thing should dawn in the mind: we have been reluctant to develop the seeing forces, and we have supported the blind ones—whatever they may be. Blind forces include blind faith and belief. Vivek (discernment), thought, are the seeing powers. But we have given strength to faith, to belief—not to vivek and thought. Stupor is a blind force, and we have sought stupor in every way. We have devised all kinds of methods to become unconscious. Not only have we found wine, opium, ganja, and in the new world mescaline and LSD—things to stupefy ourselves—but we have also discovered bhajan, kirtan, incense, name-japa, malas, and countless mental tricks by which the mind slips into a trance and sleeps. We have not sought ways to awaken and illumine the mind; we have sought ways to lull it, to sink it into drowsiness, into sleep, into stupor. Stupor and sleep do bring a kind of peace, but it is the peace a corpse has. It is not a living peace that arises from supreme awakening. I will speak of all this—how we have strengthened stupor, closed our eyes, and why. And I will speak of how to be free of it, how to awaken life-forces, the powers of vivek and chaitanya. Before the three days of those talks, before I say all that, to understand rightly and to look in that direction, a few small things will be expected of you. First expectation: for these three days, try to listen a little apart from what you have been doing, thinking, believing till now. If you can be a little detached from your past, perhaps something can happen. Generally we do not forget what is already lodged in the mind. A young man once went to a fakir to be initiated. Bowing at his feet he said, I have come for initiation. The fakir asked, from where do you come? He said, from Peking. The fakir asked, what is the price of rice in Peking? The youth laughed: forgive me, I have left Peking behind—the rice and its prices too. The road I cross becomes erased for me; the bridge I cross, I burn. I have no idea of the price of rice in Peking. The fakir said: then it is all right, I am ready to initiate you. Had you told me the price of rice in Peking, my doors would have closed and I would have sent you away. Because a man who has walked from Peking and still carries its prices with him cannot be at rest for the search of truth. So for these three days, my prayer: leave behind ‘what is the price of rice in Peking’. Whether it is Peking or Amaravati—if those prices stay in mind, little can happen. This is not difficult. Merely remember: what has passed should carry no weight on the mind. This remembrance alone bids farewell to the past. Tonight, when you sleep, go to sleep with the remembrance: what is past is past; for these three days I will not let the past return again and again upon the mind. For these three days I will live what is before me, and leave what is gone. If you fall asleep with such mindful remembrance, you will awaken in a different way in the morning—totally different from all other mornings. The mind has a strange law: on whatever thought you fall asleep, on that very thought you awaken. Never on a different one. The worry with which you slept at night will be standing at the door in the morning to greet you. The last thought of night becomes the first thought of dawn. So let the last thought tonight be: I drop what is behind. At least for three days I will live solely in the ever-present, I will not bring the past in between. One who does not drag the past into the mind finds the mind becoming very clear and calm. All unrest comes from the past; there is no unrest in the present. We will look into this more, but understand this: in the present moment there is no disturbance. All agitation is related either to past or to future; never to the present. If you watch your own restlessness you will see—it is either about what has been or what will be. In the living instant, there is no unrest. We sit here now. If our mind becomes present to this very moment, what unrest is there? If we awaken to this very instant, what turmoil remains? If by some magic all your past were wiped away, what disturbance could there be? In the living moment there is no disturbance. The burden of the past troubles the mind; the fantasy and planning of the future disturbs it. For these three days, take it that there is no past and no future—only these three days of moments, each moment as it comes. Live this way for three days, and a totally new vision can open towards life. Once it becomes clear that the burden and tension on life is of past and future, a new door appears to knock upon. Then for a few minutes every day one can be free of all past and all future. And remember: the past has no existence except memory, the future none except imagination. What is, is the present. Therefore, if ever one is to know Paramatma or truth, there is no door other than the present. The past is not—it is gone; the future is not—it has not arrived. What is, existential in being, is the present—this very moment before us. If in this present moment I can be totally present, perhaps I may enter into being itself; perhaps I will feel related to the very life of the trees before me, the stars above, the sky, the people around. In that relatedness I will know that which is within me and that which is without me. If in these three days we make even a little effort to live understandingly—try to live moment to moment—this is my first request. When eating, only eat. Forget what was before and... only eat. Let your whole mind and life-energy be absorbed in eating; do not let it wander here and there. As it is now, when we eat, the mind is elsewhere—at home, at the shop. When we are at the shop, it is eating. When we are in the market, the mind is at home; when at home, the mind is in the market. Meaning: wherever we are, we are not there. A fragmentation, a disarray arises in life. So dangerous is this fragmentation that when we sleep the mind remembers the day’s happenings and dreams; and when we work in the day, the mind continues the dreams that were left incomplete at night. The mind is absent the whole time from where we are. Then how can we relate to life? When we love someone, our mind is somewhere else. How will love happen? Thus we experience all our lives that we want to love and want to be loved, but neither can we love nor can anyone love us. For love, it is necessary that we be in the present. But when we are loving, the mind is elsewhere—and where the mind is when we love, when we go there, the mind will be where it should have been while loving. In such living, everything is broken. When we pray, the mind is somewhere else; when we do business, the mind is somewhere else. We are not truly present in any act. For these three days, make a small experiment: become totally present to whatever you are doing. When you go to sleep tonight, sleep totally. To sleep totally means: sleep in such a way that all work is finished, now apart from sleep there is nothing else to do. I am going to sleep with my whole being; my whole being will do only this, nothing else. Sleep in that way. In the morning when you bathe, bathe in such a way that your whole being is bathing; the mind does not rush elsewhere. If for a few days, mindfully, we exercise awareness with the mind, it is not difficult that a day comes when, whatever we are doing, we are wholly present in it. If you are sweeping, be wholly there. And if even while sweeping someone becomes totally present, he will taste the same joy that the greatest yogi tastes in meditation—no difference remains. The very meaning of meditation is to be wholly present in what we are doing, completely absorbed, not outside it. Any small act. When you rise from here and walk to your room, walk in such a way that no other activity is going on in your mind except walking—only walking remains, and you disappear. If only walking remains and you disappear, then the hundred steps to your room will take you nearer to Paramatma. In those hundred steps you will find the mind becoming extraordinarily quiet. So for these three days, be constantly careful of this. Whatever you are doing, do it with such completeness, with such totality, that nothing remains outside it—you become that act. Once, in Tibet, a king wanted the royal seal carved, and on it, at a counselor’s suggestion, a crowing rooster. It appealed to him. He summoned all the painters of the realm to make a rooster in full crow. There was an old painter; he too was called. But he said, I am so old now, I will not be able to paint it. The king said, you still paint; why not this? He replied, let someone else do it. Many painters brought samples of roosters, but the old artist said, all useless, nothing. At last the king was exasperated: you do not paint yourself, you do not let others’ work pass—what shall we do? The old man said, I can paint it, but I cannot promise—at least three years will be required. Three years! cried the king, to paint a rooster? The painting itself will take two moments, said the old man, but for the rooster to happen, three years will be needed. The king said, you are crazy! Who asks you to become a rooster? The painter answered: until I know the rooster from within—what happens in his life-energy when he crows—until that spark awakens in my own being, how can I paint a crowing rooster? Three years will be needed. I am an old man, I cannot guarantee; I might die in between. For three years the state must provide for me, because in that period I will do nothing else. The king agreed. The arrangements were made. The old artist went into the forests where wild roosters lived. After two or three months the king sent men to see whether he had gone mad—for three years is a long time for a rooster. They found him hidden among roosters, sitting quietly, roosters crowing around. They saw him, but he did not see them. After three months they went again and saw him running on all fours with the roosters. He seemed utterly mad. Three years passed; the king called him back. Have you brought the painting? The old man gave out a sharp cry like a rooster’s crow. The king said, we don’t want this—we want a painting. You have learned to crow; what of it? The old man replied, the painting now is a matter of a moment—bring the materials, I will paint it here. For three years I tried to become one with the rooster—that has happened. He made a painting which, it is said, is unmatched in human history for any animal or bird. He said, test it. How? asked the king. Place the painting and bring in real roosters. If the real rooster, seeing it, runs away, know the painting is true. They brought roosters; they fled, peeking from the door and turning back. The rooster in the painting stood in full challenge, crowing. The artist said: not only man—the rooster too will recognize a rooster. The king asked, how did you do this? The painter said, for three years I tried to become one with the rooster. I forgot myself and became a rooster. Slowly, slowly moments came when even the memory that ‘I am’ disappeared—only one remembrance remained: the rooster. In those very moments I knew the soul of the rooster. Whatever we do through the twenty-four hours, such self-absorption, such assimilation is needed that we disappear and only the act remains—no matter how small or how great the act. Let us be able to sink into it wholly. Try this diving in these three days. I am saying: through the twenty-four hours, whatever you do, keep it in awareness. In these three days you will feel a fundamental difference. One thing will become clear. Begin tonight as you go to sleep. Begin when you rise from here. Begin now as you listen to me—begin with listening. Let only the act of listening remain, as if you are only listening, doing nothing else—merely listening; only ears, and you are not. As if you are only ears that hear, only eyes that see. If you listen with such quietness and absorption, something else will be heard. Perhaps exactly what I am saying will be heard. If this absorption is not there, you will not hear what I am saying; you will hear what you want to hear, what you can hear, what you have already heard and thought. Then you will miss what is being said. So start right here. For these three days work on one small sutra: whatever you are doing—standing, sitting, sleeping—be wholly absorbed. That is the first sutra. Second: if you keep even a little attention on self-absorption in each act, the mind naturally comes to a deep peace; no special efforts are needed. The mind is restless because we want to become something, to be somebody. There is a race inside, an ambition—someone wants wealth, someone a high post, someone a great renunciation, someone to be a great sadhu, someone wants Moksha, someone Samadhi, someone truth—but there is a deep race. Because of that race the mind becomes filled with restlessness and tension. My submission: one who truly wants to be self-absorbed with life, to be one with it, should keep one thing in mind—accept being a nobody. Not the race to be somebody, but the center of being no-one should be accepted. Whoever accepts his nobodiness, his nothingness, strange things begin happening in his life. All that he wanted to be begins to happen of itself. There are two ways: one man swims, flails his hands and feet in the water; another floats—does not struggle, leaves himself to the current and is carried. For these three days do not try to swim—try to float. Do not make very deliberate efforts that ‘this must be done, that must be achieved’. Let the three days come and pass, and let us drift silently. It is a wondrous thing: one who understands the meaning of floating finds all tension dissolving from the mind. The one who tries to do, to swim, fills his mind with strain and turbulence. In such a mind, truth can never be experienced, nor can the joy of life be known. The taste of life’s joy is possible only in a very simple mind; and the first sign of a simple mind is: it flows—it does not swim. So for now I say only for these three days—if something is experienced, it becomes by itself the way of your whole life. For the present, it is only a matter of three days, so do not worry: if I begin to float what will happen to my life? If I drop all worry of becoming, what will happen? Do not be anxious. I speak only of these three days. Make a small experiment. If something proves meaningful, it will survive on its own—you will not need me to tell you to keep it. If something is real, it will hold you; I will not ask you to hold it. Those usually interested in religion become very serious—very heavy—thinking they are about to undertake some grave enterprise. No. Only those succeed in knowing the truth of religion who are childlike, non-serious, like children. A serious mind is full of tension. So I request you: do not adopt seriousness here. It will be more fitting to laugh, to be cheerful. Do not sit gloomy and solemn. Any community that associates seriousness and sadness with Paramatma neither finds Paramatma nor retains the joy of life. So remain cheerful, laugh; understand that you have come on an outing. Do not take it as some great sadhana, some great search for God, some great yoga to be practiced—do not hold it in that way. In that way the mind becomes petty, gloomy, and loses all simplicity. These sadhus and sannyasins do not remain simple—they take life with too much seriousness. The right person is one who can take life as a play, not as a grave event—as a drama, a game. There were three fakirs in China—wondrous fakirs. No one knew their names; they never told them. They were called the Three Laughing Saints. Wherever they went, word reached the village in advance: those three madmen are coming. They never gave discourses, for discourse, however you do it, brings a little seriousness. They never explained anything. They simply stood in the square and began to laugh. One would laugh, then the second, then the third—and the laughter became infectious. People gathered and laughed; the whole village would burst into laughter. Wherever they stayed two or three days, the village said: the burden of years has been lifted—those three came and the weight of years is gone. So I say: do not take this camp as a serious undertaking. Seriousness is a symptom of a sick mind. Whoever can take life with simplicity, laughing, and as a play—many secrets of life open to him. Live these three days with such simplicity as if we have gathered to enjoy the beauty of nature; a few friends have come together—to chat a little, to laugh a little. Let us drift joyously for three days, let go, be relaxed. The mind should not be aggressive. All so-called seekers are aggressive; they attack to attain. But the truth is: suchness as truth cannot be had by aggression. A woman used to come to me, a great Sanskrit scholar. She said, I have to attain God. I told her to meditate a little; perhaps there will be movement in that direction. She meditated one day; returning, she said, I have not experienced anything yet. I said, come again tomorrow—give God another chance. You are in a hurry; he is very leisurely. He seems in no haste; thousands of years pass as if there is no hurry there. You are in haste, he is not. Give him one more chance—come tomorrow. She came, very grave, heavy. The Gita was on her tongue; when she spoke, the Upanishads and the Vedas came pouring; very serious. She came again and said, forgive me, still I have had no experience of God. I said, you never will. And I told her a small story; I tell it to you as well. An old sannyasin and a young sannyasin got out of a boat at a riverbank. The old one asked the boatman, will I reach the nearby town before sunset? The rule there was: as the sun set, the gates closed—no entry till morning. If I do not reach in time, I must spend the night outside among the wild. The boatman said, you will surely reach—but remember one thing: if you go slowly, you will reach; if you hurry, it will be difficult. The sannyasin thought, the man is mad—if I hurry, I will reach sooner, that is common sense. Do not heed him, he told the youth—run! Sunset is near; if we are late, we will have to spend the night outside the walls. They ran. The sun dipped; darkness gathered in the forest. They ran faster. The old sannyasin stumbled on a stone and fell; his feet were bleeding. The boatman, having tied his boat and taken his oar, came along behind. He said, see—I told you, if you go slowly you will reach. The one who hurries never arrives. The sannyasin then saw: he had spoken rightly, out of experience. I tell you: the doors of Paramatma open only to the one who goes so slowly that his patience has no end. The one who hurries finds the doors closed—not because God shuts them, but because he himself shuts them. Impatience is unrest; seriousness is unrest; the attack upon life is unrest. No attack. Not aggressive—receptive. In the morning when we open our doors, we do not assault the sun and drag him in with a rope; we simply open the door and sit. The sun rises; light fills the house. In the same way, leave the doors of your mind open—and wait. The sun will rise and the house will be filled with light. You cannot attack; you can only open the doors of the mind, become receptive. For becoming receptive, tonight I give you three things: First: try to live each moment, simply, naturally. Second: do not take life with excess seriousness. Take it with great simplicity, as play. Third: be in no haste, no impatience. The more you hurry, the longer it takes; the more patient you are, the sooner it happens. One last story and I will complete for today—carry it with you into sleep. It is wholly fictitious, but truth lives in it. A sannyasin had been engaged in prayer and worship for years, for lives. He grew weary, restless. For all the while he prayed, his eyes were fixed on attainment; the day his prayers seemed futile, sorrow and mental distress flooded him. One day Narada passed by. The old sannyasin said, I have heard you go to the Lord again and again—ask him, how much longer till my liberation? Those who began after me have gone ahead and I am where I was—is this justice? For births and births I have prayed—no fruit yet. When will grace be showered upon me? Narada said, I will surely ask. Nearby, behind the same great banyan, a young fakir was dancing with his ektara. As a joke, Narada said, friend, you too have been at it for quite a while—shall I ask for you as well? The youth laughed heartily: please, do not even mention my name there—I am not worthy. And please, do not ask anything. Whoever asks is bargaining. Whoever says ‘how long till I get’, finds no joy in doing, only in getting. The song I sing—everything is given to me right in it; the dance I dance—I have attained in it. So do not ask—do not take my name, do not bring me up. A few days later Narada returned. He told the old fakir, I asked—the Lord said, three more births. The fakir flung down his rosary, kicked the image of God: enough of this injustice! The atheists speak rightly—such a God is suspect. I will not accept any of this! So long, and three more births! Then Narada said to the youth behind the tree: friend, I fear telling you, for the one who heard of only three births threw down his beads and kicked the idol—who knows what you will do! Though you forbade me, out of curiosity I asked for you too. The Lord said, the leaves on the tree under which he dances—he will need as many births as there are leaves. The youth began to dance more wildly; his ektara grew sweeter; his eyes flashed with light. He thanked God: thy grace! How many trees there are upon the earth! How many leaves upon them! Thy compassion is endless—that in births equal merely to the leaves of this one tree my liberation will be! I am nowhere near worthy—yet you shower such grace. The tale says: in that very moment he was liberated. And so it will be. Such a mind—so simple, so grateful, so blessed, so aware of its own unworthiness and of the immense compassion of existence—such patience that it can say, there are so many trees on the earth, so many leaves, and in as few births as the leaves of this small tree I shall be free—this is such quickness, such speed! One who has such patience is liberated that very instant, for there remains no reason to keep his doors closed. So I end thus: nothing happens in this direction through impatience—only through endless patience and waiting. And that is possible only for those who take life with simplicity, as play—laughing, silent, peaceful, loving, patient. To such a one, life opens its secrets of its own accord. I have said these three small things; if you keep them in heart and then listen over the coming three days with this inner attitude, perhaps something may prove useful to you, perhaps something may become a light upon your path. But it depends on you, not on me; everything depends on your mind’s receptivity and preparation, its vision, its vastness and its simplicity. On this first day I pray to Paramatma to give your mind such a ground—because seeds can do nothing if the soil is not prepared. If the ground is ready, seeds can sprout and something may be born, flowers may blossom. I pray in this first gathering that Paramatma grant your heart such simplicity, such peace and silence, that it becomes rich soil—and any seed sown there may sprout and leaf and bloom. My deep thanks that, after so much travel and tiredness, you have listened to me with such love.
Osho's Commentary
In these three days I will speak of that; you will become companions in the direction of understanding and inquiry. Tonight, I must say only a few very simple, preliminary things.
But before I say them, let me also request something of you. Ordinarily those who are interested in Dharma and sadhana think that very big things are important. My vision is different. Life is woven of very small things, not big ones. And whoever becomes serious about the importance of great things often misses, misses again and again, this simple fact—that life is made of very small, minute things.
Religious people ponder over Paramatma and Atman and rebirth and such themes. In this, the tiny facts of life, our ways of seeing, our modes of thinking and living—none of these find place in their attention. Then the big themes remain suspended in the air, while no change happens in the very ground on which the feet of life stand.
Tonight I would like to talk of a few little things. If you give them a little attention, then in the coming three days something deeper may become possible. Before I begin, let me tell you a small story—perhaps the whole discussion will unfold from it.
Two friends set out to circumambulate the earth. They wished to go round the whole world, to see, to experience the many forms of life, to gather the riches of experience. But one of them was blind. Out of great compassion the other friend agreed to take him around the earth, holding his hand. The blind man, tapping with his stick and leaning on his friend, began the journey.
Soon obstacles began to appear. To remain friends from afar is one thing; to be companions and fellow travelers on a long journey is quite another. Difficulties arose in small things; quarrels and opposition started over trifles. Bitterness gathered. The earth was vast, the circumambulation immense. In a few days, discord deepened between them.
One night they slept in a desert. It was very cold. At dawn the blind friend awoke, groped about to find his stick which he had kept by his side during the night. His hand did grasp a stick—he felt it and was amazed; this stick was so smooth, clean, and beautiful to the touch. He wondered, where did such a stick come from? His own had been ordinary and rough. With that very stick he nudged his sighted friend and said, wake up—the morning has come, the birds have begun to sing, the roosters have crowed; it would be good if we start early, before the sun rises high and the heat grows.
The sighted friend opened his eyes, recoiled in alarm and stepped back. He said, friend, what you hold in your hand is not a stick—please, let it go at once! It is a snake, numbed by the night’s cold, and you are holding it!
But the blind man said: now this is going too far! I understand I have no eyes, but I do have hands. Next you will say I have no hands either. I can feel clearly it is a stick, not a snake. And I also understand your trick: perhaps this fine stick has captivated you and you want me to drop it so that you can pick it up. But deceiving me will not be so easy.
The friend pleaded again and again, please let it go—it is a snake, not a stick. But the more he pleaded, the more obstinate the blind man became. Finally it came to this: the blind man said, our companionship can go no further. They parted ways. With great sorrow the sighted one took leave, but there was no other way. After a short distance, when the sun grew strong, the snake’s cold lessened, life returned to it, and what had to happen happened: it bit the blind man, and he died.
I tell this story with a particular purpose.
In every human life there is a long journey, a great circumambulation of the earth between birth and death. And within every human being dwell both friends—the one with eyes and the one without. The seeing forces within are awakened and trusted by very few; most people clutch at the blind forces and become their followers. We go so far as to side with our blindness and abandon our seeing. Then there is much wandering, a groping in darkness, sorrow and pain. Life ceases to be life and becomes a long process of dying. We go on dying each day, and one day death comes and we are finished—without ever knowing the meaning and the joy of life. Only one who takes support of the seeing forces within can know life’s meaning and its bliss; one who leans on inner blindness goes astray and is lost in darkness. Blindness leads into the dark; eyes lead into light. And apart from light there is neither meaning nor joy in life. Without light, life goes astray.
I will speak of which forces in us are blind, and which are seeing. I will speak of the elements that strengthen blindness and those that weaken it, and of what awakens and quickens the seeing forces.
If there is sorrow, anxiety, and suffering in your life, if you have not felt any dance, any music, any joy—understand very clearly: knowingly or unknowingly you have been giving strength to the blind forces. Otherwise it could not be so. If while walking the path, your feet keep falling into the same pits, if you keep stumbling and hurting yourself again and again, you will conclude your eyes are closed or your eyes are blind. In life this happens daily: our feet fall into the same old potholes on the path—often not even new ones. The anger you had yesterday, you have again today; the anger you have today will erupt again tomorrow. Afterwards you repent, you feel miserable, you decide not to do it—and yet after a few moments the same mistake reappears: the same pit, the same person, the same feet, and the same fall.
All our lives we keep repeating a handful of small mistakes. What does this constant repetition of what we repent, suffer for, and resolve not to do, indicate? Only this: either the inner eyes are closed, or the vision we have adopted in life is extremely dark and blind. There can be no other reason for the repetition of the same errors. And then, whatever we long for, just that fails to be attained. Every person desires joy, peace, a musical being, a fragrance of the soul like a flower. But it does not happen. And what we do goes on taking us in the very opposite direction from what we desire.
What does this tell us?
Only one thing: our longings may be right, but our eyes are blind. And remember, if your own eyes are blind, in this world no one else’s eyes can help you. The eyes of Krishna, or of Christ, or of Buddha, or of Mahavira—none will serve you. Even if the sun itself were placed in your hand, if your eyes are blind it would bring no light, no meaning.
A blind man was taking leave at night from a friend’s house. The friend said: it is a dark night, silent, the new moon; the streets are deserted, people’s houses closed—take a lamp in your hand, it will be good.
The blind man said: you speak crazily. Even if I carry a lamp, what is the point? I have no eyes. What will I do with light in my hand?
Still, the friend insisted. Humoring him, the blind man took a lantern and went out. He had not gone ten steps before another man collided with him. The blind man said: my friend, I cannot see the lantern, but you can! Have I met another blind man?
The other replied: no brother, I can see—but the wick of your lantern has gone out. You are carrying an extinguished lantern. How could I see?
A blind man cannot even know whether the lantern is lit or out.
All the scriptures of the world are like extinguished lanterns in our hands—of no use. Someone carries the Koran, someone the Gita, someone the Bible—and the three collide at the crossroads. All three lanterns are out. Whether the lantern is lit or not makes no difference until you have eyes. Without eyes, light has no meaning.
So, however much we worship those radiant ones, however much we revere others’ words, nothing beneficial will happen in life, no benediction. Benediction happens only when eyes open. And remember: if eyes are open, even in darkness the way can be found; if eyes are closed, even in light there is no path. I repeat: with closed eyes there is no way even in light; with open eyes a way appears even in darkness.
Why so many worries, so much anguish, so much anxiety, such turbulence in life? Have you ever asked why? Have you ever looked into how it arises?
It does not fall from the sky; we manufacture it. The way we live each day, that is how we produce it. Our manner of living is wrong, our manner of thinking is wrong; our vision is dim; in our hands, in our life, there is no light. Whatever we do, it leads awry. Whatever we build, turns out wrong. However we walk, that path misleads us.
Seeing all this, one thing should dawn in the mind: we have been reluctant to develop the seeing forces, and we have supported the blind ones—whatever they may be. Blind forces include blind faith and belief. Vivek (discernment), thought, are the seeing powers. But we have given strength to faith, to belief—not to vivek and thought. Stupor is a blind force, and we have sought stupor in every way. We have devised all kinds of methods to become unconscious. Not only have we found wine, opium, ganja, and in the new world mescaline and LSD—things to stupefy ourselves—but we have also discovered bhajan, kirtan, incense, name-japa, malas, and countless mental tricks by which the mind slips into a trance and sleeps. We have not sought ways to awaken and illumine the mind; we have sought ways to lull it, to sink it into drowsiness, into sleep, into stupor.
Stupor and sleep do bring a kind of peace, but it is the peace a corpse has. It is not a living peace that arises from supreme awakening.
I will speak of all this—how we have strengthened stupor, closed our eyes, and why. And I will speak of how to be free of it, how to awaken life-forces, the powers of vivek and chaitanya.
Before the three days of those talks, before I say all that, to understand rightly and to look in that direction, a few small things will be expected of you.
First expectation: for these three days, try to listen a little apart from what you have been doing, thinking, believing till now. If you can be a little detached from your past, perhaps something can happen. Generally we do not forget what is already lodged in the mind.
A young man once went to a fakir to be initiated. Bowing at his feet he said, I have come for initiation. The fakir asked, from where do you come? He said, from Peking. The fakir asked, what is the price of rice in Peking? The youth laughed: forgive me, I have left Peking behind—the rice and its prices too. The road I cross becomes erased for me; the bridge I cross, I burn. I have no idea of the price of rice in Peking. The fakir said: then it is all right, I am ready to initiate you. Had you told me the price of rice in Peking, my doors would have closed and I would have sent you away. Because a man who has walked from Peking and still carries its prices with him cannot be at rest for the search of truth.
So for these three days, my prayer: leave behind ‘what is the price of rice in Peking’. Whether it is Peking or Amaravati—if those prices stay in mind, little can happen. This is not difficult. Merely remember: what has passed should carry no weight on the mind. This remembrance alone bids farewell to the past.
Tonight, when you sleep, go to sleep with the remembrance: what is past is past; for these three days I will not let the past return again and again upon the mind. For these three days I will live what is before me, and leave what is gone. If you fall asleep with such mindful remembrance, you will awaken in a different way in the morning—totally different from all other mornings. The mind has a strange law: on whatever thought you fall asleep, on that very thought you awaken. Never on a different one. The worry with which you slept at night will be standing at the door in the morning to greet you. The last thought of night becomes the first thought of dawn. So let the last thought tonight be: I drop what is behind. At least for three days I will live solely in the ever-present, I will not bring the past in between.
One who does not drag the past into the mind finds the mind becoming very clear and calm. All unrest comes from the past; there is no unrest in the present. We will look into this more, but understand this: in the present moment there is no disturbance. All agitation is related either to past or to future; never to the present. If you watch your own restlessness you will see—it is either about what has been or what will be. In the living instant, there is no unrest.
We sit here now. If our mind becomes present to this very moment, what unrest is there? If we awaken to this very instant, what turmoil remains? If by some magic all your past were wiped away, what disturbance could there be?
In the living moment there is no disturbance. The burden of the past troubles the mind; the fantasy and planning of the future disturbs it.
For these three days, take it that there is no past and no future—only these three days of moments, each moment as it comes. Live this way for three days, and a totally new vision can open towards life. Once it becomes clear that the burden and tension on life is of past and future, a new door appears to knock upon. Then for a few minutes every day one can be free of all past and all future. And remember: the past has no existence except memory, the future none except imagination. What is, is the present. Therefore, if ever one is to know Paramatma or truth, there is no door other than the present. The past is not—it is gone; the future is not—it has not arrived. What is, existential in being, is the present—this very moment before us. If in this present moment I can be totally present, perhaps I may enter into being itself; perhaps I will feel related to the very life of the trees before me, the stars above, the sky, the people around. In that relatedness I will know that which is within me and that which is without me.
If in these three days we make even a little effort to live understandingly—try to live moment to moment—this is my first request. When eating, only eat. Forget what was before and... only eat. Let your whole mind and life-energy be absorbed in eating; do not let it wander here and there.
As it is now, when we eat, the mind is elsewhere—at home, at the shop. When we are at the shop, it is eating. When we are in the market, the mind is at home; when at home, the mind is in the market. Meaning: wherever we are, we are not there. A fragmentation, a disarray arises in life. So dangerous is this fragmentation that when we sleep the mind remembers the day’s happenings and dreams; and when we work in the day, the mind continues the dreams that were left incomplete at night. The mind is absent the whole time from where we are. Then how can we relate to life?
When we love someone, our mind is somewhere else. How will love happen? Thus we experience all our lives that we want to love and want to be loved, but neither can we love nor can anyone love us. For love, it is necessary that we be in the present. But when we are loving, the mind is elsewhere—and where the mind is when we love, when we go there, the mind will be where it should have been while loving.
In such living, everything is broken. When we pray, the mind is somewhere else; when we do business, the mind is somewhere else. We are not truly present in any act.
For these three days, make a small experiment: become totally present to whatever you are doing. When you go to sleep tonight, sleep totally. To sleep totally means: sleep in such a way that all work is finished, now apart from sleep there is nothing else to do. I am going to sleep with my whole being; my whole being will do only this, nothing else. Sleep in that way. In the morning when you bathe, bathe in such a way that your whole being is bathing; the mind does not rush elsewhere.
If for a few days, mindfully, we exercise awareness with the mind, it is not difficult that a day comes when, whatever we are doing, we are wholly present in it. If you are sweeping, be wholly there. And if even while sweeping someone becomes totally present, he will taste the same joy that the greatest yogi tastes in meditation—no difference remains. The very meaning of meditation is to be wholly present in what we are doing, completely absorbed, not outside it. Any small act. When you rise from here and walk to your room, walk in such a way that no other activity is going on in your mind except walking—only walking remains, and you disappear. If only walking remains and you disappear, then the hundred steps to your room will take you nearer to Paramatma. In those hundred steps you will find the mind becoming extraordinarily quiet.
So for these three days, be constantly careful of this. Whatever you are doing, do it with such completeness, with such totality, that nothing remains outside it—you become that act.
Once, in Tibet, a king wanted the royal seal carved, and on it, at a counselor’s suggestion, a crowing rooster. It appealed to him. He summoned all the painters of the realm to make a rooster in full crow. There was an old painter; he too was called. But he said, I am so old now, I will not be able to paint it. The king said, you still paint; why not this? He replied, let someone else do it. Many painters brought samples of roosters, but the old artist said, all useless, nothing. At last the king was exasperated: you do not paint yourself, you do not let others’ work pass—what shall we do? The old man said, I can paint it, but I cannot promise—at least three years will be required. Three years! cried the king, to paint a rooster? The painting itself will take two moments, said the old man, but for the rooster to happen, three years will be needed. The king said, you are crazy! Who asks you to become a rooster? The painter answered: until I know the rooster from within—what happens in his life-energy when he crows—until that spark awakens in my own being, how can I paint a crowing rooster? Three years will be needed. I am an old man, I cannot guarantee; I might die in between. For three years the state must provide for me, because in that period I will do nothing else. The king agreed.
The arrangements were made. The old artist went into the forests where wild roosters lived. After two or three months the king sent men to see whether he had gone mad—for three years is a long time for a rooster. They found him hidden among roosters, sitting quietly, roosters crowing around. They saw him, but he did not see them. After three months they went again and saw him running on all fours with the roosters. He seemed utterly mad. Three years passed; the king called him back. Have you brought the painting? The old man gave out a sharp cry like a rooster’s crow. The king said, we don’t want this—we want a painting. You have learned to crow; what of it? The old man replied, the painting now is a matter of a moment—bring the materials, I will paint it here. For three years I tried to become one with the rooster—that has happened. He made a painting which, it is said, is unmatched in human history for any animal or bird. He said, test it. How? asked the king. Place the painting and bring in real roosters. If the real rooster, seeing it, runs away, know the painting is true. They brought roosters; they fled, peeking from the door and turning back. The rooster in the painting stood in full challenge, crowing. The artist said: not only man—the rooster too will recognize a rooster.
The king asked, how did you do this? The painter said, for three years I tried to become one with the rooster. I forgot myself and became a rooster. Slowly, slowly moments came when even the memory that ‘I am’ disappeared—only one remembrance remained: the rooster. In those very moments I knew the soul of the rooster.
Whatever we do through the twenty-four hours, such self-absorption, such assimilation is needed that we disappear and only the act remains—no matter how small or how great the act. Let us be able to sink into it wholly. Try this diving in these three days. I am saying: through the twenty-four hours, whatever you do, keep it in awareness. In these three days you will feel a fundamental difference. One thing will become clear.
Begin tonight as you go to sleep. Begin when you rise from here. Begin now as you listen to me—begin with listening. Let only the act of listening remain, as if you are only listening, doing nothing else—merely listening; only ears, and you are not. As if you are only ears that hear, only eyes that see. If you listen with such quietness and absorption, something else will be heard. Perhaps exactly what I am saying will be heard. If this absorption is not there, you will not hear what I am saying; you will hear what you want to hear, what you can hear, what you have already heard and thought. Then you will miss what is being said.
So start right here. For these three days work on one small sutra: whatever you are doing—standing, sitting, sleeping—be wholly absorbed.
That is the first sutra.
Second: if you keep even a little attention on self-absorption in each act, the mind naturally comes to a deep peace; no special efforts are needed. The mind is restless because we want to become something, to be somebody. There is a race inside, an ambition—someone wants wealth, someone a high post, someone a great renunciation, someone to be a great sadhu, someone wants Moksha, someone Samadhi, someone truth—but there is a deep race. Because of that race the mind becomes filled with restlessness and tension.
My submission: one who truly wants to be self-absorbed with life, to be one with it, should keep one thing in mind—accept being a nobody. Not the race to be somebody, but the center of being no-one should be accepted.
Whoever accepts his nobodiness, his nothingness, strange things begin happening in his life. All that he wanted to be begins to happen of itself. There are two ways: one man swims, flails his hands and feet in the water; another floats—does not struggle, leaves himself to the current and is carried. For these three days do not try to swim—try to float. Do not make very deliberate efforts that ‘this must be done, that must be achieved’. Let the three days come and pass, and let us drift silently. It is a wondrous thing: one who understands the meaning of floating finds all tension dissolving from the mind. The one who tries to do, to swim, fills his mind with strain and turbulence. In such a mind, truth can never be experienced, nor can the joy of life be known. The taste of life’s joy is possible only in a very simple mind; and the first sign of a simple mind is: it flows—it does not swim.
So for now I say only for these three days—if something is experienced, it becomes by itself the way of your whole life. For the present, it is only a matter of three days, so do not worry: if I begin to float what will happen to my life? If I drop all worry of becoming, what will happen? Do not be anxious. I speak only of these three days. Make a small experiment. If something proves meaningful, it will survive on its own—you will not need me to tell you to keep it. If something is real, it will hold you; I will not ask you to hold it.
Those usually interested in religion become very serious—very heavy—thinking they are about to undertake some grave enterprise. No. Only those succeed in knowing the truth of religion who are childlike, non-serious, like children. A serious mind is full of tension. So I request you: do not adopt seriousness here. It will be more fitting to laugh, to be cheerful. Do not sit gloomy and solemn. Any community that associates seriousness and sadness with Paramatma neither finds Paramatma nor retains the joy of life.
So remain cheerful, laugh; understand that you have come on an outing. Do not take it as some great sadhana, some great search for God, some great yoga to be practiced—do not hold it in that way. In that way the mind becomes petty, gloomy, and loses all simplicity. These sadhus and sannyasins do not remain simple—they take life with too much seriousness. The right person is one who can take life as a play, not as a grave event—as a drama, a game.
There were three fakirs in China—wondrous fakirs. No one knew their names; they never told them. They were called the Three Laughing Saints. Wherever they went, word reached the village in advance: those three madmen are coming. They never gave discourses, for discourse, however you do it, brings a little seriousness. They never explained anything. They simply stood in the square and began to laugh. One would laugh, then the second, then the third—and the laughter became infectious. People gathered and laughed; the whole village would burst into laughter. Wherever they stayed two or three days, the village said: the burden of years has been lifted—those three came and the weight of years is gone.
So I say: do not take this camp as a serious undertaking. Seriousness is a symptom of a sick mind. Whoever can take life with simplicity, laughing, and as a play—many secrets of life open to him.
Live these three days with such simplicity as if we have gathered to enjoy the beauty of nature; a few friends have come together—to chat a little, to laugh a little. Let us drift joyously for three days, let go, be relaxed. The mind should not be aggressive. All so-called seekers are aggressive; they attack to attain. But the truth is: suchness as truth cannot be had by aggression.
A woman used to come to me, a great Sanskrit scholar. She said, I have to attain God. I told her to meditate a little; perhaps there will be movement in that direction. She meditated one day; returning, she said, I have not experienced anything yet. I said, come again tomorrow—give God another chance. You are in a hurry; he is very leisurely. He seems in no haste; thousands of years pass as if there is no hurry there. You are in haste, he is not. Give him one more chance—come tomorrow. She came, very grave, heavy. The Gita was on her tongue; when she spoke, the Upanishads and the Vedas came pouring; very serious. She came again and said, forgive me, still I have had no experience of God. I said, you never will. And I told her a small story; I tell it to you as well.
An old sannyasin and a young sannyasin got out of a boat at a riverbank. The old one asked the boatman, will I reach the nearby town before sunset? The rule there was: as the sun set, the gates closed—no entry till morning. If I do not reach in time, I must spend the night outside among the wild. The boatman said, you will surely reach—but remember one thing: if you go slowly, you will reach; if you hurry, it will be difficult. The sannyasin thought, the man is mad—if I hurry, I will reach sooner, that is common sense. Do not heed him, he told the youth—run! Sunset is near; if we are late, we will have to spend the night outside the walls. They ran. The sun dipped; darkness gathered in the forest. They ran faster. The old sannyasin stumbled on a stone and fell; his feet were bleeding. The boatman, having tied his boat and taken his oar, came along behind. He said, see—I told you, if you go slowly you will reach. The one who hurries never arrives. The sannyasin then saw: he had spoken rightly, out of experience.
I tell you: the doors of Paramatma open only to the one who goes so slowly that his patience has no end. The one who hurries finds the doors closed—not because God shuts them, but because he himself shuts them. Impatience is unrest; seriousness is unrest; the attack upon life is unrest.
No attack. Not aggressive—receptive. In the morning when we open our doors, we do not assault the sun and drag him in with a rope; we simply open the door and sit. The sun rises; light fills the house. In the same way, leave the doors of your mind open—and wait. The sun will rise and the house will be filled with light.
You cannot attack; you can only open the doors of the mind, become receptive. For becoming receptive, tonight I give you three things:
First: try to live each moment, simply, naturally.
Second: do not take life with excess seriousness. Take it with great simplicity, as play.
Third: be in no haste, no impatience. The more you hurry, the longer it takes; the more patient you are, the sooner it happens.
One last story and I will complete for today—carry it with you into sleep. It is wholly fictitious, but truth lives in it.
A sannyasin had been engaged in prayer and worship for years, for lives. He grew weary, restless. For all the while he prayed, his eyes were fixed on attainment; the day his prayers seemed futile, sorrow and mental distress flooded him. One day Narada passed by. The old sannyasin said, I have heard you go to the Lord again and again—ask him, how much longer till my liberation? Those who began after me have gone ahead and I am where I was—is this justice? For births and births I have prayed—no fruit yet. When will grace be showered upon me? Narada said, I will surely ask. Nearby, behind the same great banyan, a young fakir was dancing with his ektara. As a joke, Narada said, friend, you too have been at it for quite a while—shall I ask for you as well? The youth laughed heartily: please, do not even mention my name there—I am not worthy. And please, do not ask anything. Whoever asks is bargaining. Whoever says ‘how long till I get’, finds no joy in doing, only in getting. The song I sing—everything is given to me right in it; the dance I dance—I have attained in it. So do not ask—do not take my name, do not bring me up. A few days later Narada returned. He told the old fakir, I asked—the Lord said, three more births. The fakir flung down his rosary, kicked the image of God: enough of this injustice! The atheists speak rightly—such a God is suspect. I will not accept any of this! So long, and three more births! Then Narada said to the youth behind the tree: friend, I fear telling you, for the one who heard of only three births threw down his beads and kicked the idol—who knows what you will do! Though you forbade me, out of curiosity I asked for you too. The Lord said, the leaves on the tree under which he dances—he will need as many births as there are leaves. The youth began to dance more wildly; his ektara grew sweeter; his eyes flashed with light. He thanked God: thy grace! How many trees there are upon the earth! How many leaves upon them! Thy compassion is endless—that in births equal merely to the leaves of this one tree my liberation will be! I am nowhere near worthy—yet you shower such grace. The tale says: in that very moment he was liberated.
And so it will be. Such a mind—so simple, so grateful, so blessed, so aware of its own unworthiness and of the immense compassion of existence—such patience that it can say, there are so many trees on the earth, so many leaves, and in as few births as the leaves of this small tree I shall be free—this is such quickness, such speed! One who has such patience is liberated that very instant, for there remains no reason to keep his doors closed.
So I end thus: nothing happens in this direction through impatience—only through endless patience and waiting. And that is possible only for those who take life with simplicity, as play—laughing, silent, peaceful, loving, patient. To such a one, life opens its secrets of its own accord.
I have said these three small things; if you keep them in heart and then listen over the coming three days with this inner attitude, perhaps something may prove useful to you, perhaps something may become a light upon your path. But it depends on you, not on me; everything depends on your mind’s receptivity and preparation, its vision, its vastness and its simplicity.
On this first day I pray to Paramatma to give your mind such a ground—because seeds can do nothing if the soil is not prepared. If the ground is ready, seeds can sprout and something may be born, flowers may blossom. I pray in this first gathering that Paramatma grant your heart such simplicity, such peace and silence, that it becomes rich soil—and any seed sown there may sprout and leaf and bloom.
My deep thanks that, after so much travel and tiredness, you have listened to me with such love.