Let the mind be free — about this we spoke yesterday morning. That is the first step: that one’s own vivek — the discerning intelligence — may awaken. Today we will talk of the second step: by what ways, by which methods, can the power of vivek, asleep within, be stirred and brought to wakefulness. Before we enter this inquiry, one primary thing must be understood. Only those powers within a human being awaken and become active for which life throws up a challenge. Powers for which no challenge arises remain asleep. If a person does not have to use his eyes for years, even the already-awake power of sight will fall asleep. If for years he does not have to walk, even the legs will become crippled. Life inhibits the powers which we do not actively use; conversely, life also brings forth powers precisely where a challenge appears. Science, too, supports this. In animals, in creatures, in birds, in human beings, only those powers have awakened and become active for which life posed a challenge. Where challenges are absent, where there are no urgings, there remains no reason for powers to awaken. In dense forests the trees rise very high; in Africa they begin to touch the sky. In such thickets, unless they grow upward, trees cannot breathe — their very life must be threatened. So they keep rising to find air and light. Where there are no dense forests, trees remain small. In deserts, camels lengthened their necks, otherwise living there would have been impossible. The harsher the desert and the rarer the foliage near the ground, the longer the camel’s neck has become. The giraffe too lengthened his neck, for the forests in which he lives have very tall trees. Zoology will say: we develop only those powers without which life would be imperiled. Psychologists say much of the human brain lies dormant; a very small portion works, the rest remains unused. Perhaps there has been no need; perhaps no challenge arose for those parts; perhaps life has not yet given them the occasion to awaken and become active. I say all this first so you can understand: the power of vivek is present in every human being, yet unless we create the challenge for vivek, it will remain asleep. Faith hinders; belief obstructs — because once belief is adopted there remains no reason for vivek to awaken. Therefore faith becomes a barrier to the awakening of vivek, and exactly its opposite state of mind becomes the ally. Doubt — right doubt — cooperates in awakening vivek. Blessed are those in whose lives samyak doubt is born. Why? Because under the intense pressure of right doubt, vivek cannot remain asleep; it must awaken. Doubt refuses to accept answers from the outside, and when we are not willing to believe anything outer, only one path remains for consent and contentment: that the answer must arise from within. When all answers from outside begin to look futile, when all scriptures appear meaningless, when no outer refuge is visible and faith finds no foundation outside — in that foundationless state of mind, when all props have been lost, the energy asleep in the life-breath awakens and begins to answer from within. Before that, no answers come from within; why should they? They arise only when outer answers have failed. As long as we are chained by belief, there is no reason for answers to rise from the inner. Only a few manage to awaken their own vivek — those who gradually free their minds from all outward answers and solutions. In that state, in deep and sharp doubt, the inner vivek is aroused. As when someone chases you with a gun, your ultimate strength to run is called forth; you run with your whole energy. Once it happened: in Japan a king loved one of his servants very much. The servant deserved it. The king took him to wars, kept him with himself in the palace, made him a companion on journeys — never treating him as a servant, but loving him as a friend. The servant was young, handsome, healthy, intelligent. The queen fell in love with him. The king came to know. He was deeply hurt. The simple thing would have been to pick up the sword and behead the servant. Nothing prevented him. Yet because he had loved this servant like a friend, he wished to give him, even at the last, a friend’s chance. He called the servant: ‘Friend, I could cut off your head. But I have loved you, so I will give you a chance. Take this sword, I’ll take another, and we shall fight. Whoever dies — finished; whoever lives — the queen shall be his, and this kingdom as well. As a friend, I must give you this chance.’ The servant said: ‘Your gesture is lofty, but meaningless. I have never even held a sword; I don’t know how to grip it. The fight will be only in name. I will die; you will be praised; my life will be lost. Better you simply cut off my head. There is no point — I cannot even hold a sword. And you...’ The king was the most skilled swordsman of the time, unmatched in the land. No one dared face him. How could a servant who had never lifted a sword defeat him? Yet the king insisted: ‘My conscience says I must give you a chance.’ It was an order; the servant had to stand with a sword. The king had entered many tournaments and always triumphed. He could not imagine what happened that day: it became difficult to defeat the servant. The servant had no fear of death — death was certain. He had no way to save himself and he did not know how to wield the sword. But in such peril, in such danger, all the energies of his life awakened. The ordinary servant became extraordinary. The sword in his hand began to prove dangerous. He was swinging it without techniques, without the learned thrusts and parries — yet because there was no way out, all his energies had gathered. The king began to retreat; each stroke pushed him back. The king became frightened — never had he faced such a moment. He had fought the most skillful of swordsmen; here was an unskilled man — and yet the unskilled advanced. The king’s own life was at stake. He cried, ‘Stop!’ and said, ‘I am defeated. This is beyond my imagination.’ He relinquished the kingdom, leaving wealth and wife in the servant’s hands, and went to his master. Later he asked a fakir: ‘What happened? How was this possible?’ The fakir said: ‘It was inevitable. If you had asked me earlier I would have told you. When life is in such danger, all the reserved forces of one’s being are engaged. At that time, to defeat the person is very difficult. Your life was not in danger — you were secure in your skill. His life was wholly at stake; his entire being was on the line. That all his strength awakened is no wonder. And when the whole strength awakens, an ordinary human becomes astonishingly extraordinary.’ The same is true of vivek. It awakens only when doubt creates total danger. Those who avoid the danger of doubt will never awaken their vivek. Belief provides a certain security. For thousands of years our parents and their parents believed; we also believe — it gives safety. So many cannot be wrong. For millennia, millions have believed; surely they were not deluded. Thus we feel safe. When such a crowd proclaims something to be true, we join the crowd. Within its numbers we find security. We are not left shelterless, not alone — so many are with us. The crowd gives strength, courage, support. The danger in life seems less; we feel safe. And for the one who has secured himself thus, there is no possibility for vivek to awaken. For that awakening, insecurity is needed, danger is needed, a situation of challenge all around is needed. Only then does something within happen; only then do the sleeping parts awaken. But we stand within the circle of belief and become thoroughly safe. Hence we seek: how old is such and such a book? If it is two thousand years old, it gives some security; if five thousand, more security — for what people have believed for five thousand years must be true. And if someone also proves that the book itself is authored by God, then even greater security — because then there is no question of doubt. Therefore all the religious people of the world try to prove that their own book is God-given. This authenticity is an effort to end their own doubt — to feel completely at ease that now there remains nothing to question. To stand utterly outside danger, to have perfect security — this is why religious people fight. Hindus say: the Vedas are made by God. Muslims say: impossible — God sent the Quran. Jains: no, these are not God-made; they are the utterances of the Tirthankara — what Mahavira said, that alone — the words of the Omniscient. Buddhists: the words of Buddha alone are true; nothing else is true. They fight because their purpose is not really to know which book is God’s. Their sole purpose is this: once it is proved that a certain book is God’s, their mind can relax. And the mind that has relaxed dies; its inquiry ends. It has found a prop; inquiry stops. Why do we insist so fiercely that Mahavira is omniscient, Buddha is omniscient — they know all, and know exactly? If someone says: no, in this or that Buddha was wrong, we are ready to kill or die. If someone says Krishna erred in such and such verse of the Gita, we are ready to fight. Why such insistence that they must be right? Not because we care that they be right, but because if they become suspect, we will be in trouble. If they are suspect, we must doubt; then where is the foundation of our belief, where our security? Doubt will arise. Thus, even on absurd points we refused to question. In the Bible it was said that the earth is flat and the sun moves around the earth. When Western scientists first discovered that the earth is round, priests were enraged. ‘Impossible,’ they said. Evidence for roundness was clear, yet they insisted, ‘The Bible says flat, so round it cannot be.’ They rejected the scientist’s proof. They arrested Galileo: ‘We will cut off your head; say the earth is flat!’ Galileo said: ‘What trouble are you in about the earth’s shape? What is it to you?’ But there was a concern: if one saying of Jesus is wrong, then the other sayings become suspect. That was the danger. Who cares whether the earth is round or flat? The danger was this: if even one saying is wrong, then doubt arises that if a man can err once he can err again; the whole position becomes doubtful. And then our belief trembles. So such foolishness persisted for centuries. In Greece, up to the time of Aristotle, it was believed that women have fewer teeth than men. How could women be equal to men? They must be inferior; therefore fewer teeth. Aristotle, so intelligent and thoughtful, wrote in his book that women have fewer teeth. Astonishing! He had two wives — could he not have counted? He did not. The old religion of Greece said women have fewer teeth. For a thousand years after Aristotle’s death this was still believed. In truth, there are many women, often slightly more than men. In Greece there were many more; where there are wars, men die, women remain. Yet no one thought to count. No doubt arose. Thousands of such stupidities continue for thousands of years. Why are we afraid to expose them? Because if one statement of the ancestors proves false, we fear that others will also fall. Then doubt will arise within, and we will have to inquire — we will be in difficulty. Let me tell you: the one whose mind does not fill with doubt, who does not pass through the pain of doubt, who is not singed in the fire of doubt — in him vivek never awakens. Vivek awakens when doubt begins to hurt, to cause anguish, to create anxiety; when doubt pierces one’s being from all sides and there remains no possibility of believing — that these Vedas are God-made, that this Quran is sent by the Divine, that this Bible is authored by God’s own son — when nowhere remains any support for belief, when question marks stand everywhere, when no security is visible, then the deeply reserved force within begins to stir; that power, long protected for times of danger, awakens — and vivek is born. Other than vivek, nothing is God-given. All other scriptures are man-made, and they carry the same limitations and errors that are natural to man. Only one power is not man-made: vivek — the capacity in the life-breath to know, to discern, to understand. That capacity alone can be called divine; everything else is human construct, thinking, searching, probing — and hence full of contradictions and quarrels. This power of vivek sleeping within — the first formula for its awakening is: right doubt. Why do I say ‘right’? I could simply say doubt. I say ‘right doubt’ to prevent doubt from degenerating into disbelief. There is a fundamental difference between doubt and disbelief. Disbelief stands opposite belief; doubt is not the opposite of belief. Doubt stands opposite both belief and disbelief. If we draw a triangle, belief and disbelief occupy two sides; at the third angle stands doubt. Doubt is something else entirely — the primary state of a scientific mind. Disbelief is a mere reaction to belief, a reshaping of the same thing. One person believes ‘God is’; another believes ‘God is not’. One says there is Atman; another says there is not. One says there is moksha; another says there is not. One says after death there is birth again and again; another says there is not. Both positions are of the same kind; there is no pure doubt here. Pure doubt means: I will fall into neither belief nor disbelief; I will keep my mind free. I will inquire, ask, strive to know — and until something becomes clear as truth before my vivek, I will neither accept nor reject it. Doubt means freedom from both belief and disbelief. Without doubt, vivek will not awaken. The second element for awakening vivek: self-observation. Let there be the soil of doubt, then fertilize it with self-observation. What does self-observation mean? We all observe others a great deal; hardly anyone observes himself. We praise and we condemn — but always others. Our mind is continuously engaged with others. The tendency to think about oneself, to observe oneself with detachment, rarely happens. And where it does not happen, one almost certainly lives the very things he condemns in others. He curses others for certain faults, and nurtures the same faults within — without even knowing what is happening, because he never turns back to look at himself. He keeps looking at others. Without self-looking, how will vivek awaken? Vivek does not awaken by looking at others. First, the one who cannot yet see himself — how will he see another? He who cannot decide concerning himself — how will he decide concerning another? One not familiar even with the life within — how will he know the inner of the other by looking at the outer? What appears outside in the other is not his inner. If we look at ourselves: what we display outside — is that our heart? The ‘I love you’ we speak, the ‘I respect you’ we speak — are those truly our inner feelings? Or are we deceiving? Are we constructing a personality of hypocrisy all around — an acting? Outside is false; something else is true within. But we take the other’s outside as true and begin to judge — while we cannot see his inside. So to know the other, first know yourself. And see the strange fact: why are we so eager to know others? Why do we peep through the cracks of other people’s walls? Why do we wish to lift other people’s garments? Is it not that by doing so we avoid looking at ourselves? Just so. We wish to avoid ourselves because to look within is very painful. So we never look at ourselves; we create a self-image — ‘I am like this’ — and then look at others, constantly trying to see them as lower — in our mind, in our words, in our thought — so that by making everyone low, we may feel high. The person who keeps seeing the faults of others becomes assured of one thing: that he himself is not bad. Bertrand Russell once said: if there is a theft in a house, the one who first begins to shout the loudest that theft is a very bad thing — take it for certain, a deep thief dwells in him. It is true. If a theft happens here and someone loudly condemns theft, abuses thieves, makes a great commotion and runs about to catch the thief — know well, he is the thief. He creates this atmosphere around himself so that you fall into the illusion that one thing at least is certain: he did not steal. How can one who condemns theft so much be a thief? We try to build around us an environment opposite to what we are within. This becomes self-deceptive. One who would awaken vivek cannot indulge in self-deception, cannot cheat himself. Before peeping at the doors of others, he will search his own door. I have heard: one morning a man, around fifty, rushed to a psychiatrist’s door and said in agitation, ‘It seems my father has gone mad.’ ‘What?’ the psychiatrist asked. ‘How do you know?’ ‘He is eighty,’ the man said, ‘and he sits in the bathtub for hours, playing with dolls. At eighty — is this not a sign of insanity? Sitting in the bathroom, in the tub, playing with dolls — surely madness!’ The psychiatrist said: ‘Even so, it is not very dangerous. What harm is there? It pleases him. Let the old man enjoy himself. He doesn’t harm anyone, break anything, beat anyone. He sits quietly in the bathroom and plays with dolls. Let him play.’ ‘You say there is no harm!’ the man cried, tears in his eyes. ‘The dolls are mine; because of him I cannot sit in the tub at all. Those dolls are mine, and he is ruining them. Surely he is mad.’ He could see that his father was mad, but not that if the dolls are his, perhaps his own mind is not in a very healthy condition either. To see others’ madness is easy. Only the one is not mad who becomes capable of seeing his own madness. Let me repeat: only the one is not mad who is capable of seeing his own madness. All the rest, expert at seeing others’ madness, are mad. The first sign of a non-mad, healthy person: he first recognizes his own insanities, his own mistakes, the flaws of his life. The one who can see his mistakes, his defects, his crazinesses — he has taken the first step toward freedom. He will be able to be free of them tomorrow. The deeper self-observation goes, the more consciousness develops within. Why? Because self-observation is arduous, a great tapas — an austerity. To see one’s own mistakes is a great austerity, for to see them one must learn to stand a little apart from oneself. Only then can observation happen. To stand a little apart from oneself — to see oneself as we see others — this practice develops the power of seeing; that power is called vivek. The power to be a witness, the power of observation — that is vivek. When someone stands apart from himself and looks — where are my insanities, where my faults, where is my life full of delusions, where hypocrisy, where untruth, where violence, where ego — when he stays awake to these, sees and understands, vivek begins to awaken. And the wonder is: as vivek awakens, defects begin to wither by themselves. Where the light of vivek shines, the darkness of fault cannot remain long; it dissolves. Gurdjieff, a fakir of Greece, writes in his autobiography: my father lay on his deathbed; I was fourteen. He called me close and whispered: ‘If I give you advice, you won’t take offense?’ A very wise man — for advisers never ask such a thing; they give advice freely. The thing most given and least taken in the world is advice. That old man of ninety asked the boy: ‘If I advise you, will you never be angry with me?’ The boy said: ‘What are you saying? Tell me!’ The old man said: ‘I have no wealth to give you, no fame, no position. But through experience I have learned one thing; I want to give it to you: learn to see yourself from a little distance. If someone on the road abuses you, do not answer quickly. Come home, stand apart and see: is what he said perhaps true? If it is true, go and thank him for his kindness in telling you something you did not know. If it is not true, forget it — why bother with what is not true?’ Gurdjieff writes: that very night my father died. Thereafter I kept this in mind. Quarrels never came. People abused me often; I told them: ‘Friend, wait. I will go home, think, and tell you.’ When I went home and looked, I found: no abuse can be as bad as I am. So I went back to thank them: ‘Many thanks. And remember: whenever you feel like abusing, do not hide it from me — give it to me.’ As self-observation deepens, vivek awakens in a different dimension. But our self-observation sleeps. We never look: what are we doing? What is happening? If someone tells us, we stand ready to fight. Remember: if you stand up to fight upon hearing an abuse, be sure you deserved it — otherwise you would not be ready to fight. You become eager to prove the abuse wrong only because deep within you know it is right and, if you do not prove it wrong, the world will know. Whenever you strive to prove that some fault is not in you, understand quietly — the fault surely is there; otherwise you would not feel the need. Bhikshu Bhikhan, in a village of Rajasthan, stayed four months. A man named Asoji came daily to listen after closing his shop — and fell asleep. Few remain awake while listening; it is difficult. Keeping the eyes open is one thing; being awake is another. Asoji was simple — he even closed his eyes. The village’s richest man, he sat in front; a wealthy man cannot sit behind. Other sadhus had come as well, but who would tell the wealthy man he is sleeping? They tolerated. Bhikhan must have been a little troublesome; he objected. One evening he said: ‘Asoji, you are sleeping?’ The man opened his eyes quickly: ‘No!’ Who accepts that he sleeps? Again he slept. Bhikhan said: ‘Asoji, asleep again?’ He opened his eyes: ‘No! Why do you keep saying I’m asleep?’ He was angry — naturally. A little later he slept again. This time Bhikhan asked something else: ‘Asoji, are you alive?’ Asoji, half-asleep, thought the same question had come — ‘Asleep?’ He said: ‘No, who says so — not at all!’ Bhikhan said: ‘Now you are caught; certainly you were asleep. I asked, “Are you alive?” and you say, “Not at all.”’ We are not ready to accept. If another says so, it becomes very hard. But the one who practices self-observation, who continually considers himself, will be grateful to the one who says, ‘You are asleep.’ He will thank him: ‘I was surely asleep, and you were kind to wake me. Who wakes whom? Who has any use for it?’ Not only will he accept when others point out faults; he will search for them himself. Remember: faults we hide begin to grow within like seeds buried in soil — sprouting, becoming plants, producing thousands of seeds. In the field of the mind, faults we conceal grow; we protect them — if someone says, ‘Look, such and such a seed is sprouting in you,’ we say: ‘What lies you speak!’ We build fences, walls; we defend. Then one seed becomes a thousand. Whatever you wish to destroy in life, hiding it is most dangerous. Open it — at least before yourself. Self-observation means: a constant effort to know oneself as one truly is. Self-delusion means: a constant effort to present oneself as one is not. None of us wishes to know himself as he is. We want to show ourselves otherwise, to tell a different story — and our culture has nourished this deception thoroughly. In London, a photographer had a sign: ‘Three kinds of portraits are taken here. One, as you are — five rupees. Two, as you think you are — ten rupees. Three, as you think God should have made you — fifteen rupees.’ A villager, for the first time, went to have a photo taken. He read the sign and was puzzled: ‘I thought there was only one kind of photo, because I am only one kind. How can there be three?’ He asked: ‘Do people ever come for the first kind?’ The photographer said: ‘You are the first who is even considering it. Till now everyone takes the second or the third. The second, if short of money; otherwise the third. No one asks for the first. And if by mistake we take the first, he becomes angry — “This looks nothing like me.” So even if someone asks for the first, we give him the second — then he is happy.’ The villager said: ‘But I have come for my own photo, not someone else’s. However bad or good, I want the one that is as I am.’ Self-observation means: a constant effort to have the first kind of portrait. To know ourselves as we are. Why? Because there is a mysterious law of life: the one who knows himself as he is will very soon become as he wishes to be. When faults appear clearly, we begin to be free of them. When diseases come before our eyes, we begin to heal. When the dark corners of the mind become known, we begin to light lamps there. For any revolution, for the awakening of vivek, it is essential to engage in knowing oneself as one is. Hence I said: self-observation is the second formula; only then will vivek awaken. The third formula: the renunciation of moorchha — unconsciousness. We give up many things: wealth, greed, anger. I say: you will not be able to leave them. Leave wealth — still you won’t have left. A sannyasin once told me: ‘I have kicked millions.’ I asked: ‘When did you kick them?’ ‘Twenty years ago.’ I said: ‘The kick did not land. Otherwise the memory would not last twenty years. The kick fell short; the money still stands where it was.’ When he had money, he walked proud: ‘I have millions.’ Now he still walks proud: ‘I kicked millions.’ The same illusion born of money remains. No one can leave money like this. The unconscious mind leaves wealth only to cling to renunciation; leaves enjoyment only to grasp asceticism; leaves householding only to cling to sannyas. The clinging continues. Because the mind is unconscious, nothing real is left by leaving. The unconscious cannot leave greed. In a village, a sannyasin told people: ‘Until you leave greed you cannot attain moksha.’ I asked him: ‘If they leave greed in the hope of moksha, is that the end of greed or its extension? To leave greed in order to get moksha — this is only an expansion of greed. It is leaving greed for the sake of greed.’ Our mind, if unconscious, cannot truly leave anything. If it becomes conscious, it cannot cling to anything. Therefore the central formula is not leaving this or that; it is the renunciation of unconsciousness. The mind must drop its sleep; life should be amoorchhit — de-hypnotized, awake. You will say: we live awake. I say: no — we live in moorchha. If I push you hard, you fill with anger. Are you angry with awareness or in sleep? For a moment later comes repentance. You feel: ‘What have I done? I should not have done that. What a mistake!’ Where were you a moment before? If you can repent now, you were absent then — you were not present. When anger seizes you, you are absent. I say to you: if you become present, anger will dissolve in that very instant. You and anger cannot stand together. Never has it happened, never can it. As soon as you become aware, anger goes. A friend of mine was tormented by anger. He asked: ‘What should I do?’ I said: ‘Do nothing. Keep a slip in your pocket with the words: “Now anger is arising.” Whenever anger comes, take it out, read it, put it back. Nothing else.’ He asked: ‘What will happen?’ I said: ‘Don’t ask. Come after two or three months.’ He returned: ‘Strange. As soon as my hand goes toward the pocket, anger begins to subside; I become aware: anger is arising. Of that anger for which I have often repented, suffered, as soon as awareness dawns that it is coming, it begins to fade.’ If we become continually aware of life and of whatever is happening, all that is bad becomes impossible — because the door through which the bad enters is moorchha, unawareness. The bad cannot be ‘left’; but if awareness comes, the bad cannot be grasped. Thus the central revolution of life turns around moorchha or its absence. There are only two kinds of people: moorchhit or amoorchhit — asleep or awake. So strive to awaken, continually. Life gives the opportunity twenty-four hours a day. Begin now. The one who postpones to tomorrow is weaving sleep. ‘Tomorrow I will begin’ — that is sleep talking, for there is no certainty of tomorrow. He is asleep if he believes there will be a tomorrow, that he will be here. Therefore, one who would begin awakening must begin this very moment. In the little things, be aware. Try. Try once to be consciously angry. If you succeed, you are a marvel — no one has succeeded yet. Consciously you cannot be angry, cannot cause hurt, cannot be violent. Consciously none of the things we call sin can be done. So I define sin as: that which can be done only in unawareness; and virtue as that which cannot be done in unawareness. The third formula is: amoorchhit living — conscious conduct. I have said two already: the soil of doubt, the manure of self-observation, and the rain of conscious living. If these three are present, the seeds of vivek that lie in everyone will sprout. When vivek awakens, an inner discipline is born — a discipline that arises from within, not from without. There is a discipline imposed from outside — false. There is a discipline that springs from within — wondrous, beautiful. Outer discipline cripples the personality, makes it ugly; nothing is more disfiguring. But the discipline that comes from within — based on these three formulas, where vivek awakens — makes the personality beautiful, fills the life-breath with music. Then a spontaneous conduct is born. Moment to moment we live in awareness, with vivek; and only what is right happens through us. The unrighteous does not happen. The inauspicious needs no suppression; the auspicious needs no cultivation. The auspicious comes; the inauspicious does not arise. One small story, then I will complete. And then we will sit for meditation. A prince took initiation with Buddha. The very next day Buddha sent him for alms to the house of a laywoman. On the way and returning, two or three events happened that disturbed him. On the way he thought: ‘Foods I love will no longer be available.’ But at the laywoman’s house, he found on the plate exactly the foods he loved. He was amazed. He thought: coincidence. He ate and thought: ‘After food I used to rest for two hours; today I will have to go back in the sun.’ At that very moment the laywoman said: ‘Bhikkhu, it would be a great kindness if you rested here after your meal.’ He was even more astonished: as he thought it, she said it. Still he thought: coincidence. A mat was laid; he lay down. As he lay, he thought: ‘Now I have no shade, no roof, no bed. The sky is the roof, the earth the bed.’ Just then the laywoman returned: ‘Bhante, why think thus? No one’s bed, no one’s shade.’ Now coincidence was hard to accept. He sat up: ‘I am in wonder! Do my thoughts reach you? Can you read my inner?’ She said: ‘Certainly. First I began by observing my own thoughts. Observing, my thoughts thinned and dissolved; the mind became without thought. Now, the thoughts of whoever is near appear in observation.’ The bhikkhu trembled and stood up: ‘Allow me to go!’ His hands and feet shook. ‘Why so afraid?’ she asked. ‘What is there to fear?’ But he did not remain. He returned to Buddha: ‘Forgive me. I cannot go again to that door for alms.’ ‘Was there some mistake?’ Buddha asked. ‘No mistake; no fault. Much respect, and food I loved. But that laywoman reads others’ thoughts. It is dangerous. Seeing such a beautiful young woman, passions arose in me; she must have read those too. How can I go? How stand before her?’ Buddha said: ‘You must go there. If such forgiveness was needed, you should not have become a monk. I sent you knowingly, and until I stop you, you will keep going — a month or two, a year or two — continuously; this will be your sadhana. But go with awareness. Watch what thoughts arise, what desires come — and do nothing. Don’t fight. Go awake. Watch within.’ He went the next day. Imagine you are going in his place. The laywoman reads your mind; she is beautiful, magnetic. If she did not read, or you did not know, your mind would wander as usual. But today? He walked in great danger, watching his mind. For the first time in his life he walked awake. As the house came near, awareness increased, as if a lamp were being lit within; things became clear; thoughts could be seen circling. As he climbed the steps, a silence descended within; awareness became complete. Even the lifting of a foot was known; the breath going in and out was in his consciousness. The slightest ripple of thought, the slightest wave of desire, became visible. He entered the house; the mind grew quiet. He ate. He returned. That day he came dancing. Falling at Buddha’s feet he said: ‘A miracle. As I approached and became alert, thoughts dissolved, desires thinned. When I entered the house there was total silence within — no thought, no desire — the mind calm, like a spotless mirror.’ Buddha said: ‘For this I sent you. From tomorrow there is no need to go there. Now live in this very way — as if all can read your thoughts. Walk as if whoever is before you can see within. Walk within and remain awake. As awareness grows, thoughts and desires will wither. On the day awareness is complete, no stain will remain in your life — an inner revolution happens.’ I call this awakening of awareness the awakening of vivek. I have told you three formulas. Reflect on them. Let doubt come; do not be afraid — let the soil of right doubt form. Practice self-observation; turn your eyes into your own life; hide nothing — uncover everything, become utterly naked to yourself. And third: experiment with amoorchhit living. Cultivate awareness; drop unconsciousness. Then vivek will awaken. And when vivek awakens, know that the greatest blessed moment of life is near. Tomorrow morning we will speak of the third thing. We have spoken of two: freedom from faith, and the awakening of vivek. Tomorrow we will speak of the descent of Samadhi — how Samadhi comes down. Whatever questions have arisen from these two, we will discuss them at night. Now we will sit for the morning meditation. Please spread out a little.
Osho's Commentary
Before we enter this inquiry, one primary thing must be understood. Only those powers within a human being awaken and become active for which life throws up a challenge. Powers for which no challenge arises remain asleep. If a person does not have to use his eyes for years, even the already-awake power of sight will fall asleep. If for years he does not have to walk, even the legs will become crippled. Life inhibits the powers which we do not actively use; conversely, life also brings forth powers precisely where a challenge appears.
Science, too, supports this. In animals, in creatures, in birds, in human beings, only those powers have awakened and become active for which life posed a challenge. Where challenges are absent, where there are no urgings, there remains no reason for powers to awaken. In dense forests the trees rise very high; in Africa they begin to touch the sky. In such thickets, unless they grow upward, trees cannot breathe — their very life must be threatened. So they keep rising to find air and light. Where there are no dense forests, trees remain small. In deserts, camels lengthened their necks, otherwise living there would have been impossible. The harsher the desert and the rarer the foliage near the ground, the longer the camel’s neck has become. The giraffe too lengthened his neck, for the forests in which he lives have very tall trees.
Zoology will say: we develop only those powers without which life would be imperiled. Psychologists say much of the human brain lies dormant; a very small portion works, the rest remains unused. Perhaps there has been no need; perhaps no challenge arose for those parts; perhaps life has not yet given them the occasion to awaken and become active.
I say all this first so you can understand: the power of vivek is present in every human being, yet unless we create the challenge for vivek, it will remain asleep. Faith hinders; belief obstructs — because once belief is adopted there remains no reason for vivek to awaken. Therefore faith becomes a barrier to the awakening of vivek, and exactly its opposite state of mind becomes the ally. Doubt — right doubt — cooperates in awakening vivek. Blessed are those in whose lives samyak doubt is born. Why? Because under the intense pressure of right doubt, vivek cannot remain asleep; it must awaken. Doubt refuses to accept answers from the outside, and when we are not willing to believe anything outer, only one path remains for consent and contentment: that the answer must arise from within.
When all answers from outside begin to look futile, when all scriptures appear meaningless, when no outer refuge is visible and faith finds no foundation outside — in that foundationless state of mind, when all props have been lost, the energy asleep in the life-breath awakens and begins to answer from within. Before that, no answers come from within; why should they? They arise only when outer answers have failed. As long as we are chained by belief, there is no reason for answers to rise from the inner.
Only a few manage to awaken their own vivek — those who gradually free their minds from all outward answers and solutions. In that state, in deep and sharp doubt, the inner vivek is aroused. As when someone chases you with a gun, your ultimate strength to run is called forth; you run with your whole energy.
Once it happened: in Japan a king loved one of his servants very much. The servant deserved it. The king took him to wars, kept him with himself in the palace, made him a companion on journeys — never treating him as a servant, but loving him as a friend. The servant was young, handsome, healthy, intelligent. The queen fell in love with him. The king came to know. He was deeply hurt. The simple thing would have been to pick up the sword and behead the servant. Nothing prevented him. Yet because he had loved this servant like a friend, he wished to give him, even at the last, a friend’s chance.
He called the servant: ‘Friend, I could cut off your head. But I have loved you, so I will give you a chance. Take this sword, I’ll take another, and we shall fight. Whoever dies — finished; whoever lives — the queen shall be his, and this kingdom as well. As a friend, I must give you this chance.’
The servant said: ‘Your gesture is lofty, but meaningless. I have never even held a sword; I don’t know how to grip it. The fight will be only in name. I will die; you will be praised; my life will be lost. Better you simply cut off my head. There is no point — I cannot even hold a sword. And you...’ The king was the most skilled swordsman of the time, unmatched in the land. No one dared face him. How could a servant who had never lifted a sword defeat him?
Yet the king insisted: ‘My conscience says I must give you a chance.’
It was an order; the servant had to stand with a sword. The king had entered many tournaments and always triumphed. He could not imagine what happened that day: it became difficult to defeat the servant. The servant had no fear of death — death was certain. He had no way to save himself and he did not know how to wield the sword. But in such peril, in such danger, all the energies of his life awakened. The ordinary servant became extraordinary. The sword in his hand began to prove dangerous. He was swinging it without techniques, without the learned thrusts and parries — yet because there was no way out, all his energies had gathered. The king began to retreat; each stroke pushed him back. The king became frightened — never had he faced such a moment. He had fought the most skillful of swordsmen; here was an unskilled man — and yet the unskilled advanced. The king’s own life was at stake. He cried, ‘Stop!’ and said, ‘I am defeated. This is beyond my imagination.’
He relinquished the kingdom, leaving wealth and wife in the servant’s hands, and went to his master. Later he asked a fakir: ‘What happened? How was this possible?’
The fakir said: ‘It was inevitable. If you had asked me earlier I would have told you. When life is in such danger, all the reserved forces of one’s being are engaged. At that time, to defeat the person is very difficult. Your life was not in danger — you were secure in your skill. His life was wholly at stake; his entire being was on the line. That all his strength awakened is no wonder. And when the whole strength awakens, an ordinary human becomes astonishingly extraordinary.’
The same is true of vivek. It awakens only when doubt creates total danger. Those who avoid the danger of doubt will never awaken their vivek. Belief provides a certain security. For thousands of years our parents and their parents believed; we also believe — it gives safety. So many cannot be wrong. For millennia, millions have believed; surely they were not deluded. Thus we feel safe. When such a crowd proclaims something to be true, we join the crowd. Within its numbers we find security. We are not left shelterless, not alone — so many are with us. The crowd gives strength, courage, support. The danger in life seems less; we feel safe. And for the one who has secured himself thus, there is no possibility for vivek to awaken. For that awakening, insecurity is needed, danger is needed, a situation of challenge all around is needed. Only then does something within happen; only then do the sleeping parts awaken.
But we stand within the circle of belief and become thoroughly safe. Hence we seek: how old is such and such a book? If it is two thousand years old, it gives some security; if five thousand, more security — for what people have believed for five thousand years must be true. And if someone also proves that the book itself is authored by God, then even greater security — because then there is no question of doubt. Therefore all the religious people of the world try to prove that their own book is God-given. This authenticity is an effort to end their own doubt — to feel completely at ease that now there remains nothing to question. To stand utterly outside danger, to have perfect security — this is why religious people fight. Hindus say: the Vedas are made by God. Muslims say: impossible — God sent the Quran. Jains: no, these are not God-made; they are the utterances of the Tirthankara — what Mahavira said, that alone — the words of the Omniscient. Buddhists: the words of Buddha alone are true; nothing else is true. They fight because their purpose is not really to know which book is God’s. Their sole purpose is this: once it is proved that a certain book is God’s, their mind can relax. And the mind that has relaxed dies; its inquiry ends. It has found a prop; inquiry stops.
Why do we insist so fiercely that Mahavira is omniscient, Buddha is omniscient — they know all, and know exactly? If someone says: no, in this or that Buddha was wrong, we are ready to kill or die. If someone says Krishna erred in such and such verse of the Gita, we are ready to fight. Why such insistence that they must be right? Not because we care that they be right, but because if they become suspect, we will be in trouble. If they are suspect, we must doubt; then where is the foundation of our belief, where our security? Doubt will arise.
Thus, even on absurd points we refused to question. In the Bible it was said that the earth is flat and the sun moves around the earth. When Western scientists first discovered that the earth is round, priests were enraged. ‘Impossible,’ they said. Evidence for roundness was clear, yet they insisted, ‘The Bible says flat, so round it cannot be.’ They rejected the scientist’s proof. They arrested Galileo: ‘We will cut off your head; say the earth is flat!’ Galileo said: ‘What trouble are you in about the earth’s shape? What is it to you?’ But there was a concern: if one saying of Jesus is wrong, then the other sayings become suspect. That was the danger. Who cares whether the earth is round or flat? The danger was this: if even one saying is wrong, then doubt arises that if a man can err once he can err again; the whole position becomes doubtful. And then our belief trembles.
So such foolishness persisted for centuries. In Greece, up to the time of Aristotle, it was believed that women have fewer teeth than men. How could women be equal to men? They must be inferior; therefore fewer teeth. Aristotle, so intelligent and thoughtful, wrote in his book that women have fewer teeth. Astonishing! He had two wives — could he not have counted? He did not. The old religion of Greece said women have fewer teeth. For a thousand years after Aristotle’s death this was still believed. In truth, there are many women, often slightly more than men. In Greece there were many more; where there are wars, men die, women remain. Yet no one thought to count. No doubt arose.
Thousands of such stupidities continue for thousands of years. Why are we afraid to expose them? Because if one statement of the ancestors proves false, we fear that others will also fall. Then doubt will arise within, and we will have to inquire — we will be in difficulty.
Let me tell you: the one whose mind does not fill with doubt, who does not pass through the pain of doubt, who is not singed in the fire of doubt — in him vivek never awakens. Vivek awakens when doubt begins to hurt, to cause anguish, to create anxiety; when doubt pierces one’s being from all sides and there remains no possibility of believing — that these Vedas are God-made, that this Quran is sent by the Divine, that this Bible is authored by God’s own son — when nowhere remains any support for belief, when question marks stand everywhere, when no security is visible, then the deeply reserved force within begins to stir; that power, long protected for times of danger, awakens — and vivek is born.
Other than vivek, nothing is God-given. All other scriptures are man-made, and they carry the same limitations and errors that are natural to man. Only one power is not man-made: vivek — the capacity in the life-breath to know, to discern, to understand. That capacity alone can be called divine; everything else is human construct, thinking, searching, probing — and hence full of contradictions and quarrels.
This power of vivek sleeping within — the first formula for its awakening is: right doubt. Why do I say ‘right’? I could simply say doubt. I say ‘right doubt’ to prevent doubt from degenerating into disbelief. There is a fundamental difference between doubt and disbelief. Disbelief stands opposite belief; doubt is not the opposite of belief. Doubt stands opposite both belief and disbelief. If we draw a triangle, belief and disbelief occupy two sides; at the third angle stands doubt. Doubt is something else entirely — the primary state of a scientific mind. Disbelief is a mere reaction to belief, a reshaping of the same thing.
One person believes ‘God is’; another believes ‘God is not’. One says there is Atman; another says there is not. One says there is moksha; another says there is not. One says after death there is birth again and again; another says there is not. Both positions are of the same kind; there is no pure doubt here. Pure doubt means: I will fall into neither belief nor disbelief; I will keep my mind free. I will inquire, ask, strive to know — and until something becomes clear as truth before my vivek, I will neither accept nor reject it. Doubt means freedom from both belief and disbelief. Without doubt, vivek will not awaken.
The second element for awakening vivek: self-observation. Let there be the soil of doubt, then fertilize it with self-observation.
What does self-observation mean? We all observe others a great deal; hardly anyone observes himself. We praise and we condemn — but always others. Our mind is continuously engaged with others. The tendency to think about oneself, to observe oneself with detachment, rarely happens. And where it does not happen, one almost certainly lives the very things he condemns in others. He curses others for certain faults, and nurtures the same faults within — without even knowing what is happening, because he never turns back to look at himself. He keeps looking at others. Without self-looking, how will vivek awaken?
Vivek does not awaken by looking at others. First, the one who cannot yet see himself — how will he see another? He who cannot decide concerning himself — how will he decide concerning another? One not familiar even with the life within — how will he know the inner of the other by looking at the outer? What appears outside in the other is not his inner. If we look at ourselves: what we display outside — is that our heart? The ‘I love you’ we speak, the ‘I respect you’ we speak — are those truly our inner feelings? Or are we deceiving? Are we constructing a personality of hypocrisy all around — an acting?
Outside is false; something else is true within. But we take the other’s outside as true and begin to judge — while we cannot see his inside. So to know the other, first know yourself. And see the strange fact: why are we so eager to know others? Why do we peep through the cracks of other people’s walls? Why do we wish to lift other people’s garments? Is it not that by doing so we avoid looking at ourselves?
Just so. We wish to avoid ourselves because to look within is very painful. So we never look at ourselves; we create a self-image — ‘I am like this’ — and then look at others, constantly trying to see them as lower — in our mind, in our words, in our thought — so that by making everyone low, we may feel high. The person who keeps seeing the faults of others becomes assured of one thing: that he himself is not bad.
Bertrand Russell once said: if there is a theft in a house, the one who first begins to shout the loudest that theft is a very bad thing — take it for certain, a deep thief dwells in him. It is true. If a theft happens here and someone loudly condemns theft, abuses thieves, makes a great commotion and runs about to catch the thief — know well, he is the thief. He creates this atmosphere around himself so that you fall into the illusion that one thing at least is certain: he did not steal. How can one who condemns theft so much be a thief?
We try to build around us an environment opposite to what we are within. This becomes self-deceptive. One who would awaken vivek cannot indulge in self-deception, cannot cheat himself. Before peeping at the doors of others, he will search his own door.
I have heard: one morning a man, around fifty, rushed to a psychiatrist’s door and said in agitation, ‘It seems my father has gone mad.’
‘What?’ the psychiatrist asked. ‘How do you know?’
‘He is eighty,’ the man said, ‘and he sits in the bathtub for hours, playing with dolls. At eighty — is this not a sign of insanity? Sitting in the bathroom, in the tub, playing with dolls — surely madness!’
The psychiatrist said: ‘Even so, it is not very dangerous. What harm is there? It pleases him. Let the old man enjoy himself. He doesn’t harm anyone, break anything, beat anyone. He sits quietly in the bathroom and plays with dolls. Let him play.’
‘You say there is no harm!’ the man cried, tears in his eyes. ‘The dolls are mine; because of him I cannot sit in the tub at all. Those dolls are mine, and he is ruining them. Surely he is mad.’
He could see that his father was mad, but not that if the dolls are his, perhaps his own mind is not in a very healthy condition either. To see others’ madness is easy. Only the one is not mad who becomes capable of seeing his own madness. Let me repeat: only the one is not mad who is capable of seeing his own madness. All the rest, expert at seeing others’ madness, are mad.
The first sign of a non-mad, healthy person: he first recognizes his own insanities, his own mistakes, the flaws of his life. The one who can see his mistakes, his defects, his crazinesses — he has taken the first step toward freedom. He will be able to be free of them tomorrow.
The deeper self-observation goes, the more consciousness develops within. Why? Because self-observation is arduous, a great tapas — an austerity. To see one’s own mistakes is a great austerity, for to see them one must learn to stand a little apart from oneself. Only then can observation happen. To stand a little apart from oneself — to see oneself as we see others — this practice develops the power of seeing; that power is called vivek. The power to be a witness, the power of observation — that is vivek.
When someone stands apart from himself and looks — where are my insanities, where my faults, where is my life full of delusions, where hypocrisy, where untruth, where violence, where ego — when he stays awake to these, sees and understands, vivek begins to awaken. And the wonder is: as vivek awakens, defects begin to wither by themselves. Where the light of vivek shines, the darkness of fault cannot remain long; it dissolves.
Gurdjieff, a fakir of Greece, writes in his autobiography: my father lay on his deathbed; I was fourteen. He called me close and whispered: ‘If I give you advice, you won’t take offense?’ A very wise man — for advisers never ask such a thing; they give advice freely. The thing most given and least taken in the world is advice. That old man of ninety asked the boy: ‘If I advise you, will you never be angry with me?’ The boy said: ‘What are you saying? Tell me!’ The old man said: ‘I have no wealth to give you, no fame, no position. But through experience I have learned one thing; I want to give it to you: learn to see yourself from a little distance. If someone on the road abuses you, do not answer quickly. Come home, stand apart and see: is what he said perhaps true? If it is true, go and thank him for his kindness in telling you something you did not know. If it is not true, forget it — why bother with what is not true?’
Gurdjieff writes: that very night my father died. Thereafter I kept this in mind. Quarrels never came. People abused me often; I told them: ‘Friend, wait. I will go home, think, and tell you.’ When I went home and looked, I found: no abuse can be as bad as I am. So I went back to thank them: ‘Many thanks. And remember: whenever you feel like abusing, do not hide it from me — give it to me.’ As self-observation deepens, vivek awakens in a different dimension.
But our self-observation sleeps. We never look: what are we doing? What is happening? If someone tells us, we stand ready to fight. Remember: if you stand up to fight upon hearing an abuse, be sure you deserved it — otherwise you would not be ready to fight. You become eager to prove the abuse wrong only because deep within you know it is right and, if you do not prove it wrong, the world will know.
Whenever you strive to prove that some fault is not in you, understand quietly — the fault surely is there; otherwise you would not feel the need. Bhikshu Bhikhan, in a village of Rajasthan, stayed four months. A man named Asoji came daily to listen after closing his shop — and fell asleep. Few remain awake while listening; it is difficult. Keeping the eyes open is one thing; being awake is another. Asoji was simple — he even closed his eyes. The village’s richest man, he sat in front; a wealthy man cannot sit behind. Other sadhus had come as well, but who would tell the wealthy man he is sleeping? They tolerated. Bhikhan must have been a little troublesome; he objected. One evening he said: ‘Asoji, you are sleeping?’ The man opened his eyes quickly: ‘No!’ Who accepts that he sleeps? Again he slept. Bhikhan said: ‘Asoji, asleep again?’ He opened his eyes: ‘No! Why do you keep saying I’m asleep?’ He was angry — naturally. A little later he slept again. This time Bhikhan asked something else: ‘Asoji, are you alive?’ Asoji, half-asleep, thought the same question had come — ‘Asleep?’ He said: ‘No, who says so — not at all!’ Bhikhan said: ‘Now you are caught; certainly you were asleep. I asked, “Are you alive?” and you say, “Not at all.”’ We are not ready to accept. If another says so, it becomes very hard.
But the one who practices self-observation, who continually considers himself, will be grateful to the one who says, ‘You are asleep.’ He will thank him: ‘I was surely asleep, and you were kind to wake me. Who wakes whom? Who has any use for it?’ Not only will he accept when others point out faults; he will search for them himself.
Remember: faults we hide begin to grow within like seeds buried in soil — sprouting, becoming plants, producing thousands of seeds. In the field of the mind, faults we conceal grow; we protect them — if someone says, ‘Look, such and such a seed is sprouting in you,’ we say: ‘What lies you speak!’ We build fences, walls; we defend. Then one seed becomes a thousand. Whatever you wish to destroy in life, hiding it is most dangerous. Open it — at least before yourself. Self-observation means: a constant effort to know oneself as one truly is. Self-delusion means: a constant effort to present oneself as one is not.
None of us wishes to know himself as he is. We want to show ourselves otherwise, to tell a different story — and our culture has nourished this deception thoroughly. In London, a photographer had a sign: ‘Three kinds of portraits are taken here. One, as you are — five rupees. Two, as you think you are — ten rupees. Three, as you think God should have made you — fifteen rupees.’ A villager, for the first time, went to have a photo taken. He read the sign and was puzzled: ‘I thought there was only one kind of photo, because I am only one kind. How can there be three?’ He asked: ‘Do people ever come for the first kind?’ The photographer said: ‘You are the first who is even considering it. Till now everyone takes the second or the third. The second, if short of money; otherwise the third. No one asks for the first. And if by mistake we take the first, he becomes angry — “This looks nothing like me.” So even if someone asks for the first, we give him the second — then he is happy.’ The villager said: ‘But I have come for my own photo, not someone else’s. However bad or good, I want the one that is as I am.’
Self-observation means: a constant effort to have the first kind of portrait. To know ourselves as we are. Why? Because there is a mysterious law of life: the one who knows himself as he is will very soon become as he wishes to be. When faults appear clearly, we begin to be free of them. When diseases come before our eyes, we begin to heal. When the dark corners of the mind become known, we begin to light lamps there. For any revolution, for the awakening of vivek, it is essential to engage in knowing oneself as one is. Hence I said: self-observation is the second formula; only then will vivek awaken.
The third formula: the renunciation of moorchha — unconsciousness. We give up many things: wealth, greed, anger. I say: you will not be able to leave them. Leave wealth — still you won’t have left. A sannyasin once told me: ‘I have kicked millions.’ I asked: ‘When did you kick them?’ ‘Twenty years ago.’ I said: ‘The kick did not land. Otherwise the memory would not last twenty years. The kick fell short; the money still stands where it was.’ When he had money, he walked proud: ‘I have millions.’ Now he still walks proud: ‘I kicked millions.’ The same illusion born of money remains. No one can leave money like this. The unconscious mind leaves wealth only to cling to renunciation; leaves enjoyment only to grasp asceticism; leaves householding only to cling to sannyas. The clinging continues. Because the mind is unconscious, nothing real is left by leaving. The unconscious cannot leave greed. In a village, a sannyasin told people: ‘Until you leave greed you cannot attain moksha.’ I asked him: ‘If they leave greed in the hope of moksha, is that the end of greed or its extension? To leave greed in order to get moksha — this is only an expansion of greed. It is leaving greed for the sake of greed.’ Our mind, if unconscious, cannot truly leave anything. If it becomes conscious, it cannot cling to anything. Therefore the central formula is not leaving this or that; it is the renunciation of unconsciousness. The mind must drop its sleep; life should be amoorchhit — de-hypnotized, awake.
You will say: we live awake. I say: no — we live in moorchha. If I push you hard, you fill with anger. Are you angry with awareness or in sleep? For a moment later comes repentance. You feel: ‘What have I done? I should not have done that. What a mistake!’ Where were you a moment before? If you can repent now, you were absent then — you were not present. When anger seizes you, you are absent. I say to you: if you become present, anger will dissolve in that very instant. You and anger cannot stand together. Never has it happened, never can it. As soon as you become aware, anger goes.
A friend of mine was tormented by anger. He asked: ‘What should I do?’ I said: ‘Do nothing. Keep a slip in your pocket with the words: “Now anger is arising.” Whenever anger comes, take it out, read it, put it back. Nothing else.’ He asked: ‘What will happen?’ I said: ‘Don’t ask. Come after two or three months.’ He returned: ‘Strange. As soon as my hand goes toward the pocket, anger begins to subside; I become aware: anger is arising. Of that anger for which I have often repented, suffered, as soon as awareness dawns that it is coming, it begins to fade.’
If we become continually aware of life and of whatever is happening, all that is bad becomes impossible — because the door through which the bad enters is moorchha, unawareness. The bad cannot be ‘left’; but if awareness comes, the bad cannot be grasped. Thus the central revolution of life turns around moorchha or its absence. There are only two kinds of people: moorchhit or amoorchhit — asleep or awake. So strive to awaken, continually. Life gives the opportunity twenty-four hours a day. Begin now. The one who postpones to tomorrow is weaving sleep. ‘Tomorrow I will begin’ — that is sleep talking, for there is no certainty of tomorrow. He is asleep if he believes there will be a tomorrow, that he will be here. Therefore, one who would begin awakening must begin this very moment. In the little things, be aware. Try. Try once to be consciously angry. If you succeed, you are a marvel — no one has succeeded yet. Consciously you cannot be angry, cannot cause hurt, cannot be violent. Consciously none of the things we call sin can be done. So I define sin as: that which can be done only in unawareness; and virtue as that which cannot be done in unawareness.
The third formula is: amoorchhit living — conscious conduct. I have said two already: the soil of doubt, the manure of self-observation, and the rain of conscious living. If these three are present, the seeds of vivek that lie in everyone will sprout. When vivek awakens, an inner discipline is born — a discipline that arises from within, not from without. There is a discipline imposed from outside — false. There is a discipline that springs from within — wondrous, beautiful. Outer discipline cripples the personality, makes it ugly; nothing is more disfiguring. But the discipline that comes from within — based on these three formulas, where vivek awakens — makes the personality beautiful, fills the life-breath with music. Then a spontaneous conduct is born. Moment to moment we live in awareness, with vivek; and only what is right happens through us. The unrighteous does not happen. The inauspicious needs no suppression; the auspicious needs no cultivation. The auspicious comes; the inauspicious does not arise.
One small story, then I will complete. And then we will sit for meditation. A prince took initiation with Buddha. The very next day Buddha sent him for alms to the house of a laywoman. On the way and returning, two or three events happened that disturbed him. On the way he thought: ‘Foods I love will no longer be available.’ But at the laywoman’s house, he found on the plate exactly the foods he loved. He was amazed. He thought: coincidence. He ate and thought: ‘After food I used to rest for two hours; today I will have to go back in the sun.’ At that very moment the laywoman said: ‘Bhikkhu, it would be a great kindness if you rested here after your meal.’ He was even more astonished: as he thought it, she said it. Still he thought: coincidence. A mat was laid; he lay down. As he lay, he thought: ‘Now I have no shade, no roof, no bed. The sky is the roof, the earth the bed.’ Just then the laywoman returned: ‘Bhante, why think thus? No one’s bed, no one’s shade.’ Now coincidence was hard to accept. He sat up: ‘I am in wonder! Do my thoughts reach you? Can you read my inner?’ She said: ‘Certainly. First I began by observing my own thoughts. Observing, my thoughts thinned and dissolved; the mind became without thought. Now, the thoughts of whoever is near appear in observation.’
The bhikkhu trembled and stood up: ‘Allow me to go!’ His hands and feet shook. ‘Why so afraid?’ she asked. ‘What is there to fear?’ But he did not remain. He returned to Buddha: ‘Forgive me. I cannot go again to that door for alms.’ ‘Was there some mistake?’ Buddha asked. ‘No mistake; no fault. Much respect, and food I loved. But that laywoman reads others’ thoughts. It is dangerous. Seeing such a beautiful young woman, passions arose in me; she must have read those too. How can I go? How stand before her?’ Buddha said: ‘You must go there. If such forgiveness was needed, you should not have become a monk. I sent you knowingly, and until I stop you, you will keep going — a month or two, a year or two — continuously; this will be your sadhana. But go with awareness. Watch what thoughts arise, what desires come — and do nothing. Don’t fight. Go awake. Watch within.’
He went the next day. Imagine you are going in his place. The laywoman reads your mind; she is beautiful, magnetic. If she did not read, or you did not know, your mind would wander as usual. But today? He walked in great danger, watching his mind. For the first time in his life he walked awake. As the house came near, awareness increased, as if a lamp were being lit within; things became clear; thoughts could be seen circling. As he climbed the steps, a silence descended within; awareness became complete. Even the lifting of a foot was known; the breath going in and out was in his consciousness. The slightest ripple of thought, the slightest wave of desire, became visible. He entered the house; the mind grew quiet. He ate. He returned. That day he came dancing. Falling at Buddha’s feet he said: ‘A miracle. As I approached and became alert, thoughts dissolved, desires thinned. When I entered the house there was total silence within — no thought, no desire — the mind calm, like a spotless mirror.’ Buddha said: ‘For this I sent you. From tomorrow there is no need to go there. Now live in this very way — as if all can read your thoughts. Walk as if whoever is before you can see within. Walk within and remain awake. As awareness grows, thoughts and desires will wither. On the day awareness is complete, no stain will remain in your life — an inner revolution happens.’
I call this awakening of awareness the awakening of vivek. I have told you three formulas. Reflect on them. Let doubt come; do not be afraid — let the soil of right doubt form. Practice self-observation; turn your eyes into your own life; hide nothing — uncover everything, become utterly naked to yourself. And third: experiment with amoorchhit living. Cultivate awareness; drop unconsciousness. Then vivek will awaken. And when vivek awakens, know that the greatest blessed moment of life is near.
Tomorrow morning we will speak of the third thing. We have spoken of two: freedom from faith, and the awakening of vivek. Tomorrow we will speak of the descent of Samadhi — how Samadhi comes down. Whatever questions have arisen from these two, we will discuss them at night. Now we will sit for the morning meditation. Please spread out a little.