Samadhi Kamal #5

Before we sit for the night’s meditation experiment, let me say a few things to you. In the morning I spoke a little about right conduct; that is a prologue. If that prologue is created, depth will come to meditation effortlessly. When that prologue takes shape, a background arises, and through it the peace and Shunyata of the mind become possible. But there are other prologues too. Before we take leave from here, I would like to discuss them with you.

I spoke of three things—right diet, right exercise, right sleep. All three relate to the body. The body is a prologue for the seeker, but it is not the only prologue. Enter a little further within, and there is also a world of feeling. Enter still further, there is a world of thought. On the bodily plane I have said three things; in the same way there are three things on the plane of feeling, and likewise three on the plane of thought, which I must say to you. Tonight, let me speak a little about which three feelings become a prologue for meditation—and then we shall sit to meditate.

Before a man becomes beyond feeling—before all his emotions fall silent into zero—there are certain feelings that increase the restlessness and agitation of his mind. And there are certain feelings that support the coming of peace and equanimity, and can become a prologue to meditation. Let me speak of three such feelings. Try them a little in life; they will be useful.

First, a feeling toward the outer world around us. Then, a feeling toward the world of our actions. And finally, a feeling toward the world of our sensations. Three worlds surround us. First, the world of objects and persons spread all around us. Then, a layer of our actions—the things we do—its own world encircles us. Then the world of our sensations of pleasure and pain that touch and caress us; that world, finally, surrounds us. These are the three layers around us. For each of these three layers there are three feelings that support meditation.

A feeling of maitri—friendship—toward the whole world is supportive. That which Mahavira said: “mitti me savvabhūesu, veraṃ majjha na keṇai”—my enmity is with no one, my friendship is with all. If we cultivate this feeling, if it pervades our consciousness, it becomes supportive in entering Shunyata and Samadhi. Do not think this feeling helps the world; in a secondary sense it does, but primarily it helps the seeker himself. To the extent you are filled with enmity toward the world, to that extent you will be disturbed. The more ill will and antagonism toward others you carry in your mind, the more restless you will be.

Imagine a little—just imagine for now—that in the whole world, whoever is there, all are your friends. Only imagine it. Understand that all over the world your friends are spread. All animals, birds, and trees, all human beings, all creatures hold friendship toward you. Only imagine this—that the whole world is filled with friendship toward you, and you are filled with friendship toward the whole world. Will peace not begin to descend within you? Is not the cause of your unrest somewhere in enmity? Somewhere in ill will?

As a prologue to meditation, on the plane of feeling the cultivation of friendship toward all is very precious.

How to cultivate maitri? Very simple. Nothing is simpler. The real state of friendship will blossom after meditation. Real friendship and love will be attained after meditation—they are the fruit of meditation. But before meditation, the feeling of friendship will help lead you into peace, into a deep peace.

When you sit for meditation, when you walk on the road, when you rise, when you enter a crowd, when you go into solitude, on the mountain, by the lake, under the trees—create around yourself a circle of friendship. And feel that friendship is spreading around you; that you are filled with love toward all who are near you. Superimpose this aura of feeling. When you look at a tree, feel you are full of love and friendship toward it. When you look at birds, feel this too—that you are filled with friendship toward them, and from your heart friendship is flowing to them—love and friendliness are flowing. Do the same when you move among people. In a few days you will feel a circle of friendship spreading around you. And as waves of friendship begin to rise like a sea around you, in the same measure the sea of unrest that has been waving within will begin to fall silent.

If you fall asleep at night having invoked this feeling of friendship—making a submission of friendship to the whole world, feeling that you are filled with love and friendship toward all, and experiencing that from within you friendship is flowing to the whole world—you will awaken in the morning in a freshness of peace. On waking, repeat this feeling again, imprint it within: my friendship is toward all. Let this feeling flow outward from you whenever remembered, through the twenty-four hours. It will do something marvelous. It will attenuate and dissolve that other feeling—which constantly arises in you—of violence, opposition, hostility. And the disturbance and anger that churn and torment the mind will vanish.

There is another wonder which you will understand by experiment: our feelings are sensed by others; they affect, they touch the other. If you are filled with love and friendship toward someone, if there is no antagonism or opposition within you toward that person, you will inevitably find that in his heart, too, feelings of friendship toward you are being sensed, they are awakening.

Whoever spreads and throws the feeling of friendship toward the whole world will inevitably find the whole world’s friendship flowing back toward him. We have to suffer the very things we throw out. We throw hatred, and hatred gets imprinted on us. We throw friendship, and friendship returns to us. In the world of feeling, inevitably, what we send out comes back.

Yesterday we went to a place here in Matheran—to the Echo Point. Those with us called out, and from the valleys their voices returned. The valleys added nothing; they only echoed, reverberated. The very sound we threw, the valleys sent back to us.

This entire world is an echo point. Whatever we throw into it returns to us. Whatever we send reverberates and comes back, available to us again. Whoever wants friendship should throw friendship; whoever wants love should lavish love; whoever wants flowers should scatter flowers along the paths of others. And let this not remain only a feeling; let it enter our daily conduct, reflected in the smallest acts.

There was a Master; three disciples of his had completed their training. After twenty-five years in the gurukul of brahmacharya, they were returning to life. The Master said, You still have one more test; I will take it when you depart. The students kept waiting, and at last the day of farewell arrived, yet no test was given. At dusk the Master bade them farewell. The sun was setting; the Master said, Now the sun is sinking—you may go.

They were surprised—the Master must have forgotten the final test. They rolled up their mats, took their bags, and left. The moon rose; they had gone two or four miles from the ashram, through the forest, on the way to their villages. By a bush many thorns lay scattered. The first student leapt over them and passed; the second went around and slipped by; the third gathered all the thorns and threw them into the bush, and then moved on.

To their astonishment they saw their Master hiding in the bush! He called out, The two who went ahead, please return. The one who picked up the thorns and set them aside—he has passed. That was the final test.

If a thorn lies on the path and you pass by without removing it, you are not nonviolent; you do not carry the feeling of friendship. If a sharp stone lies on the road and you go by without concern—perhaps you do not wish to hurt anyone, but you have no heart to save anyone from being hurt. Such a man cannot be at peace. For such a man it is difficult for a prologue of peace to form. To remove that stone—this small gesture—lifting a thorn from the way—reports your feeling of friendship toward the world.

Life is made of small things. Consider a little, and see whether you are doing something by which you yourself sow the seeds of your unrest.

There was a woman, Blavatsky. People were amazed to see her. Whenever she traveled, she would carry a big bag and keep throwing something out of the window. Someone asked, We always see you with this bag in travel—what do you carry, and what do you throw out of the window?

She said, I love flowers, and along the roads I travel I scatter a few seeds. Soon the rains will come—the clouds are already gathering—and when the water falls, both sides of the road will fill with flowers. Someone will smile seeing them, someone will feel happy, someone’s tear will dry—my joy will know no bounds. I may never know it, but I imagine that my flowers will delight someone, be dear to someone. So I throw seeds along the roadsides; when water falls, they will become flowers.

Let me tell you: the feeling of friendship truly costs nothing. There is an English proverb: It costs nothing to be kind. It is true—nothing is spent in throwing friendship. To throw hatred, much is spent. When you fill with hatred toward someone, you undertake a very costly act—you break yourself, you throw yourself into inner misery. But when you throw love and friendship toward someone, you are doing something so inexpensive that you lose nothing—rather, you receive. Within you, equanimity and peace will arise.

So first: if the seeker of meditation truly wishes to reach Samadhi, let him create a circle of friendship, a circle of love—which is absolutely free, which you can manifest easily. What is the cost of removing a stone from the road? What is the cost of placing two flowers in someone’s path? What is the cost of this simple love we can let permeate all around us? The result will be that friendship will echo back toward you from outside. And as friendship reverberates from the outside, the external causes of unrest will dissolve.

So first: in the world of feeling, cultivate maitri a little—let it become a prologue—regarding the vast world outside. Next, regarding the world of our actions—the work we do day and night—it is useful to deepen a certain feeling there as well. In our actions there are two ways to proceed. One way: we rejoice later in the fruit that the work will bring. Another way: we taste joy in the doing itself. One way: a man paints a picture; when it is finished and he gets a price for it, that will make him happy. Another way: painting itself is his joy. In our lives we are almost always doing work in which there is no joy. We are pleased only with the fruits; in the work there is no delight.

I say to you: find some work that is valuable in itself—having its own juice, its own joy—in which the question of fruit does not arise, in which doing itself is happiness. Find such work. And even in the work in which you do not yet feel this, gradually establish the feeling that attachment to results, the intense craving for fruits, becomes thinner—and the work itself becomes joy.

If we create even a small aura of this feeling—a prologue—you will find a deepening peace arising of its own accord. Your cravings and your hunger for results keep you very restless. While doing, you are not eager for the doing—you are eager for what lies outside it.

Someone asked a sage, What is your practice? He said, My practice is this: when I put on my clothes, I wear them with such joy as if no greater joy exists in the world; when I bathe, I bathe with such joy as if there is no greater joy; and when at night I go to sleep, I feel such gratitude toward the whole world that one more day of life was given to me—and I sleep with such joy as if there is no greater joy than sleep.

He who cannot taste joy in the small things of life will never attain any great joy. There are no great joys in the world—the accumulation of small joys creates what you call great joy. Everything seems small to us—putting on clothes, walking on the road, looking at the moon, a flower blooming—everything small.

I say to you: if the meditator truly wants to prepare a prologue, he should begin to experience joy in little things.

A flower blooms by the path—and we pass by without seeing it? We are blind! We cannot pause even for a moment to appreciate the fragrance and joy spread in that blossom; we cannot taste its beauty. A tiny flower—perhaps a blade-of-grass flower—pause for a moment and experience it—taste the joy in that little flower. At night the sky is illumined by the moon; the stars fill the heavens; sometimes dense, velvety darkness; sometimes little birds sing their songs… the small things… sometimes it rains, drops fall, and in the patter there is a song and a delight. The world around is filled with small joys—taste them. And in your small tasks too—in sweeping the floor or putting on your clothes—experience joy. Infuse them with delight. Do not be overly concerned with what lies ahead; delight in what you are doing.

You will be amazed: a circle of peace forms around you—through maitri with the world; and in your actions, through the feeling that the work itself is joy—not its fruit. You will find that your small tasks are no longer burdens—they have become delight. A tiny difference—and work becomes a burden; a small shift in feeling—and it becomes joy.

A sannyasin was climbing in the Himalayas, on pilgrimage. He carried his load upon his head. It was noon—glare and heat, sweat and fatigue. Ahead of him, a young hill-girl was also climbing, carrying her little brother—chubby and heavy. The sadhu, moved by compassion, as he passed near the girl, said, Child, the weight must be great; the sun is fierce; the ascent is steep. The girl looked at him with great surprise and said, What are you saying? Weight is what you carry; this is my little brother! She said, Weight is what you carry; this is my little brother! The sannyasin later wrote: I have read great scriptures, but I have not encountered a more wondrous sentence in my life! For the first time I understood—there is no weight in a little brother.

On the scale there is weight—the scale will tell you, whether it is a little brother or a bedding bundle. But the heart will not tell you weight. Love cuts weight to zero. In this world, love is the only force that cancels burden, that cancels weight. Love alone moves contrary to gravitation. That attraction in the earth pulls everything down—love alone it cannot pull. Love alone is free in this world; all else is bound by it. The more love there is, the more weightless you become; a weightlessness is felt in you. And the more weightless you are, the deeper you can enter within—into peace, into the void.

So my second suggestion: do not make your little tasks into burdens—make them joy. Watch this—tomorrow while bathing, while eating, while putting on clothes, while giving a little help to someone, while removing a stone from the road; while watering a plant. One can water anyhow; one can water with great love. A vast difference results—heaven and earth apart.

In the world of your actions, the tasks are small—no work is great. Do them with joy, with affection, with a glad heart—and establish a feeling in them. In a few days you will find your life turning into a wondrous tale of joy. Small things will become important and delightful.

As I see it, our state is just the opposite—we do the reverse. We taste no joy in anything; we make everything into a burden—everything! Whatever is there becomes a load to us. Then the mind cannot be at peace.

Consider: what do you have that is joy? Almost everything you have is burden. And as age advances, the burden grows. One day in old age you have only burdens and nothing else. That burden breaks you, destroys the possibility of peace within you. It grows so heavy that the seeds within you cannot germinate; they are crushed and perish—those very seeds that could have carried you to self-knowing.

So a prologue of unattached action: freedom from hankering after fruit and the feeling of joy—these two are one. Where there is no craving for results in action, joy will permeate the doing. And where joy permeates the doing, the craving for fruit will dissolve. The hunger for fruit is there because the work itself is painful—how else to do it? In pursuit of the fruit, one continues despite the pain. If joy enters the work, craving for fruit vanishes.

So let a little joy enter your work; let this feeling toward action become more pervasive. Try it in small tasks. Where are the big tasks in life? All are small. And if joy flows in all those small tasks, the entire chain of life will be filled with joy. See it; experience it.

So first, maitri; second, joy in action. The third plane is that of our sensations. Twenty-four hours we are surrounded by sensations—either by pleasure or by pain. When pain comes, we want to escape and we desire pleasure—that is our tension, our trouble. When pleasure comes, fear seizes us lest pain might come—so we try to hold pleasure and keep pain outside. Tension remains in both states.

Man is in a very strange condition. When pain comes, he suffers because there is pain and he wants it to go. When pleasure comes, he suffers because—though there is pleasure—he fears that pain might come. He wants to clutch pleasure and banish pain. In wanting to push away pain and grasp pleasure, in both ways, excitation remains.

Pain is an excitation—an unpleasant excitation. Pleasure is an excitation—a pleasant excitation. But excitation as such is disturbance for the mind—remember this. Whether of pleasure or of pain—excitation as such is restlessness. If you want to be quiet, you must let go of excitation a little.

What is excitation? Pain comes, and we want to remove it—that is excitation. Pleasure comes, and we want to grasp it—that is excitation. When pain comes, do not be overly concerned with removing it. When the mind is filled with pain, accept it. Do not be frightened by it; do not be tormented, excited. Keep a little equanimity. And when pleasure comes, do not be excited and shaken—keep a little equanimity. Equanimity toward pleasure and pain will become the protection where sensations usually distress you. Gradually… watch, experiment. When pleasure comes, remain a little unexcited and see. It is not difficult—only that it has not been done. When pleasure comes, remain a little unexcited. Observe: when pleasure comes, does excitement arise within? Why does it arise? You will find that no excitement need arise: pleasure has come, yet there is no excitation. If pleasure can be present without excitation, then when pain comes, that day too there will be no excitation. If the excitement of one becomes zero, the other’s will by itself be zero.

Tapas is nothing else. Tapas has two forms—those who are in pain should drop the excitation of pain; those who are in pleasure should drop the excitation of pleasure. A king can be a tapasvin. Janaka was such. Janaka’s practice was this: there is pleasure, and we will not take its excitation. Mahavira is another kind of seeker: there is pain, and we will not take its excitation. He would stand in villages where people tormented him; he would stay in cremation grounds where people troubled him. His companions, his friends, requested him—There are good places too; why do you seek these and stand only here?

For Mahavira it was part of tapas. He seemed to go about inviting suffering—and when pain came, that was the time to see whether there was excitation or not. Pain comes, and the man remains unexcited.

I do not say to you that you should go seeking pain—enough pain comes anyway; you need not hunt for it. Take it as an examination, and see whether the mind can remain even, unexcited at that time. If it can—by practicing a little it will—one day you will find that pain stands, pleasure stands, and you look at both utterly unmoved; they have not touched you, have not entered you. The deeper this feeling grows, the deeper peace will grow within you, and the possibility of Samadhi will become certain.

So I have spoken of three feelings—maitri toward the world! Call it ahimsa if you wish, call it love—it makes no difference. Joy toward action! Call it freedom from desire for fruits, call it nonattachment—it makes no difference. And third, equanimity toward your own sensations of pleasure and pain! If these three arise, then as I said in the morning—if there is right diet, right sleep, right exercise—the combined result in the sphere of conduct will be right vision. If these three are there in the sphere of feeling, right vision will arise there too. And that right vision will be the prologue; within that prologue the movement of meditation will happen.

Remember: the path to meditation, Samadhi, or the realization of the Atman is exactly like a gardener sowing in a garden. He sows the seeds, tends them, gives manure, gives water, arranges for sunlight, protects them so wild animals do not graze them down, puts up a fence. Then he waits day after day for them to grow. After long waiting, flowers come. Life-practice is no different from bringing flowers into a garden. Here too seeds must be sown—the seeds of meditation. Manure and water and sunlight must be given. Understand it thus: right conduct—of which I spoke as three points—will be the manure. The three points of right feeling—which I have spoken—will be the water. And tomorrow I will speak to you of three points of right thought—their light will be the sun. Through these three jewels—right conduct, right feeling, right thought—the seeds of meditation will reach the flowers of Samadhi. Then—then something will awaken within you, rise within you. A certain light, a certain sun will become possible to behold.

If we furnish this prologue, there is a possibility. The possibility is certain. It is only a matter of understanding rightly and of learning the method of planting the garden. This is all I wished to say for now.

Now we shall sit for the night’s meditation.

I explained last night’s meditation to you already. In the morning I said: when you awaken in the morning there is a power of awakening in you; therefore the experiment we fixed for morning was chosen with this in mind—that we use the power of awakening in you, that we wake up and employ awakening in our inner life. At night you come near to sleep; the condition of sleep ripens within you; therefore the night’s experiment has been arranged in a very different way—so that we can use the condition of sleep that approaches us.

If you live a hundred years, fifty will pass in sleep and fifty in waking. Man is neither only awake nor only asleep; in both states the Atman is present. Through both states there is an opening to enter within.

One experiment is of awakening—through which from the waking state we enter the Atman. The second experiment is to use sleep—through this too we enter the Atman. In the first we keep the spine erect—that is part of awakening; we deepen the breath—which brings prana into us and arouses us; and with continuous alertness we take our remembrance to the navel center—so that awakening happens there and the stupor of the mind breaks.

In the night experiment we do the very opposite. We do not keep the spine straight; we do not take deep breaths; we do not practice awakening at any point. We let the body relax—just as we let it in sleep. We let the breath become quiet—so that we go still further inward. Let the breath fall asleep, the body fall asleep—then let the mind fall asleep; we experiment so that the mind also falls asleep. Let all three fall asleep. Because we ourselves are making them fall asleep, we remain awake. I will remain awake, for I am the one sending each to sleep. When these three fall asleep, I remain awake—even as they sleep. Through sleep I will know my consciousness.

In the morning’s meditation we know that consciousness through awakening. In this night’s experiment, we know that consciousness through sleep. He who has known the soul in waking must also know it in sleep—otherwise his knowing is incomplete. Let him enter through both doors. Then he will know that Atman which sometimes wakes and sometimes sleeps—which passes through both states, both doors. We use both doors: one in the night’s experiment, one in the morning’s. And a third experiment which I have told you—this I have not tied to day or night, so that you can do it anytime, in any moment; it has been arranged in that way.