Shunya Samadhi #3

Whether tradition is wrong or right is not the essential question; the essential question is whether those who cling to tradition are wrong or right. The habit of clinging—of clutching at tradition—is wrong. Through it one never becomes available to one’s own experience and truth. Before me, before you, thousands over thousands of years have loved. But when you or I set out on the journey of love, what do we learn from the tradition of lovers? We learn nothing. Do we learn their words? Their songs? What do we learn from those lovers? Nothing. Our love has its own birth.

Love is new each time; it never grows old. It has no tradition, no lineage. Each time someone loves, it is as new as any love has ever been in the history of humankind. That love has neither a behind nor an ahead. It is complete and whole in itself. Love has no tradition. Bliss has no tradition. The divine has no tradition. Traditions belong to clay and stone. Life—aliveness—has no tradition.

If we want to build a house, as in America where buildings touch the sky—hundred-story towers—we can place one story upon another, one brick upon another, thousands upon thousands of bricks. Houses can rise upward, but human beings do not stand one upon another. Each person stands on the earth, and stands separate. Neither does the son stand upon the father, nor the disciple upon the master—no one stands on anyone’s head. There is no human chain rising from below upward. Each person stands upon the ground, on his own feet, on his own ground.

Through thousands of years it never happens that people stand on one another; no one stands upon anyone. You may inherit your father’s property—because property is inert. You may inherit his house—because a house is material. But you cannot inherit any of your father’s experiences. Whatever is an experience of life, that you will have to attain yourself. The quest for experience must be undertaken personally. Experiences are not had stale or on loan. No one can give experience to anyone. But in place of experience, words are certainly available—and words create traditions. And thus traditions of words become the very cause of preventing experience. Once sanctity is conferred, holiness is granted, and some running doctrine acquires authority, we stop asking how and what happened, and we go on accepting it silently.

In a capital—Ghazni—Mahmud one morning was riding his horse down the road. It was early; the sun had just risen and the streets were beginning to stir. On the way he saw a poor, old laborer carrying a very large stone on his head. Even in the cool morning air, sweat was on his brow and his chest was heaving. He was old and frail, his clothes torn, and yet he was hauling that heavy stone. Mahmud stopped by him and said, “Laborer, drop the stone. Drop that stone, porter!”

It was the king’s command; the laborer had to drop the stone right in the middle of the road. Having had the stone dropped, Mahmud went back home. News spread throughout the town that the emperor had had the stone dropped; surely there must be some meaning to it. The stone lay in the center of the road; people had difficulty passing, carts had trouble crossing. But since the king had placed it there, there had to be a reason. The stone could not be removed.

Mahmud lived another twenty years. For those twenty years the stone remained on the royal road. No one could lift it. Officials imposed a ban: since the emperor had had the stone dropped, there must be a purpose. Twenty years later, it had become a tradition. Then Mahmud died. Even after his death, the stone remained; it was not removed. Because those who came after him continued to honor and respect his command.

Who knows whether that stone has been removed even now, or whether it still lies there. As far as I can see, it must still be there; people do not have enough intelligence to reconsider traditions. And if it were only a single stone on a single road, we could forgive it; but on every road of man there are many such stones, difficult to cross. Since traditions have placed them there, no one even thinks of removing them.

Traditions cannot become eyes for a human being. Your eyes must be open. And if stones have been placed on the path, however revered the traditions that placed them, if they obstruct the flow of life, there is no need to hesitate to remove them. And if human beings do not remove the stones human beings have placed, who else will? There should be the strength and the understanding to remove them. But this understanding is lacking. We plunge into traditions and never ask how things came to be; we accept silently, like the blind.

Another incident I have heard:
There was a village with two parallel streets; the whole village was spread along those two streets. One afternoon a Sufi fakir entered from one street onto the other, tears streaming from his eyes. Someone asked, “What has happened? Why are you weeping?” But tears were pouring so much from his eyes that he said nothing. The man who had asked turned to the neighbor standing beside him and said, “It seems someone on the other street has died.” Soon the whole other street heard the news: someone on that street has died. And from each hand the news gained a little more, and more. By evening the news had become: a plague epidemic has broken out on the other street. And where plague is raging, it is not wise to go. So no one went to inquire. But many on this street had relatives on that street. People began to weep over their sorrow, and many grew anxious: who knows, perhaps one of our kin has died? The people on the other street saw that those here were all sad, crying. They inquired and learned: someone has died on that street—there are reports of a plague. Then they too felt it proper not to come over and ask. They too had friends here—who knows who might have died? In a single night both streets emptied their houses. They left the village and went to live across the river, for the epidemic had spread terribly. And they never returned to that village.

That village still lies desolate. Across the river stand two small villages in its place. Ask the people there and they will tell you: once a very strange disease spread, and at that time our forefathers left their streets and settled here, and we have lived here ever since. And the irony is that no one ever asked the fakir what the matter had been. The matter was only this: he had been peeling onions, and the onions had brought tears to his eyes.

But tradition! Tradition is a very strong thing. Do not raise doubt about it, do not even reflect on it, do not think about it. Nations die; societies turn into corpses. Those who lose the capacity to look back and think lose life itself.

Therefore I request you: the question is not what has been believed for thousands of years. The question is: if we test it today on the touchstone of life, where does it stand? If it fails, then even if it has been worshiped for millions of years, it must be thrown into the junkyard. And whatever is of today—even if it is new—if, on the touchstone of life, it proves right, then life should be ready to choose that path.

On this basis I say to you: notions that make life seem insubstantial, that interpret life as sorrowful, that condemn life—these have proved wrong, harmful, poisonous. They have robbed human life of its whole capacity for joy, dried up all its sources of zest, and broken all the songs in its breath.
Do you know why this was done? How did it happen—have you ever asked? Who were the people who set all this in motion? How did this conspiracy run? Which fakir peeled the onion, which fakir’s eyes filled with tears—how did this come about?
It happened because those who made a business out of God, those who turned God into an enterprise, who took over the priest’s seat in temples and mosques, who set up in society the machinery of priests, Brahmins, and preachers—those people saw one thing with great clarity: if you want to increase respect for the Divine, if you want to exalt God, if you want to make God appear great, there seemed to them one simple arithmetic—run the world down. Declare the world small; prove it contemptible and trivial. If the world is made vile, then God can be made great and magnificent. This was the straight rule that occurred to them: call the world evil, hurl abuse at the world, condemn it, label it hell—only then, they thought, will people raise their eyes toward God. So frighten people, make them afraid, keep them anxious, shake their footing in life—only then, perhaps, will they start thinking about the hereafter.

But it never occurred to any of them that life, which is so immediate and true, so real and concrete—if you prove this very life to be meaningless, you forget something crucial. When such a palpable life is declared hollow, then God—who is not visible at all—cannot become meaningful; he will seem even more unreal. When solid, tangible life is dismissed as worthless, then about God—who is invisible, whom we cannot grasp in our fist—we will become all the more doubtful. If such an authentic life is said to be false, how can these airy dreams and sky-talks be true?

The result was not that denouncing the world led people toward God. The result was that the condemnation of the world destroyed people’s joy in the world, and along with it people dropped even the idea of turning toward the Divine.

No public consciousness became religious by this; it became irreligious. And one more calamity followed: when all of life is nothing but suffering, how can gratitude arise toward God? When life is a tale of affliction, how can prayer happen? How can gratitude be born? How can the feeling of grace arise? How are we to thank God? How can we say, “You have been compassionate to us”—with what face? And if we do say it, that face will be false, those words will be false—mere parroted prayers, learned by rote, not rising from our very life-breath.

Only if life is delight can thanksgiving toward the Divine arise. Only if life feels like a benediction can our hands lift to that unknown Lord, and we can say: the one who has given so much, who has showered so much nectar, who has given so many flowers of love, who has rained so much joy of life—upon the undeserving, upon one with no worthiness at all—if our very being fills with urgency, with pleading, with prayer and gratitude toward him, it is no wonder.

Man goes toward God only through the feeling of anugrah—gratitude; there is no other key. And gratitude arises only in a heart that knows joy. A heart that knows sorrow does not feel gratitude; it feels complaint. A heart that experiences pain gives rise to anger, to rebellion against God.

These rebels all over the world, the ones opposing God—who created them? They are reactions to those teachers who taught that life is suffering. These rebels are the backlash. When life is made nothing but misery, some people will say, “We revolt against such a God—a God who dishes out only sorrow and pain; who created a hollow world, this world of maya; who trapped man in a net and keeps weaving it tighter like a spider’s web—how can we be grateful to such a one? How can we thank him?” No, it is not possible. Then anger arises. Then opposition arises. Then rebellion against God arises.

This century is a century of rebellion against God. The ultimate counterblast to what has been taught over the last five thousand years is appearing in this century. The young are saying no; they are protesting. Tell them today, “Pray to God,” and a smile runs across their faces. And for that smile these children are not in the least responsible; those are responsible who turned life into a landscape of melancholy.

That is why I said: the second key to religious consciousness is the feeling of bliss. And how is the feeling of bliss to be cultivated?

Some friends have also asked in this regard that…

Two things need to be understood. First, only those who develop the capacity to live with great intensity can experience bliss—intense living, swift and full of urgency.

We all live very lukewarmly—lukewarm, like tepid water. Our life lacks fire; our acts lack intensity. And life’s real taste—bliss—opens through intense experiences. The more intense the feeling, the more one touches the peaks of joy. The more lukewarm the life, the less anything is touched—nothing at all.

Our whole traditional structure makes human beings lukewarm, not intense. It teaches neither courage nor adventure—neither crossing oceans nor climbing mountains, nor the risk of descending into the depths of experience. It asks us to risk nothing. It teaches very cheap things and expects that on such a basis one will live and find bliss.

Two young men once arrived at Akbar’s court—two Rajputs, twin brothers, swords at their sides, identical in looks, robust, handsome, dressed alike. Akbar too was charmed. They said, “We are brave youths seeking a life of courage. Can we have a place as soldiers in your court?”

Akbar asked, “You say you are brave, but have you brought any certificate of bravery?”

Their eyes flashed like lightning; for a moment Akbar was startled—he had not imagined what would happen next. In a flash their swords left their sheaths, and in another instant each blade was in the other’s chest. A second later two corpses lay there in their own blood—two young men, smiling.

Akbar had never thought this would happen. He called his generals and said, “I am in trouble. I asked those two lads for a certificate of bravery...”

The generals laughed. “You are naïve,” they said. “What else could a brave man do when asked for a certificate? Would a brave man bring a paper signed by someone? You asked, and that was the only reply two brave youths could give. Bravery has only one meaning: the courage to face death directly.”

One general added, “Do not be troubled. Look at the joy in their eyes, on their faces. They have known a single moment of intensity, which is life’s bliss—where, in that moment of bliss, one can have a glimpse of the divine.”

What does an intense life mean?

Can you conceive that those two youths knew a moment of intense living? I tell you: they did. In one instant they were absorbed into the cosmic. In that moment when their very lives were at stake—could any thought remain in their minds? Any desire? Any expectation of results? Any worry, sorrow, pain? When the whole life is on the line, what remains inside? In such a moment of intensity everything becomes empty, silent, peaceful. Even the sense of “I” disappears. In that state of no-mind, of emptiness, of samadhi, there is the vision of the divine.

So first I say: let our life not be lukewarm. Let it be a life of intensity, lived with total commitment. Whatever we do should challenge our whole being; it should call forth all our energies, as if we had put everything on the line.

A religious person rises in the morning as if this were the last day—no day beyond it. At night he sleeps as if this were the final night—no night beyond it. For him each moment is the last. Each moment is given to be fully lived—or lost. And truly, only one moment is ever in our hands—never two at once. When only one moment stands before you, your whole being is wagered upon it. Then you begin to know what I call intensity.

Three fakirs were on a long journey across a desert. The desert was longer than they had expected. Food and water ran out. Evening came, and they had only one piece of bread and a small bottle of water left—insufficient for all three. They thought, “Rather than all three eat and all perish, better that one of us have it and perhaps reach the destination, gaining strength for a day or two.” But who should eat? They argued and could not decide. Then one suggested, “Let’s sleep. In the morning we will tell our dreams. Whoever has seen the noblest dream shall have the bread and water.”

They slept. In the morning the first said, “I saw God in my dream, saying that my past has been holy, a story of purity—therefore I deserve the bread and water.”

The second said, “I too dreamed. A voice from the sky proclaimed that I deserve the bread and water because my future is very bright; great possibilities will unfold through me for the good of the world.”

They turned to the third: “What did you see?” He said, “Neither a voice nor a deity appeared. From within I got the news: ‘Get up and go eat the bread and drink the water.’ So I’ve already eaten.”

These are the three fakirs. One values the greatness of the past, another the promise of the future; but one lived the present—fully.

Those who keep looking back do not attain the experience of bliss. Nor do those who keep dreaming ahead. Only those who live moment to moment—every moment—who drink in and accept what life offers right now as if there were no next moment, as if this were the final moment of reckoning.

Those who look back lose the present. Those who dream ahead lose the present. Remember: apart from the present moment, nothing exists. Only the present can become the doorway—to experience, to bliss, to God.

What is needed is intense living, centered on the present. The more intense the life, the more the glimpses of joy begin.

But as human life has been arranged on earth, generally people know no intense experience except sex. Only in a sexual moment does one feel a little intensity; otherwise, nothing. That is why the world has gone so mad after sex. As this century has progressed, everything has become saturated with sexuality—pictures, stories, films, poetry, literature revolve around sex—because for most people it is the only intense moment left. Even that taste diminishes with repetition; the second is less than the first, the third less than the second. Routine sets in; boredom dulls it; the juice dries up.

Yet people know only this one intense point. And religions keep saying, “Go beyond it.” You cannot go beyond sex until you discover other points of intensity. Any attempt to drop it will be futile until deeper experiences are available. Otherwise the mind will circle it day and night; culture and civilization will circle it—and they do. The so-called religious preachers, by taking away every other avenue of intensity, have actually reinforced sex as the center.

We must prepare for a life of intensity if we wish to move toward bliss—whatever we do...

Kabir, a weaver, wove cloth with such intensity that people were astonished. It looked like worship. He would say, “I am weaving a mantle for Ram.” When the sheet was finished he would dance; carrying it to the market he would tell the buyer, “Ram, wear it with care; I made it with great love and effort.”

People said, “You are a saint—why do you still weave cloth?” Kabir replied, “If I don’t weave for Ram, who will?” When the work is offered to the Beloved, intensity arises—force, urgency, a living flame.

Have you noticed? When someone does something for a beloved, the quality of the doing changes. It becomes a different kind of act.

One evening Akbar went hunting, lost his way, and sat by a path to perform namaz. He tethered his horse, spread his prayer mat, knelt and began to pray. Just then a woman rushed by, stepping on his mat and pushing him as she shot past like an arrow. Akbar was enraged. “What an ill-mannered woman! If someone is praying, to push him is a sin—and I am the emperor! If this is how I am treated, what about others?”

He hastily finished his prayer, mounted, and chased her down as she returned. “Ill-mannered woman! Do you not know that one must not disturb a person at prayer? I was offering namaz—and I am the emperor! Are you mad?”

The woman looked him up and down and said, “If you say I pushed you, I must have—but I remember nothing. I was on my way to meet my lover. I had no idea where you were praying. But I wonder, O emperor: I was going to my lover with such focus that I noticed nothing—and you were praying to God, yet you noticed me? What kind of prayer was that? What kind of intensity? What kind of feeling?”

It must have been hollow—a task to be completed, without the total involvement of the heart.

Let every act of our life be infused with surrender—of love, of inquiry, of search. Let each moment be so swift and intense that our whole being is on the line. Then an incomparable rain of joy begins. In such moments one rises beyond sexuality, discovering that the intensity once known there was nothing in comparison. One comes to know, for the first time, what union truly is—what it is to make love with existence. The pleasure of two bodies meeting is nothing—without meaning or purpose. When two souls meet, when one’s life-energy unites with the whole, the first experience of inner lovemaking arises. But that requires a moment of intensity. Keep remembering this, again and again, and bringing such moments is not difficult.

As you walk, you can walk like a corpse—or like a vibrant current of electricity. As I speak now, I can speak like a schoolteacher, or I can speak as if my entire life were at stake—as if every breath were involved—until I become only speaking, with nothing left inside. Then this is a moment of intensity—also a moment of prayer. I can look at you without truly seeing, or I can become nothing but eyes, with only you appearing—everything else fading. Then the seeing is intense, and I glimpse within you that which is beyond and before you—the divine. You are listening now: you can listen as one hears market noise in passing, or you can listen as if a death sentence were about to be pronounced—everything falls silent, even the breath pauses, all life-energy becomes an ear, ready to receive. In that intensity, glimpses of bliss begin.

From any corner of life—any path—catch hold of intensity, and you will find the melody of bliss beginning to sound. But if you do not catch intensity and keep living lukewarmly, there is no way to know joy.

This is the first thing: on the path of bliss, intense living. The second appears the opposite, but is truly the other side of the same coin.

The experience of bliss happens either in moments of great intensity or in moments of utter relaxation. The river of joy flows between two banks: either the peak of intensity or the depth of complete ease—emptiness, rest, silence. When nothing is being done, everything is quiet and still—as if life has paused, the wind has stopped, the lake has no ripple—there too a glimpse of bliss is available. These two banks seem opposed—intensity and complete relaxation—but they are not. Just as one who truly labors by day is worthy of deep sleep at night, labor and rest are not opposites; each prepares for the other. One who lives intensely also gains the capacity to relax utterly.

What is a relaxed man?

Alexander was on his way to India when he heard of a fakir named Diogenes living en route. Diogenes was famous in Greece, and worthy of it. Alexander felt the urge to see him. The soldiers took the message: “The great Alexander is coming to meet you!”

Diogenes laughed. “Tell that fool: none is smaller than he who calls himself great. If he insists on coming, bring him—but ask him to leave his greatness behind; otherwise how can he meet a poor man like me? He will stand on a mountain while I lie by a lake. He will be great; I, a nobody. Ask him to lay aside greatness for a while—then we can meet. He is in a race; I am in rest—how will we meet?”

Alexander received the message and realized it had truth. He came, leaving soldiers, sword, armor behind. It was a cold morning; Diogenes lay naked outside his hut, sunbathing—no garment between him and the sun. In that desolate silence he lay quietly—who knows what blissful moment—silent, still. Alexander stood by and said, “Seeing you so at ease fills me with envy. If only someday I could lie thus—carefree, peaceful, with no concern of before or after—silent, as if the master of life itself, nothing to know, gain, or seek! When will I ever be so fortunate?”

Diogenes opened his eyes: “Alexander, there is much room in this hut. If you wish to stay, come; we can live together. Lie down—who stops you? Who stops you from being the master of this moment? Come, rest.” He closed his eyes again.

Alexander must have felt a deep envy. Who would not? Morning light, dew on the sand, sunlight streaming, birds singing—and someone lying quietly, silent, still, as if everything has come to a halt, a moment of utter stillness.

Alexander said, “Meeting you has made me happy. What can I do for you? Ask.” Diogenes opened his eyes: “Friend, step a little aside—you are blocking the sun. I need nothing else. Everything is here.”

Alexander had expected a request. But he realized: however great an emperor I may be, a greater emperor lies before me. “Just don’t disturb my sunlight; the rest is complete.” He closed his eyes. Alexander sighed, “For now I go. But if I am ever given another birth and God asks, ‘Do you wish to be Alexander or Diogenes?’ I will say, this time make me Diogenes.”

This too is a bank of bliss: relaxation.

But we live neither in intensity nor in relaxation; we hover in the mediocre middle. Our notes are neither high enough to touch the sky nor silent enough to reach the abyss. Only a constant marketplace hum—between—where a man wastes away. In this middle zone nothing real is attained; no glimpse, no ray, no thread of the song of bliss reaches him.

It is necessary to touch the other bank as well. And I do not say that one who reaches the first cannot reach the second. I say: the seeker of bliss keeps traveling back and forth between both banks. All day he is in moments of intensity; by evening he becomes utterly relaxed and silent. At sunrise he leaps into the stream of life with the sun’s vigor; at dusk, as the sun departs, he becomes quiet in the night’s darkness.

Someone once asked a fakir, “What is your practice? What do you do? What is your yoga?” He expected to hear, “I stand on my head for hours.” Many fools think yoga is acrobatics. Those belong in a circus. Health may improve with exercises, but yoga is something else—an inner union. The fakir said, “You ask—I’ll tell you, though it may be hard to understand.” “Please tell me,” the man said. The fakir’s answer was so simple anyone could understand; the man was amazed: “When I feel sleepy, I sleep. When I am hungry, I eat. When I am thirsty, I drink. When work possesses me, I work. That is my entire practice.”

The man said, “What difficulty is there in that? We all do the same.” The fakir replied, “If only! The day everyone on earth does just this, no one will need to go anywhere to seek liberation. For when you sleep, you don’t only sleep—you do a thousand other things. Your sleep is a long disturbance, a long agony, a long nightmare. When you eat, you don’t only eat—you do a thousand things. You appear to be eating but you are also at your shop, or in court fighting a case. Whatever you do, you do a thousand other things along with it. No act of yours gathers your whole being.

“There is only one practice: when you do something, do it totally. When you work, total work. When you rest, total rest.” Then you keep traveling between the two banks of bliss, day and night—swinging from one to the other. Life is a continual flight between them.

Night is given for rest—God’s gift of relaxation. But man has become an enemy of sleep. Birds, fish, animals sleep easily; man no longer does. Night is the time to dissolve, to sink into the dark silence—but civilization has destroyed it. And day is for flaming life—for engaging with total energy in the enterprise of living. Run totally; walk totally; whatever you do—do it whole. The 24 hours offer two states: day and night. Day is labor; night is rest. Day is burning life; night is perfect ease. For the seeker, day and night are symbols: by day, rise like the sun, move; by night, let darkness spread, become silent. Understand this rhythm, and the sutras of bliss become clear.

These two points are not realized by mere understanding. You must experiment, move a little in both directions. Have you ever known a swift, burning, vivid moment of intensity? Have you ever known real rest? Most have known neither. If one knows both, even God does not remain unrecognized. There is no other reason to miss the divine.

But both have been lost. Man has tried to arrange life so that all intense tasks are given over to machines. Nothing strenuous remains for him; he sits on a sofa; intensity leaves his hands.

Confucius once visited a village garden for his midday rest. He saw an old gardener yoked to a device at the well—no ox or horse, the man himself was harnessed, and his young son too.

Confucius was surprised. “Does this gardener not know? All over the world oxen and horses are used for this. Why are you and your son yoked?” He approached the old man: “Friend, don’t you know? Why are you and the boy harnessed?” The old man said, “Speak softly—very softly. Don’t let my son hear. When he goes away, I’ll talk.” When the boy left, Confucius asked why. The old man said, “The boy cannot yet understand. From a lifetime of experience I tell you: I have known the moments of bliss only amidst labor. We can bring oxen and horses, but then what will my boy do? Confucius said, “He will rest.” The old man replied, “You are naïve. Only those who labor become worthy of rest. Without labor, how will he rest? He will miss labor and he will miss rest—he will miss life. So forgive me; keep your inventions for yourself.”

Man has found every way to avoid labor, to have someone else do everything—a machine, another person—so that nothing remains for him. Strange! If nothing remains for me to do, I will die while living. Life is doing, life is action. In death there is no action. If action goes, how will rest remain?

Thus, first man disordered the arrangement of labor; now his arrangement for rest is collapsing. In a city like New York, thirty percent of people cannot sleep without pills. Scientists say that within twenty-five years not a single person in New York will sleep without medication; in fifty years, all of America; in a hundred, India too—only a time lag, since we are moving in the same direction.

A hundred years from now, children may not believe that once people would rest their heads on pillows at night and simply fall asleep. Even today, tell an insomniac, “Strange—you lie down and sleep; I do,” and he will say, “Strange indeed; I lie down, toss and turn, do everything—and sleep does not come. How do you fall asleep? I can’t believe it.” For now some still sleep, so there is grudging belief. But when no one does, people will call it myth.

Once, sleep was as near as God. Even today for some, God is as near as your sleep is to you—no more distant. Rest your head and you arrive at his feet; stretch out your hand and his hand meets yours; lift your eyes and the vision begins; close them and he is present—this near. But for that, one needs the capacity to enter perfect relaxation, emptiness, silence.

Man is losing even sleep—what to say of rest, emptiness, meditation, surrender! Losing both labor and rest has made man deeply irreligious.

So I am not going to tell you that somewhere amulets and charms are sold—tie them on and bliss will be yours; nor will I tell you to go to some Mother’s temple and bang your head so that bliss will be yours; nor will I tell you to chant “Santoshi Mata ki jai, Santoshi Mata ki jai,” and bliss will be yours. Nothing can come from such foolishness. If bliss is to be attained, you have to understand the whole science of life and experiment with it.

Life has its own science; I told you two sutras of that science. I will repeat them, and add one small point, and with that I will complete my talk.

Seek experiences that are as living, blazing, and intense as possible. Do not live loosely, lazily, sluggishly. To live a hundred years like a dim ember has no meaning; to live even a single moment like a blazing coal has meaning. To lie buried in ash for a thousand years has no value. A single moment like a shining star, a single moment lived burning totally, has meaning—because in that very intensity the secrets of life, the truths hidden in life, begin to be experienced.

There is no meaning in lying in bed day and night either. But to enter perfect relaxation even for a single moment has great value, great meaning. And the natural design of life is just this: there is day, there is night; the sun rises; the velvety blanket of darkness spreads. With the sun’s burning rays, something within you too should ignite, be aflame. All day let life move in that blaze, in that intensity of life-energy. Let the day pass with the intensity with which arrows fly from taut bowstrings, with which birds fly in the sky, with which deer run in the forests.

And as at night the petals of flowers close, as leaves silently fall asleep, as birds fold their wings and hide their heads and become silent—so in the dark nest of night, go to sleep, become silent, become still.

Let work be intense, let rest be intense; let everything be intense—waking too, sleeping too. Then you will surely step into the current of the river of bliss, between these two banks. And whoever steps into the river of bliss one day reaches the ocean of bliss as well. That ocean is a person’s consciousness.

I am no pundit, no scholar; I don’t know what the pundits say. I only know this: the soul is a stream, and God is the ocean. Whatever flows in the stream of the soul will one day surely reach the ocean of God. The day the stream gathers the courage to lose itself—to drown, to dissolve—that very day it becomes the Lord. We will speak on that third sutra tomorrow morning. For now, this much is enough.

You have listened to my words with such love and peace; for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the divine seated within everyone. Please accept my salutations.