Ignorance is the field for the others—whether dormant, attenuated, interrupted, or fully active.
Chapter 2: Sutra 4 All things happen of themselves, yet they do not turn away from them; they give them life, yet they do not appropriate them. They pass through all these processes, yet they do not become their masters; they fulfill what is to be done, yet they do not take the credit. Since they do not claim the credit, none can deprive them of it.
Therefore the wise arrange their affairs through non-doing, and communicate their principles through the wordless.
Tao Upanishad #8
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
Chapter 2 : Sutra 4
All things take their rise, but he does not turn away from them; He gives them life, but does not take possession of them; He goes through these processes, but does not take possession of them; He acts, but does not appropriate; It is because he lays no claim to credit that the credit cannot be taken away from him.
All things take their rise, but he does not turn away from them; He gives them life, but does not take possession of them; He goes through these processes, but does not take possession of them; He acts, but does not appropriate; It is because he lays no claim to credit that the credit cannot be taken away from him.
Transliteration:
Chapter 2 : Sutra 4
All things take their rise, but he does not turn away from them; He gives them life, but does not take possession of them; He goes through these processes, but does not take possession of them; He acts, but does not appropriate; It is because he lays no claim to credit that the credit cannot be taken away from him.
Chapter 2 : Sutra 4
All things take their rise, but he does not turn away from them; He gives them life, but does not take possession of them; He goes through these processes, but does not take possession of them; He acts, but does not appropriate; It is because he lays no claim to credit that the credit cannot be taken away from him.
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, in Lao Tzu’s vision of life, what place is there for sadhana (spiritual practice)? And one who relies only on drifting, not on swimming—how can he reach his goal? Is effort not necessary to reach the goal? Lao Tzu’s “doing nothing,” being inactive, also seems like a kind of goal. To abandon oneself to unknowing, unknown currents—is that wisdom, a mark of the wise, or is it ignorance and the mark of the ignorant?
Lao Tzu does not trust sadhana. Because Lao Tzu says: whatever is attained by practice will not be your nature. Understand this a little. Whatever is attained by practice will not be nature. That which has to be practiced will be only a habit. Nature is that which is given without practice. That which already is—that alone is nature. Whatever has to be manufactured is not nature; it will be only habit.
A man can make a habit of smoking; a man can make a habit of praying. As far as habit goes, both are habits. All habits cover your nature, like leaves covering the surface of water. Nature gets pressed underneath.
Lao Tzu says there is nothing to be called sadhana. That which is already given, already found, that which you are—that alone has to be known. So do not create new habits. Lao Tzu is not in favor of yoga, sadhana—any of it. He says, do not make any habit at all. Simply know that which you were before birth and will be even after death. Discover that which is still present in the depths. Whatever you practice will be on the periphery; no practice can be at the center. Whoever practices will practice on the periphery. Whatever coloring and polishing you do will be upon the body. At most, the effort you make will be upon the mind. But nature is beyond both body and mind. To know that nature you do not need to do anything.
But remember: doing nothing is a very big doing. Doing nothing is no small thing. So when we hear “do nothing,” our mind concludes: “We are not doing anything anyway—so this is fine. This is exactly what Lao Tzu is saying: as we are, not doing anything.”
Lao Tzu is not speaking about you. You are doing a great deal. If you are not practicing to attain the divine, you are practicing to attain the world. Your sadhana is on. If you are not going in search of the divine, then you are going in search of getting lost—but you are pouring your whole strength into it.
So do not think that your “doing nothing” is what Lao Tzu is talking about. Your not-doing is not non-doing. Your not-doing is doing everything in the direction of the world, only nothing in the direction of the divine.
So there is you—and Lao Tzu is against you as well. He says no. Sometimes, out of you, a worldly person leaves the world and starts practicing for God. But his methodology remains the same, his method the same. The way he used to earn wealth, in the same way he accumulates religion. The way he used to impose effort and tension upon the body to get something in this world, in that same way he now sets out to get something in the other world. Lao Tzu says, he is wrong—and you are wrong too. For if what is to be found were something obtainable in the future, then of course something would have to be done. But it is already found. It only has to be uncovered, discovered, unveiled. And all practice will cover it, not uncover it. All practice will cover it, not uncover it.
Then you may ask: What, then, do the paths of practice do? Are they wrong?
According to Lao Tzu, entirely wrong. Entirely wrong. Because Lao Tzu says: practice nothing, drop everything, and you will know. But according to you, those paths are very right—because you can understand only the language of doing. You cannot understand the language of non-doing.
What Lao Tzu is saying—perhaps one person in a million understands it rightly: non-doing. And whoever understands non-doing is liberated in that very instant. He need not wait even for the next moment. But the rest do not understand. They do not understand—then what is to be done for them? Either Lao Tzu may go on saying his thing, and the rest may go on doing what they do.
No: for those who do not understand and can only understand doing, something must be made for them to do. And they must be made to do so much that by doing and doing they become exhausted and drop it. But the event happens only when they drop. Remember this: the event will not happen before that point of letting go which Lao Tzu speaks of. They must be tired out by doing. They must be made to do so much that they come to such a pitch of tension that there remains no way to maintain it, and the tension falls away.
Tension has its laws. Either you drop tension right now—through understanding. One way is to drop tension through understanding. My fist is clenched. One way is that you tell me: “Clenched is not the fist’s nature; therefore you will get tired. Clenched is not the fist’s nature; therefore you will become unnecessarily exhausted, because to clench you must exert energy, and you are suffering needlessly.” Then I ask you: “How shall I open the fist? What device should I use? What practice should I do to open it?” Then you will say: “You still have not understood. For you to open the fist you need a practice? You are laboring to clench it. If understanding happens, the fist should open. There should be no need to ask.”
But you ask, “What should I do? Should I clench the other fist? Should I stand on my head? What should I do?”
You say, “I have understood”—although in truth you have not. If understanding happens, the fist should open; that will be the proof that you understood. You will not need to say, “I have understood.” Because to clench requires effort; to open requires nothing at all. Simply stop doing what you were doing—clenching—and the fist opens.
Have you ever noticed that for an open hand you do not have to do anything? The open hand is nature. Therefore no labor, no burden, no discomfort falls upon an open hand. You need do nothing and the hand remains open. To clench, something must be done.
Liberation is man’s nature; the world is man’s contrived condition.
The world is like a clenched fist; liberation is like an open hand.
Lao Tzu says: You ask, “What should we do to open?” If someone asks what to do to clench, it makes sense. But to open, nothing needs to be done—just open it. Just open it.
It seems very difficult to us to “just open it.” The real reason is that we do not want to open it. We imagine a Kohinoor is wrapped inside our fist. And Lao Tzu says, “Just open it”—then the Kohinoor will fall. We keep that hidden. We do not even tell Lao Tzu that in our fist a Kohinoor is clenched. Instead we ask him, “How to open? Opening is very difficult—please teach some practice!” Practice and suchlike are tactics of postponement: “Until you teach us the practice, we will keep holding the Kohinoor. When we have properly learned to open, then we will open.”
We do not tell even Lao Tzu that our fist holds a Kohinoor. And Lao Tzu is astonished: “To open, nothing needs to be done, friend—open it!” But he does not know that, for you, to open something will have to be done—because this man is intent upon holding something inside the fist. We are not filled with tension for nothing; we are filled with tension for very meaningful reasons. We think if we drop the tension, all those Kohinoors will be lost.
Wherever there is the clenched fist of tension, there is something or other we are grasping. Drop ownership. But it is all a play of our ownership! Then what if tomorrow morning the son gets up to go? What if the wife says, “Goodbye” tomorrow? It is all a game of ownership, and by tomorrow morning it will all scatter. We say, “We perfectly understand—but how to drop this tension? Tell some method!”
We ask for a method for the sake of postponement, for delay. “Tell your method; we will practice it, we will try; then we will see. When it opens, we will open it. For now it does not open.”
Lao Tzu cannot make sense of what you are saying. “To open the fist you must do something? Some mantra-tantra? Nothing needs to be done. For your nature, nothing needs to be done. All your doing is for the clenching.”
Now, there is another interesting point. If you will not open it this way, then there is a second device—the other way. Only two ways exist in the world: arrive at non-doing by doing, or enter non-doing directly. Take a leap, or climb stairs.
If you are not willing to open the fist right now, then paths have to be found for you. Then you are told: “Clench the fist even harder. Clench it so hard—harder and harder—with all the strength you have!” Do you know that a limit will come to your clenching, beyond which you will not be able to clench the fist? And suddenly you will find the fist is opening and the Kohinoor is falling. But then you will not even be able to clench again, because all your energy has already been spent; no strength remains to clench.
So the paths of method say: “Clench.” They tell you this knowingly. Your foolishness is so evident that they tell you knowingly. They know very well that you will not open. You will open only when you can no longer clench. Understand this well: when you can no longer clench—when you suddenly find that you are trying inwardly with all your might, but strength no longer cooperates and it just will not clench, it keeps opening—when you cannot clench, then it will open.
So a device has to be used to make you clench. All methods take your fist to that limit—tension to the climax, to the very peak—after which collapse happens. Everything is shaken off. Suddenly you find the hand is open and there is no Kohinoor or anything. There never was a Kohinoor. But you never even looked by opening, in case it might fall out. Is the Kohinoor in the fist or not? You never even opened to check—because if you open to check, it might drop, or the neighbor might see! So you go on clenching, clenching. The day the fist opens, you discover there was no Kohinoor. So much effort has gone in vain.
Method says, “Clench.” The methodless path—Lao Tzu’s—says, “Without opening you will not attain—so open now.” Lao Tzu says, “Open right now.” He knows there is no Kohinoor in your hand. But you do not know—that is why you are obstructed. The other paths also make you do exactly what Lao Tzu is making you do, but they proceed with an understanding of you. Lao Tzu says what he says from his own understanding; often it will pass right over your head.
The other paths proceed with an understanding of you. They say, “Fine. If you cannot drop, then clench. We will give you methods. Hold on to them tightly. Work hard at them—work so hard that a moment will come”—though they will not tell you this; they will say, “Keep working, keep working”—“a moment will come when all your effort is exhausted and you, helpless, will drop.” They say, “Swim hard. How long can you go on swimming? This ocean has no shore where you will arrive by swimming.”
Lao Tzu says, “Do not exert, for if there were a shore, you could swim and reach it. There is no shore. Do not exert—float.” Lao Tzu says, “There is no destination other than this ocean itself. There is no goal somewhere else that you will swim to. This ocean itself is the goal. You are to immerse in it; you are to become one with it. If you swim you will keep fighting; if you keep fighting, how will you become one? You will remain separate from the ocean.”
The swimmer never becomes one with the ocean; he is fighting. Swimming means fight. It means: we shall not allow the ocean to drown us; we shall not let the ocean erase us; we shall survive. We shall clash with the waves. We shall search for a shore. We have our own direction; there we must reach. There is a goal we must attain.
The one who floats says, “No.” Lao Tzu says, “There is no destination except this ocean; there is no shore except this very midstream; there is nowhere to reach except right where you are. Therefore drop it—do not swim. Float; floating itself is the goal. You will attain this very moment if you drop swimming. Then you will become one with the ocean. Enmity will break; friendship will be established.”
But we insist, “How can we just drop like that? There is a shore. If we begin to float like that, who knows whether we will reach the place we were supposed to reach or not? So we will swim.” So the methods say, “Swim! Then swim harder. There is the goal ahead—swim. Put in all your strength and swim. Swim birth after birth.” One day, by swimming and swimming you will become so tired—the ocean will not tire; you will—that a moment will come when your limbs will go limp, when your breath will give out, when your lungs will say, “Enough! No shore is found, no far bank is found, there is no goal. Everywhere we go, there is only the ocean. Wherever we reach by swimming, there is the ocean.” From afar a shore seems to appear; when you come near, there are only waves. From afar a destination seems to appear; when you approach, it turns out to be the ocean. Birth after birth you swim and discover: ocean, ocean, ocean—and nothing else. Exhausted now, you let go.
In that letting go, the very event happens which Lao Tzu told you many lifetimes ago: let go. And the day you let go, your mind will say, “What a mistake—not to have listened to Lao Tzu earlier.” But perhaps, being the kind of person you are—clever—you could not have listened earlier. A clever person never agrees until he has exhausted all his cleverness. Yes—when cleverness gets tired, breaks, falls apart, then. But in any case the event happens only as Lao Tzu says—only then! Whether you arrive there by getting tired, or by understanding?
What can be done now by understanding happens by getting tired over lifetimes. Only a time gap makes the difference—nothing else.
A man can make a habit of smoking; a man can make a habit of praying. As far as habit goes, both are habits. All habits cover your nature, like leaves covering the surface of water. Nature gets pressed underneath.
Lao Tzu says there is nothing to be called sadhana. That which is already given, already found, that which you are—that alone has to be known. So do not create new habits. Lao Tzu is not in favor of yoga, sadhana—any of it. He says, do not make any habit at all. Simply know that which you were before birth and will be even after death. Discover that which is still present in the depths. Whatever you practice will be on the periphery; no practice can be at the center. Whoever practices will practice on the periphery. Whatever coloring and polishing you do will be upon the body. At most, the effort you make will be upon the mind. But nature is beyond both body and mind. To know that nature you do not need to do anything.
But remember: doing nothing is a very big doing. Doing nothing is no small thing. So when we hear “do nothing,” our mind concludes: “We are not doing anything anyway—so this is fine. This is exactly what Lao Tzu is saying: as we are, not doing anything.”
Lao Tzu is not speaking about you. You are doing a great deal. If you are not practicing to attain the divine, you are practicing to attain the world. Your sadhana is on. If you are not going in search of the divine, then you are going in search of getting lost—but you are pouring your whole strength into it.
So do not think that your “doing nothing” is what Lao Tzu is talking about. Your not-doing is not non-doing. Your not-doing is doing everything in the direction of the world, only nothing in the direction of the divine.
So there is you—and Lao Tzu is against you as well. He says no. Sometimes, out of you, a worldly person leaves the world and starts practicing for God. But his methodology remains the same, his method the same. The way he used to earn wealth, in the same way he accumulates religion. The way he used to impose effort and tension upon the body to get something in this world, in that same way he now sets out to get something in the other world. Lao Tzu says, he is wrong—and you are wrong too. For if what is to be found were something obtainable in the future, then of course something would have to be done. But it is already found. It only has to be uncovered, discovered, unveiled. And all practice will cover it, not uncover it. All practice will cover it, not uncover it.
Then you may ask: What, then, do the paths of practice do? Are they wrong?
According to Lao Tzu, entirely wrong. Entirely wrong. Because Lao Tzu says: practice nothing, drop everything, and you will know. But according to you, those paths are very right—because you can understand only the language of doing. You cannot understand the language of non-doing.
What Lao Tzu is saying—perhaps one person in a million understands it rightly: non-doing. And whoever understands non-doing is liberated in that very instant. He need not wait even for the next moment. But the rest do not understand. They do not understand—then what is to be done for them? Either Lao Tzu may go on saying his thing, and the rest may go on doing what they do.
No: for those who do not understand and can only understand doing, something must be made for them to do. And they must be made to do so much that by doing and doing they become exhausted and drop it. But the event happens only when they drop. Remember this: the event will not happen before that point of letting go which Lao Tzu speaks of. They must be tired out by doing. They must be made to do so much that they come to such a pitch of tension that there remains no way to maintain it, and the tension falls away.
Tension has its laws. Either you drop tension right now—through understanding. One way is to drop tension through understanding. My fist is clenched. One way is that you tell me: “Clenched is not the fist’s nature; therefore you will get tired. Clenched is not the fist’s nature; therefore you will become unnecessarily exhausted, because to clench you must exert energy, and you are suffering needlessly.” Then I ask you: “How shall I open the fist? What device should I use? What practice should I do to open it?” Then you will say: “You still have not understood. For you to open the fist you need a practice? You are laboring to clench it. If understanding happens, the fist should open. There should be no need to ask.”
But you ask, “What should I do? Should I clench the other fist? Should I stand on my head? What should I do?”
You say, “I have understood”—although in truth you have not. If understanding happens, the fist should open; that will be the proof that you understood. You will not need to say, “I have understood.” Because to clench requires effort; to open requires nothing at all. Simply stop doing what you were doing—clenching—and the fist opens.
Have you ever noticed that for an open hand you do not have to do anything? The open hand is nature. Therefore no labor, no burden, no discomfort falls upon an open hand. You need do nothing and the hand remains open. To clench, something must be done.
Liberation is man’s nature; the world is man’s contrived condition.
The world is like a clenched fist; liberation is like an open hand.
Lao Tzu says: You ask, “What should we do to open?” If someone asks what to do to clench, it makes sense. But to open, nothing needs to be done—just open it. Just open it.
It seems very difficult to us to “just open it.” The real reason is that we do not want to open it. We imagine a Kohinoor is wrapped inside our fist. And Lao Tzu says, “Just open it”—then the Kohinoor will fall. We keep that hidden. We do not even tell Lao Tzu that in our fist a Kohinoor is clenched. Instead we ask him, “How to open? Opening is very difficult—please teach some practice!” Practice and suchlike are tactics of postponement: “Until you teach us the practice, we will keep holding the Kohinoor. When we have properly learned to open, then we will open.”
We do not tell even Lao Tzu that our fist holds a Kohinoor. And Lao Tzu is astonished: “To open, nothing needs to be done, friend—open it!” But he does not know that, for you, to open something will have to be done—because this man is intent upon holding something inside the fist. We are not filled with tension for nothing; we are filled with tension for very meaningful reasons. We think if we drop the tension, all those Kohinoors will be lost.
Wherever there is the clenched fist of tension, there is something or other we are grasping. Drop ownership. But it is all a play of our ownership! Then what if tomorrow morning the son gets up to go? What if the wife says, “Goodbye” tomorrow? It is all a game of ownership, and by tomorrow morning it will all scatter. We say, “We perfectly understand—but how to drop this tension? Tell some method!”
We ask for a method for the sake of postponement, for delay. “Tell your method; we will practice it, we will try; then we will see. When it opens, we will open it. For now it does not open.”
Lao Tzu cannot make sense of what you are saying. “To open the fist you must do something? Some mantra-tantra? Nothing needs to be done. For your nature, nothing needs to be done. All your doing is for the clenching.”
Now, there is another interesting point. If you will not open it this way, then there is a second device—the other way. Only two ways exist in the world: arrive at non-doing by doing, or enter non-doing directly. Take a leap, or climb stairs.
If you are not willing to open the fist right now, then paths have to be found for you. Then you are told: “Clench the fist even harder. Clench it so hard—harder and harder—with all the strength you have!” Do you know that a limit will come to your clenching, beyond which you will not be able to clench the fist? And suddenly you will find the fist is opening and the Kohinoor is falling. But then you will not even be able to clench again, because all your energy has already been spent; no strength remains to clench.
So the paths of method say: “Clench.” They tell you this knowingly. Your foolishness is so evident that they tell you knowingly. They know very well that you will not open. You will open only when you can no longer clench. Understand this well: when you can no longer clench—when you suddenly find that you are trying inwardly with all your might, but strength no longer cooperates and it just will not clench, it keeps opening—when you cannot clench, then it will open.
So a device has to be used to make you clench. All methods take your fist to that limit—tension to the climax, to the very peak—after which collapse happens. Everything is shaken off. Suddenly you find the hand is open and there is no Kohinoor or anything. There never was a Kohinoor. But you never even looked by opening, in case it might fall out. Is the Kohinoor in the fist or not? You never even opened to check—because if you open to check, it might drop, or the neighbor might see! So you go on clenching, clenching. The day the fist opens, you discover there was no Kohinoor. So much effort has gone in vain.
Method says, “Clench.” The methodless path—Lao Tzu’s—says, “Without opening you will not attain—so open now.” Lao Tzu says, “Open right now.” He knows there is no Kohinoor in your hand. But you do not know—that is why you are obstructed. The other paths also make you do exactly what Lao Tzu is making you do, but they proceed with an understanding of you. Lao Tzu says what he says from his own understanding; often it will pass right over your head.
The other paths proceed with an understanding of you. They say, “Fine. If you cannot drop, then clench. We will give you methods. Hold on to them tightly. Work hard at them—work so hard that a moment will come”—though they will not tell you this; they will say, “Keep working, keep working”—“a moment will come when all your effort is exhausted and you, helpless, will drop.” They say, “Swim hard. How long can you go on swimming? This ocean has no shore where you will arrive by swimming.”
Lao Tzu says, “Do not exert, for if there were a shore, you could swim and reach it. There is no shore. Do not exert—float.” Lao Tzu says, “There is no destination other than this ocean itself. There is no goal somewhere else that you will swim to. This ocean itself is the goal. You are to immerse in it; you are to become one with it. If you swim you will keep fighting; if you keep fighting, how will you become one? You will remain separate from the ocean.”
The swimmer never becomes one with the ocean; he is fighting. Swimming means fight. It means: we shall not allow the ocean to drown us; we shall not let the ocean erase us; we shall survive. We shall clash with the waves. We shall search for a shore. We have our own direction; there we must reach. There is a goal we must attain.
The one who floats says, “No.” Lao Tzu says, “There is no destination except this ocean; there is no shore except this very midstream; there is nowhere to reach except right where you are. Therefore drop it—do not swim. Float; floating itself is the goal. You will attain this very moment if you drop swimming. Then you will become one with the ocean. Enmity will break; friendship will be established.”
But we insist, “How can we just drop like that? There is a shore. If we begin to float like that, who knows whether we will reach the place we were supposed to reach or not? So we will swim.” So the methods say, “Swim! Then swim harder. There is the goal ahead—swim. Put in all your strength and swim. Swim birth after birth.” One day, by swimming and swimming you will become so tired—the ocean will not tire; you will—that a moment will come when your limbs will go limp, when your breath will give out, when your lungs will say, “Enough! No shore is found, no far bank is found, there is no goal. Everywhere we go, there is only the ocean. Wherever we reach by swimming, there is the ocean.” From afar a shore seems to appear; when you come near, there are only waves. From afar a destination seems to appear; when you approach, it turns out to be the ocean. Birth after birth you swim and discover: ocean, ocean, ocean—and nothing else. Exhausted now, you let go.
In that letting go, the very event happens which Lao Tzu told you many lifetimes ago: let go. And the day you let go, your mind will say, “What a mistake—not to have listened to Lao Tzu earlier.” But perhaps, being the kind of person you are—clever—you could not have listened earlier. A clever person never agrees until he has exhausted all his cleverness. Yes—when cleverness gets tired, breaks, falls apart, then. But in any case the event happens only as Lao Tzu says—only then! Whether you arrive there by getting tired, or by understanding?
What can be done now by understanding happens by getting tired over lifetimes. Only a time gap makes the difference—nothing else.
Osho, is this what Krishnamurti says?
We will have to take him up in a separate discussion. Soon we will hold a talk on him; then it will become clear.
Osho's Commentary
One of Tao’s fundamental principles is this: all things happen of themselves. There is nothing for which our presence is needed in order to make it happen; everything happens without us. Sleep comes, hunger comes, birth happens, death happens—everything happens by itself.
But that which happens by itself—we proceed as if we are making it happen. In Lao Tzu’s vision the greatest delusion of man is exactly this: that he becomes the doer of that which simply happens. To become the doer of what happens is the greatest ignorance.
Lao Tzu does not even say to you, "Stop stealing." He does not say, "Drop dishonesty." Lao Tzu says: neither can you do anything, nor can you drop anything. For the talk of dropping arises only if we are the doers. If I have done something, I can drop something. If I am not the doer at all, there is no way to drop. Understand this a little clearly. For all renunciate ideologies stand opposed to this principle of Lao Tzu. The renunciate believes, "I can drop." Lao Tzu says, "When you cannot do, how will you drop?" Lao Tzu says, "In action there is neither the possibility of doing nor of dropping. Yes, you can become a doer—only that much freedom you have! And you also have the freedom not to become a doer." Whatever is happening will go on happening.
Since Lao Tzu’s time a joke has been current in China. A young man goes to the seashore with his beloved. It is a moonlit night. And the waves, swelling with vigor, are coming shoreward. The youth lifts his face to the sky and says to the ocean, "O Ocean! Surge, surge mightily! Raise your waves with your full strength!"
Such a beautiful night—and the waves are already rising, already rolling toward the shore. His beloved says, "Amazing, such power you have! I never knew the ocean obeys you." She says again, "Such power! I never knew the ocean obeys you so much. You said, 'Waves, rise,' and they began to rise! You said, 'Waves, come to the shore,' and they began to move to the shore!"
That joke has been around since Lao Tzu’s day. And Lao Tzu used to say, life is just like this. The waves are already rising; standing at the edge we say, "Waves, rise!" and we nurse the illusion in our minds that we have raised the waves.
Lao Tzu says, you can be neither a doer nor a renunciate. If you become acquainted with just this much truth—that things happen of themselves, and nothing is needed for their happening; that the very nature of things is to happen—then, Lao Tzu says, I call such a one wise who knows that all things happen by themselves. Yet they do not turn away from them. Because when things happen by themselves, the wise do not turn away. Turning away arises only if I am making them happen; only then is there the question of renunciation, of dispassion, of turning aside.
Understand. Hunger comes, and the ignorant overeat. He thinks, "I am eating." Even he cannot eat beyond a limit.
It is mentioned in the life of Nasruddin: he is traveling on pilgrimage with a disciple. He notices daily that when the disciple eats, after eating he shakes his body, and then eats again; he has been seeing this for months. One day he asks, "What is this? You eat, then shake, then eat again, then shake again." The youth says, "Perhaps you do not know: by shaking a little I create more space in the body, then I can eat a bit more." Nasruddin slaps him hard and says, "Crook! Just think of the pain to my mind at how much food I could have eaten and did not! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I always suspected that the amount I eat is not the limit of eating—and I also know the final limit of eating is the bursting of the belly. If one eats completely, the belly should burst—up to there."
The ignorant thinks, "I am eating." Another ignorant one may think, "I am fasting." Lao Tzu will call both ignorant, because both take themselves to be the doer—one in doing, one in dropping. Lao Tzu will say, the wise does not turn away. He does not believe, "I eat." Hunger eats. He keeps watching. If hunger arises, he takes food; if not, he does not. If hunger does not arise, he remains fasting; if hunger arises, he eats. He neither turns away from hunger nor stuffs it insistently. He does not meddle with hunger. He relates to the process of hunger with a witnessing attitude.
Someone goes to the monk Takuan and asks, "What is your practice?"
Takuan says, "I have no other practice. My Master only told me this much: when sleep comes, go to sleep; when hunger comes, take food. So, when sleep comes to me, I sleep. When sleep breaks, I get up. When hunger comes, I eat; when it does not, I do not. When there is a call to speak, I speak; when there is a call to silence, I remain silent."
The man says, "Is this any practice at all? Is that a practice?"
Takuan says, "I do not know whether it is a practice or not—because my Master said, 'That you can practice is itself ignorance.' That you can practice—that is ignorance. So I am not practicing anything. Now I simply watch whatever happens. Whether this is practice or not, I do not know. I can only say this much: since I began to accept sleep, hunger, rising, lying down, waking—since then I am in supreme bliss; since then sorrow has not befallen me. Because I have accepted everything. Even if sorrow comes, I no longer receive it as sorrow, because I have accepted it. I think simply: it is happening so."
Remember, sorrow only appears sorrow when we reject. The sting of sorrow is not in sorrow, it is in our rejection. Pain is not in sorrow; pain is in our refusal—"This should not have happened, and it has—therefore the pain." If I know that what has happened is exactly what should have happened, that it could only have happened thus, then the sting, the pain of sorrow remains no more. There is no pain in the loss of happiness. The pain is: "Happiness should not have been lost; I could have saved it—I failed"—there the pain is. If I know that happiness came and went—whatever comes goes—if in my mind there is no thought that I could have saved it, then there is no question of pain.
So Takuan says, "I do not know what practice is. I only know that since I have known and lived thus, I have not known sorrow."
Lao Tzu says, "They do not turn away." They know that things happen of themselves.
To understand this, it will be very useful to understand a little of Mahavira.
Mahavira has a sutra very close to this—and of great worth. Wherever Mahavira uses the word Dharma—wherever—he never means religion or 'religion' as a creed. Mahavira’s Dharma means the nature of things—the Svabhava of things. Mahavira’s sutra for Dharma is: "Vatthu sahāo dhamma"—that which is the nature of a thing, that is Dharma. Fire burns—that is its nature. Water seeks the hollow—that is its nature. A child becomes young—that is its nature. Pleasure comes and goes—that is its nature. Nothing abides in the world—that is the world’s nature. Man is born and dies—this is destiny, this is nature. Mahavira says, this all is Svabhava. If you rightly know this to be nature, you are free—this very moment.
We are in trouble only because we fight against nature. We are all fighting—fighting with nature. The body will become old—we fight; the body will become ill—we fight. All that is nature. Whatever happens in this world is natural.
Lao Tzu says: all things happen by themselves; yet the wise do not turn away from them. There is no reason to turn away. If you turn away, the old mind returns again: "I can turn away."
No—Lao Tzu says, the wise do not even strive to be free. The wise do not strive at all. Because all striving ends by binding you. The wise do not desire that "it should be so." Whoever desires that "it should be so" will fall into sorrow. For this world does not run by accepting anyone’s desires; it runs by its own law. Sometimes your desire coincides with it, and you fall into the illusion that the ocean’s waves are rising obeying you. And sometimes the ocean is not rising and you keep reciting your old poem, "Rise, O waves; move, O waves"—they do not move, and you become miserable. The ocean neither moves by obeying you nor stops by listening to you. It is mere coincidence that sometimes your desire and the ocean’s waves happen to coincide—and sometimes they do not.
Sometimes you keep on winning and you think, "I am winning." And sometimes you keep on losing and think, "I am losing." But the truth is only this much: the nature of things is such that sometimes coincidence gives birth to the illusion of winning, and sometimes to the illusion of losing. Sometimes whatever dice you throw lands right; sometimes whatever you throw lands wrong. The whole question is only this: when it is in accord with the nature of things, it lands right; when it is contrary, it does not.
I have heard: a man had been losing for years in the market. Whatever deals he made, he lost. He was a billionaire; he squandered millions in losses. All his friends became familiar with the regularity of his losing. So whatever he did, his friends did the opposite—and were always in profit. It became so obvious that the entire market watched him: whatever he is doing, do not, by mistake, do that.
After years, one day the situation reversed. He did something. His friends, as usual, did the opposite. And all of them lost. He captured the whole market. His friends went to him and said, "You performed a miracle—what happened? This never happened before!"
The man said, "I have been losing for years. Today, consulting my years of accounting, it occurred to me that this time I should not do what my principle tells me. So this time I went against myself. As you always went against me, this time I went against myself. My rule was saying 'buy'; I sold."
Seeing him sell, because it was always profitable to do the opposite of him, everyone bought. He said, "For the first time it occurred to me that I have always been going against the nature of things, insisting on my own obstinacy. I do not know what is right. But one thing is certain: I will be wrong—so much is proven by five or ten years of experience. Therefore, I tried walking contrary to myself. Today I can say: to say 'I was losing' is wrong; to say 'I was winning' is wrong. When one falls in tune with the nature of things, he wins; when he falls out of tune, he loses."
If someone sees this truth rightly, Lao Tzu says, he does not turn away. He stands in life—as it is. He does not run anywhere, because he does not believe that running from life is possible. And if running happens, he does not stop it either.
Understand this, otherwise you will err. If running happens, he does not even stop that; he moves with the running as well. On his own he does nothing; whatever happens, he flows with it. Understand it thus: he does not swim, he drifts. He does not thrash about in the river’s current; he surrenders to the current and says, "Wherever you take me, that is my destination." Surely, in such a state, whatever happens in that person’s life will be unprecedented. Of that unprecedentedness he now gives an account.
"They give them life, yet do not appropriate."
Whatever the wise touches, he bestows life upon it. Yet he does not appropriate; he does not become its owner. He gives life—he gives all that he has to give—but he does not establish possession. Lao Tzu says, whatever you possess you provoke into rebellion; whatever you own you make into an enemy; whoever’s freedom you steal you incite into license.
The wise does not appropriate. Whatever there is, he gives, but he does not make any condition of return. If he gives love, he does not say, "Return love to me." If it returns, he accepts; if it does not, he accepts. There is no difference if it returns; there is no difference if it does not. He establishes no claim.
All claims demand return. What is the meaning of claim? It means: I have done something, now I am entitled to receive something in return, to receive an answer. If it does not come, I will be hurt. The irony is: whatever we claim—if it comes, we do not feel joy; if it does not, we feel pain. If I think I have given love to someone, then when I am in trouble I will receive help. If I do receive it, gratitude will not arise in me—because when there is a claim, "This should happen," and that is all that is happening—there is no question of gratitude. When something is taken for granted, it never gives joy.
I walk on the road and my wife, if I drop my handkerchief, picks it up and gives it to me—there is no question of joy. But if a stranger woman picks it up and gives it, it is delightful. I will thank her—because there was no expectation. If my mother sits all night and massages my head—no question arises; but if some other woman massages for an hour, perhaps I will remember it for life. Wherever there is claim, there is the expectation that things should be as they should be. If they are, no joy comes; if they are not, great sorrow comes.
The wonder is: claim brings nothing but sorrow. It never brings joy—because joy is already "supposed to be." When it is not, pain arises.
Lao Tzu says: the wise give life; they do not appropriate.
In truth, the wise knows the secret of joy. He is the reverse of how we are. Since he does not claim, if something is done for him he feels blessed; if not, there is no cause for sorrow—for there was no expectation that anyone would do anything.
Remember, his state is the opposite of ours. If someone invites him to eat, he experiences supreme good fortune; he feels graced, full of gratitude. Because he had never thought anyone would ask him for two pieces of bread. He feels blessed—supreme grace—that someone asked. If none asks, he is not unhappy; he never expected anyone would. Behind expectation is sorrow; behind claim is sorrow. Behind ownership there is nothing but hell.
Therefore, wherever ownership exists, there is hell. Ownership in any form—husband over wife, wife over husband, friend over friend, father over son, Guru over disciple—wherever ownership exists, in whatever form, hell grows behind it. And wherever ownership is not, under that open sky heaven is born.
So wherever you see hell, understand at once: ownership stands there. Without it hell never happens. Wherever there is sorrow, know that this ownership is giving birth to sorrow.
But we are strange. We never feel that sorrow comes from our ownership. We think it comes from the faults of others. Therefore we also never understand the reverse: that joy comes from our non-ownership. That too we fail to see.
Wherever there is joy, there is non-ownership; there is no sense of entitlement. And the wise is precisely that; if wisdom cannot lift one above hell, what value has it?
Lao Tzu says, "They give life." They give life. Not only love—they give all that can be given. But they do not demand anything in return.
"They pass through all these processes, yet do not become their masters."
They pass through all the forms of life, through all processes—every process. In childhood they are children, in youth they are young, in old age they become old. Passing through youth they do not become the masters of youth. Whoever becomes the owner of youth will weep, repent, scream when old age comes—ownership has been snatched. The wise pass through youth, but do not appropriate. Therefore when old age comes, they welcome it. They pass through life, but do not become owners of life. Therefore when death comes, she finds them with arms open at the door. Because they claim no ownership over life, death can steal nothing from them.
Remember, theft is possible only when the feeling of ownership has arisen in you. Only then can you be robbed, only then can you be deceived.
The wise cannot be deceived. From the wise nothing can be stolen. From the wise nothing can be erased. For he never allows the root-cause of all that to take hold. He never becomes an owner.
Understand a little that ownership is the foundation of our suffering—and we do not even notice. We become owners so quietly there is no measure of it. Not only do we become owners where ownership seems convenient; even where there is no convenience, we create the feeling of ownership. Where there is no means at all, we still generate the sense of ownership. Give us just a little opportunity to sit somewhere and we become the owner. Many times we become owners in places where ownership could not even be imagined. Our whole life is full of such claims. If you have come to me for two moments and I have seated you with love, whether you know it or not, you will start owning me too.
People write me letters. As a rule I reply to their first letter. Then my reply reaches them, and a second letter arrives at once; then a third—at once! As long as it is convenient for me, I reply. But soon I find they have nothing to say; they are writing only to receive my reply. Then I stop. I do not answer two or four letters—and a letter arrives filled with abuse. Then I am a little amazed—what could have happened?
I replied to two letters—and they established ownership that their letters are answered. Now if I do not reply, if I delay eight days, a letter arrives, showing clear anger: "Why have you not replied yet?" They must be suffering, hence anger. They must be in pain, hence anger. But you have the right to write a letter—yet because you wrote a letter, has it become compulsory that I must reply? I too have the right to write—but that a reply must come, that is not compulsory. If I am free to write, you are also free not to write. But the mind arranges ownership in such subtle places—and then suffers greatly.
Lao Tzu says, "They pass through all these processes."
What we call life is a long spread of processes. Every moment some process is going on—of love or hate, of wealth or friendship—some process is on. The breath is moving, sleep is coming, we are eating, coming, going. But in this whole web of processes the wise does not become the master. Therefore no one can dethrone him; from his sovereignty no one can bring him down—because he has none.
Lao Tzu says, "They fulfill what is to be done, yet do not take the credit."
Whatever seems fit to do, they do; but they never take credit. They never say, "Acknowledge that I did this; accept that I did it."
Nasruddin is bathing in a river. It is deep. Unaware, he goes ahead and is about to drown. A man rescues him. After that, wherever that man meets him—in the street, in the market, in the mosque—he says, "Remember, I was the one who saved you!" Nasruddin becomes harassed. The man misses no chance. Wherever he meets, he says, "Nasruddin, remember, I saved you from drowning."
One day Nasruddin takes his hand and says, "Remember? Quickly, come with me." The man asks, "Where are you taking me?" He says, "Quickly, come." At the river bank Nasruddin jumps in; standing exactly where he had been saved he says, "Brother, now go—do not save me. It turned out very costly. Go! If I can save myself I will; if I die, I will die. But you—please do not save me. See, I have come to exactly that depth of water from which you took me! Now go."
Whatever little we do, we beat the drum for it. Beating the drum shows it was not our duty; it was a bargain. We did not find joy in the doing itself; even there we made a deal, a trade—we were not outside economics even there.
Lao Tzu says: they fulfill their duty, but do not take credit. When the work is complete, they withdraw silently. When the matter is finished, they quietly depart. They do not remain even long enough for you to thank them—not even that long. Often it happens that whatever the wise does, he does it so silently that you do not even know he did it; often someone else takes the credit—often someone else! He does it so quietly that he slips into a corner; the credit-taker steps into the center.
The wise, often while doing, stands in front; when the credit is to be taken, he steps back. Why? Because for the wise, the duty itself is so full of joy; duty in itself is the whole joy. Only those wish to take credit who do not find joy in the doing.
A mother is raising her child. If she finds joy in raising him, she will not go about saying, "I brought him up." And if ever she does go about saying, "I brought him up, carried him nine months in my womb, bore such labor," then know she missed the joy of motherhood. She did the nurse’s job; she could not be a mother. For motherhood is so blissful that if she had truly known its joy, there would be no question of taking anything more from the son. The joy received is far more than the duty.
So often it will be that the wise will thank you—that you gave the opportunity to have a little joy. He will not expect thanks from you.
"Since they do not claim the credit, none can deprive them of it."
Lao Tzu’s last word here is: since they do not claim credit, they cannot be deprived of it. Only one who claims can be deprived. A claim can be refuted. But one who never claimed—how can you refute him? One who never said, "I did," how will you say to him, "You did not do"? One who never declared—there is no question of denying him.
So Lao Tzu says: those who do not claim their credit can never be deprived of it. Only those who claim can be deprived. And the wonder is: it is precisely those who claim who are already deprived, who never received anything. The desire to claim arises because no joy was found in the act—now perhaps it will be found in the credit. The desire to claim also arises when, in truth, you have not fulfilled the duty. Because duty in itself is so total, so complete, that there remains no question of claiming. But one who did not fulfill—behind him slinks remorse, a little guilt: "I could not." To suppress that worm he proclaims, "I did."
The mother who could not do much for her son will declare what she did. The mother who could do much will always say what she could not do. She will always be pained by that which remained undone. When a mother remembers what she could not do for her son, she gives the news that she is a mother. When a mother tells what she did, she gives the news that she is not a mother.
In life, claims arise from guilt.
Psychologists now accept this truth—especially Adler, one of the three great psychologists of this age. He deeply accepts Lao Tzu’s point. Adler says: the man who claims, claims precisely because he feels within that he is not worthy of the claim. The inferior man becomes ambitious. One who is afraid within creates a facade of bravery without. One who is weak within goes about declaring strength. One who is ignorant within builds layers of knowledge without. Adler says: a man proclaims the opposite of what he is within—exactly the opposite! Because what he is within hurts. He wants to wipe away his within by a reverse proclamation.
There is much truth in this—very far it goes. Those who suffer from inferiority-complex set out to show the world that they are something. Until the world admits they are something, they cannot get out of their inferiority. The day the world accepts, "Yes, you are something," that day it becomes convenient for them also to accept that they are something. Though the inner nothingness remains—it does not vanish so. Yet still, a deception, a self-deception happens.
Lao Tzu’s saying: they do not claim the credit…
In truth, those who are the real claimants never claim. Understand it thus: the real claimants never claim. Their claim is so authentic it needs no proclamation. Their claim is so fundamental that even God cannot deny it. Therefore there is no need to make anyone admit it.
Jesus was crucified. His disciples believed that on the cross Jesus would not be killed—because he would display a miracle, the cross would be made futile, and Jesus could not be killed. His disciples thought so—because if the Son of God missed such a moment and did not assert the claim—this was the chance; the enemy himself was giving it.
The enemies too said: if you are truly the Son of God, it will be decided upon the cross. If God cannot protect His own son, whom else will He protect? If even the Son of God can be hanged like an ordinary man and God can do nothing, the Son can do nothing, then all claims are false. They took Jesus to the cross with this thought: if he is truly the Son of God, the claim will be made obvious—we will not be able to crucify him.
The disciples also thought that on the cross all would be decided—decisive, the final conclusion would be reached. "You want to see a miracle? You will see it!"
But Jesus died silently; he died like an ordinary man. As nails were being driven into Jesus’ hands, the disciples watched eagerly: now the miracle happens… now! The enemies too waited intensely: perhaps a miracle will happen—who knows, perhaps this man really is the Son of God! But the enemies were disappointed, the friends were disappointed. Jesus died as any Tom, Dick, or Harry dies. A great shock.
For the enemies there was no reason for shock. They said, "Right—we always said he was lying. He is the carpenter’s son, not God’s." The disciples were shattered. They had expected—and the expectation broke. Disillusionment happened. An illusion collapsed.
For two thousand years those who love Jesus have pondered: what happened? Jesus should have proved himself. If one understands Lao Tzu, it becomes clear; otherwise Jesus will never be understood.
Jesus is indeed so much the Son of God that the claim is so authentic that it needed no proof. If Jesus had shown a miracle, in my view he would have become a non-entity. It would have meant that he was very eager to prove himself before men. His dying so silently, helpless like any man, is a proclamation that the man was not ordinary. An ordinary man would have flailed about.
No—he did nothing, far from flailing. The cross was heavy; those carrying it could not manage. Jesus said, "Put it on my shoulders; I am still young." The laborers were old. Jesus carried his own cross up the hill, mounted it lightly, and died silently.
The claim must have been so deep, the presence of God so near, that to prove it was useless. If Jesus had tried to prove it, he would have shown clearly that he was not secure in his claim. The real claimant never claims. But Christianity has not understood this—because Christianity has no inkling of Lao Tzu. In truth, whoever wishes to understand Jesus cannot without understanding Lao Tzu. Judaism has no formula to explain Jesus. None of those born before him in that land have any harmony with Jesus. Jesus was a wholly foreign element—completely alien.
In fact, whatever news came to Jesus came from India, China, and Egypt. His education happened in those three lands. Whatever was the essence of the East—whatever was the distillation of the life of the East—Jesus had it. Therefore those who know consider this a great miracle: that Jesus did not show a miracle. An ordinary man would have tried to show something. He showed nothing. The matter was so settled: what was there to claim? Before whom to claim? If before God the claim is clear, where is the need to prove before men? Only one goes to prove before men who is not proven before God.
"Since they do not claim the credit, none can deprive them of it."
Therefore I say: since Jesus did not claim, he cannot be deprived. He is established as the Son of God—by that non-miracle at death, when he did not perform any miracle. Otherwise man’s mind longs to do something. And when tension was so high—he is hanging on the cross, a hundred thousand gathered on that hill—the people waited: "Show something!" Friends wanted it, enemies wanted it. All went home empty-handed. Jesus died silently.
And this is the same man whose touch raised the dead; whose touch dissolved diseases; who, sitting under a dry tree, saw leaves sprout upon it; who stilled the storming sea with a gesture.
Yet he died without claim. Even enemies were amazed: even if not God’s son, this man knew something—for we have seen the sick healed, we have seen the dead raised. They were not expecting that nothing would happen. At least something! The cross might collapse, the nails might not pierce, or if they pierced there would be no blood—something was possible! And these are not great things; for them one need not be the Son of God. A simple yogi with a little deep practice of pranayama can stop bleeding. There was no great obstacle. Nothing happened. At the peak of expectation nothing happened.
This man must have been wondrous! To die so silently—this itself is a miracle. But you will understand it if you understand Lao Tzu. Many sayings of Jesus will not be understood without Lao Tzu.
Jesus says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
Without Lao Tzu it is hard to understand.
Jesus says, Blessed are the meek—those who have made no claim, who are humble, who have made no claim—for they are the heirs to the kingdom of the Lord. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for all the wealth of Paramatma is theirs.
Such sayings come from nowhere but Lao Tzu. In the Jewish tradition there is no place for them. For the Jewish law says: if someone puts out your one eye, you put out both of his. And if someone has put out one eye, God will punish him by putting out the other. In such a climate, the sudden birth of this man, and his saying: if someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt as well—perhaps out of shame he could not take the shirt; if one asks you to carry his load two miles, carry it three—perhaps he was shy and could not ask further. This wind, this vision, is Lao Tzu’s.
Do not claim credit—and then no one will ever be able to rob you of it. The moment you ask for credit, those who will snatch it will arise. You make the claim here; denial gathers there—because Lao Tzu says: the opposite is born immediately. If you seek praise, blame will come. If you seek honor, dishonor is certain. If you seek the throne, today or tomorrow you will fall into the dust. Lao Tzu says: sit where there is no lower place to fall from—then no one can make you fall. Then you are on the throne.
Lao Tzu says: he is on the throne whom no one can remove. And who is on the throne? Sit in the place from which there is no lower place. Then no one can lift you, and you are on the throne—for there is no question of removal.
Lao Tzu never claimed knowledge either. If someone came to Lao Tzu and said, "I have heard you are wise," Lao Tzu would say, "Surely you have heard wrongly. Take my word for it: those who said so know less about me than I do. I am very ignorant."
Those who did not know would depart thinking, "We troubled him for nothing." Those who knew would catch Lao Tzu’s feet and say, "Now we will not go—for we know only the wise can accept ignorance so; otherwise not. The ignorant always claim knowledge. Only the wise can say, 'I know nothing—seek elsewhere. You have been misinformed.'"
There is a Franciscan order. Saint Francis was one of the most humble souls born in Christianity. But for followers and "-ists" to be humble is very hard. At a gathering of all Christian orders, a Franciscan monk says, "It is true we are not as traditional as the Catholics; and it is true we are not as intellectual as the Trappists; and it is true we are not as skilled in prayer as the Quakers; but in humility we are at the top!" He says, "But in humility we are supreme!"
All went wrong—"in humility we are at the top!" What does humility mean? "We are supreme in humility—none can match us—we are followers of Francis."
Supreme in humility! Humility means: the sense of being above none—above none; the sense of standing last.
Jesus said: Blessed are those who stand last, for in my Father’s kingdom they shall be first.
This whole current, this breeze, is Lao Tzu’s. Do not claim credit.
But in ignorance the claim will be there. It may even happen as with that Franciscan, who said: "In humility we are at the top." It may happen that we say, "We do not claim credit at all." Then that itself is a claim. And in the mind’s subtle intricacies this is the greatest play: the mind can even say, "We do not claim credit." Then a claim has happened. And the mind can also say, "Since the wise say 'We are ignorant,' therefore we too say, 'We are ignorant.'" Then nothing is gained; we are again doing the same—and the mind goes round to the same.
Lao Tzu’s vision is to cut asunder the cycle of life’s complexities. What is that cycle? That whatever we strive for, that is exactly what we miss. Almost as if someone tries to bring sleep by effort—and misses; by trying sleep will not come. And someone does not try—and sleep comes.
Lao Tzu says: claim credit and you will be deprived. Do not claim—and credit is already yours. Try to establish ownership—and you will fall into slavery. Otherwise, who can snatch ownership! If you ask, you will suffer; because in this world nothing is obtained by asking. Do not ask—and everything is already yours.
These sutras appear inverted—but they are not. We are inverted; therefore they appear inverted. To us Lao Tzu will seem to be standing on his head. If you want credit, the straight method is: try to get it. You want fame—make efforts for fame. You want happiness—make efforts for happiness. Straightforward. We, who think we stand on our feet, will see Lao Tzu standing on his head, doing headstand: "What are you saying—that to attain happiness do not strive? Then how will it come? Even by striving we do not get it—and you say 'Do not strive.' Then all is lost; then we will never get it."
Be aware where the mind’s logic deceives you: it says, "Even by so much effort we do not get it—then without effort how will it come?" Lao Tzu will say: it is because you strive so much that it does not come. Try once without striving.
You have already tried by striving—for lives upon lives—and nothing came. Still our striving continues; the mind says, "A little short was the effort—that’s why it did not come. A little more, a little more." This logic never tires. It seems reasonable: if we have not reached the peak yet, we must toil a little more.
But Lao Tzu says: your striving is what holds you back. Drop striving.
Why does he say so? Why can he say this?
Because whatever is worth attaining in life is always already given. Because of striving we are so busy, so disturbed, that we do not see it. Often, if a thing is with us and we search for it in haste and hurry, it gets lost. That which was fully at hand gets lost. Many times you try to recall someone’s name—"It is on the tip of my tongue"—but the hurry to recall is so great, the man is in front, he asks, "Do you recognize me or not?" Great anxiety—and you know you recognize him; you cannot say you do not. The face is known, the name is known, but the hurry to bring it is such that it seems on the tongue—and still it does not come.
He goes away. You start reading the newspaper, you sip your tea—and suddenly the name comes to your tongue. When you tried, it got lost; when you did not try at all, it came.
Those who have made the great discoveries of this century report: what they sought could not be found while the mind was trying. The greatest Nobel-awarded discoveries—most of those scientists report that what we came to know, we did not know through effort. In some moment when there was no effort, something arose from within and the answer came.
Madame Curie wrote down her answers while sleeping at night. All day she tired herself to exhaustion; no answers came. She went to sleep. In the night the answer came in sleep; she got up and wrote it down. In the morning it was right. And the answer had come without the process—because in the night only the answer was written; later it took days to fill in the process. The answer came first.
Where did that answer come from?
Those who know the innermost of man say: whatever can be known, man is already knowing. Whatever will ever be known in the world, you are knowing even now—you simply do not know that you know. All is hidden in man’s inner consciousness that will ever be manifest. The leaves that will appear a thousand years later were hidden in the seed; otherwise they could not appear. What man will know a thousand years hence, man knows today—but he does not know that he knows. He is entangled in outward searching.
The moments of discovery are relaxed moments—moments of rest. Newton sits under a tree and an apple falls—a moment of rest; no laboratory.
I have heard a joke. A scientist scolds his students in the laboratory: "Put strain on your brains! Have some shame! Don’t you know Newton was sitting under a tree—an apple fell—and he made the greatest discovery? And you, after so much labor, cannot do anything." A youth stands up and says, "Let us also sit under a tree—perhaps an apple will fall and some discovery will happen!" Even Newton could not have done much in the tension of this laboratory; striving and tension hinder. Newton too was not thinking then—he was sitting without thought.
The greatest findings occur when the mind is at rest and thought-free.
Lao Tzu’s foundational vision: let man not strive, not attempt, not become a doer, not become a claimant—and he will receive all the treasures he seeks. Not by seeking.
Someday this will come to your mind—and it is not necessary that it come while I am explaining. It may happen while you are sitting under a tree; a fruit may fall—and Lao Tzu may be understood. Because while I explain, you become eager to understand, tense to understand. That very effort becomes a hindrance. When you are effortless…
Right now, in Scandinavia, Sweden, Switzerland, a new method of education is being worked upon. I would call it Lao Tzu-ian. It is very new. The method is: do not teach children; do not insist that they learn.
In class now children sit tense. If a child spreads his legs on the desk and leans back, the teacher says, "Indiscipline! What are you doing? Sit properly—sit straight; keep the spine erect."
But psychologists now say we are not teaching much by this. So a new experiment is going on: the classroom is arranged so children can sit in complete relaxation; there is no insistence how they sit. Let the body sit as it feels delightful. Whoever wants to lie down, lies down; whoever wants to sit, sits; whoever wants to stand, stands; whoever wants to stretch his legs on the floor, stretches them. When the teacher speaks, the children keep their eyes closed—this is the reverse. When the teacher speaks, children keep eyes closed. They do not try to understand; they only listen. They do not try to figure out what the teacher is saying; they simply listen. They do not listen only to the teacher; they listen also to the crickets outside, to the frogs in the rain; they listen to the hiss of the wind, to its sound; they listen to the beating of their own hearts. Listen! Relaxed, in rest, keep listening.
And a great surprise: what would take two years is completed in three months. What would take two years by the old method, takes three months by this method. And with the old method, in two years many mental fibers of the child are torn.
In truth, after university, hardly anyone reads. He is so bored, so exhausted, that a life’s work is thought finished. Whereas in fact the university only gives the capacity to read—reading should begin then. It gives only the capacity to understand—understanding should begin then. But we think the end has come—and it will come, because we tire them so much, give so much tension; little is learned, but the effort to learn is much.
In this new method—which they call education of the subliminal consciousness, the stream beneath this upper consciousness—education goes straight to that stream. We do not bring you in between. You need not strain. You just lie there.
Russia is experimenting much with hypnopedia—night learning: the student sleeps; near his ear a small device is placed. When deep sleep begins after an hour, the device starts to speak. And for two hours—say from twelve to two—education proceeds. At two the device rings. The student wakes and notes whatever he remembers of what he learned in those two hours of sleep; then sleeps again. Then from four to six, a repetition is played.
And the surprise: what we cannot teach with months of effort is completed in seven days of hypnopedia—because there is no effort, no tension; the child is floating in sleep. The message goes straight in, reaches the heart; he never forgets. The intellect does no labor.
All this is Lao Tzu-ian. If we understand it rightly, then what I told you the other day becomes clear: Lao Tzu is attacking every corner of the world in many ways. Many do not even know this vision is Lao Tzu’s. Because Lao Tzu says, "If you try to learn, what will you learn? Learn not. The effort to learn is the obstacle. Pass silently; whatever is worth learning, you will learn. Pass in silence—be only receptive. Do not strive. Striving closes receptivity; it shuts."
In many dimensions he has said only this: man does nothing—that is the delusion; things happen. If man does not do, he will know much—because the tension of doing weakens his capacity to know. Whatever man asks for, he never receives. Beggars receive nothing; emperors receive everything. He who does not ask—everything is his.
The wise does not claim, does not construct ownership. He does what in life happens to be done. He does not take credit—and all the credit is his.