Divine Union

And a friend has asked: Osho, this matter of meditation—is it, after all, auto-hypnosis, self-hypnosis?

There is a great deal of similarity to self-hypnosis; at the final point the path diverges. For a long stretch there is a connection with hypnosis. All three stages are of hypnosis; only the witnessing state is not. That which must remain in the background the whole time—the witnessing: that I know, I see that the breath has come and gone; I know, I see that the body is trembling, spinning. I know, I see—this very sense is not of hypnosis. That is the difference. And it is a very fundamental difference. The rest is all the process of hypnosis. The process of hypnosis is very precious: if it is joined to witnessing, it becomes meditation; if it is separated from witnessing, it becomes stupor. If you use only hypnosis, you will become unconscious; if you also use the witnessing, you will become awakened. The difference between the two is…

Osho, what actually happens in union with the Divine? I fear to ask, yet curiosity will not be satisfied without asking. Forgive me if I am mistaken!

Ramdulare! There is not the slightest mistake. Curiosity is natural. When you set out to seek, what will happen when you find? When you meet the One you are searching for, what will happen? This is the spontaneous feeling that arises in the mind. When the lotus blooms, what fragrance will there be? What color? What form? When nectar showers, the lotuses blossom! When ambrosia rains and you bathe in it again and again, what will the experience be? What ecstasy will arise? This curiosity is completely natural. There is no mistake. And yet there is no way to quiet this curiosity without experience. Without it, it will not rest. However much I say, it is like a mute tasting jaggery—only the one to whom it happens knows. Yes, I can torment you sweetly. I can make you very thirsty. But I cannot tell you what the satiation is like…

Osho, when I listen to you, every word sinks to the depths of my heart and stirs me. But when I read you, it remains a mental game. Please tell me why this happens.

It’s plain. The arithmetic is simple. When you read, only you are there; I am not. What you read is nothing but you. It becomes a game of the mind. When you listen to me, then sometimes—knowingly or unknowingly—I also slip into you. You seldom give such a chance, but now and then a lapse happens on your side. Unaware, you leave the door a little open—and I come in. So when you are hearing me, it’s a different matter. That is why truth has always been spoken, not written. It cannot be written. Even speaking it is very difficult, yet it can still be said—at least a little can be said, a little news can be given. Because in speaking, many elements are involved that are lost in writing. When you read a book, the book is dead. A book cannot create an atmosphere around you. A book has…

I am not saying that the mind has to be destroyed; it has only to be put aside so when you need to you can use it. It is like your car parked in the garage: when you want to use it you can take it out of the garage, then you are the master. But ordinarily the situation has become just the reverse: the car insists on not going into the garage. The car says "I am not going to stop," the car says "You have to run with me," and it goes on running twenty-four hours a day. Even while you are asleep the mind goes on and on. Ordinarily once it starts in childhood it never stops before death, unless somebody starts moving into meditation. Those are the very fortunate few people who enter into meditation.