Morning

You ask: “Osho, when will morning come?”

The council met—yet not inside the church; they gathered under a tree, at a safe distance. There was much opposition: “The ancient church, our forefathers’ heritage, centuries of experience and love—how can we pull it down?” But if no worshippers come, what is a church for? It must be done. So they passed some resolutions. First: with great sorrow, out of compulsion, O Lord forgive us—we resolve to demolish the old church. But instantly, struck by guilt, they passed a second: we will build a new church exactly like the old one, a perfect replica. Still the guilt hurt, so a third: we will build the new church using the old church’s bricks, doors, windows, glass—nothing new will be used. But the guilt was very deep; they passed a fourth: until the new is built, the old will not be pulled down. Our attachment to words, doctrines, scriptures, temples and…

Osho, when morning dawns in someone’s life, does evening no longer come?

Therefore the Buddha spoke of two stages of nirvana. One was what happened to him at the age of forty: he attained nirvana, samadhi, full awakening—he knew. Then, for forty years, the journey of the body continued. Here on this very earth the chariot kept rolling; on the rough roads of earth the chariot had to feel the dips and rises. Then came Mahaparinirvana: the body, too, was shed. With the body gone, both morning and evening vanished. Then a certain kind of light manifests—but how to call it “light,” for it has no relation to darkness. Then a certain kind of life manifests—but how to call it “life,” for it has no relation to death. Therefore the Buddha remains utterly silent about it, says nothing at all; whatever he might say would be an error. All our words are bound to their opposites. Say “light,” and darkness is remembered.…

Osho, all the masters have always said that the dawn is not far. But when I look at myself, morning always seems far away. If I stop looking at myself, will morning come sooner?

People come to me. Only last night someone said, “I’m feeling great bliss—could this be imagination?” You have lived so long in sorrow that when even a faint ray of meditation breaks through and a subtle music of joy sounds, you cannot trust it. You suspect it. I asked that gentleman, “When you were in suffering, did it ever occur to you that perhaps it was imagination?” He said, “That thought never occurred.” In suffering, it was “reality.” Not even a doubt arose that perhaps the suffering was imagined. But now that a little movement in meditation has begun, the boat has loosened from the shore, the oars have lifted, doubt arises: “Could this joy be imaginary?” Mind says, “Come back to the shore. Where are you going? This ocean is all fantasy. Your old spot is fine; your old identification is fine. What are you out to find? Self…

Question: Second question: Osho, when will the dawn come? Ramtirtha! The dawn has long since come—indeed, it is dawn. Open your eyes; morning has already arrived. Morning is the very nature of existence. Night never really occurs there. Yes, outside the sun sets and rises; inside it neither sets nor rises. There everything is ever radiant, ever luminous; there it is always Diwali, always Holi. There spring songs are being sung, melodies are being hummed, intoxication is flowing. There lamps are lit that never go out—without wick, without oil. There is the eternal rasa, the great rasa. What are you asking, when will the dawn come! The dawn has already come. Open your eyes, wake up. Even from ordinary sleep, if someone wakes you, you feel offended. When I lived in Jabalpur, a wrestler lived next door.