Vysat Jeevan Main Ishwar Ki Khoj #6
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, is there any method to increase willpower?
If you want to increase resolve, there is only one way: start making resolves. Some things are like this: if someone wants to increase their capacity to run, what should they do? Run. The more they run, the more strength will grow; the more strength grows, the more they will run. Strength simply keeps increasing. Whatever you want to cultivate, start doing it. If you want to grow resolve, then start making resolves. Make small resolves and complete them. And keep one thing in mind: whatever resolve you make, fulfill it. Otherwise your resolve will not increase—it will diminish, even below what you had. Keep this in mind.
For example, you decide, “Today I will not eat.” Then do not eat. Otherwise you will fall farther behind. Because if you do eat, you have practiced lack of resolve. Practice happened all the same. In that case it is better not to resolve at all; better to quietly go on eating. But if you decide, then keep it—no matter how difficult it becomes; otherwise one of two things will happen.
If you eat after having taken a vow, you become even more without resolve than you were before taking it. Your self-confidence will decrease. You will feel, “I have no strength, I am finished. I could not do even this small thing; I am good for nothing.” You were better off before; at least you still had the sense that “If I want to, I can.” Now even that is gone.
Make resolves, and complete them. Make them small, but complete them. There is no need to take very big resolves. Face a wall and decide for one hour not to turn away. No celestial nymphs will come dancing behind you, nor will there be a rain of gold at your back. Yet even looking at a wall for an hour will become difficult. The mind will say, “Look back.” Though for so many days you have been looking back and there is nothing there, the mind will say, “Look back—who knows what is happening!” Nothing is happening. So if you are to look at the wall for an hour, then look only at the wall. And even if something actually does happen behind you, do not look.
After an hour you will come out stronger. Your resolve will have increased; your self-confidence will have grown. You will know that when you say something, you can do something. You are worthy of trust. You will have risen in your own eyes. It is not a question of someone else’s eyes. It is a question of rising in your own eyes.
We are engaged in the opposite: we keep trying to rise in others’ eyes. And in our own eyes we have no respect. Remember, one who has no respect in his own eyes— even if he gains the respect of the whole world—gains nothing of real value. We are wretched in our own eyes. And we are so because we have never undertaken, in our own eyes, any noble, upward-moving journey of resolve. And whenever we have tried, we have been defeated. We decided not to be angry—yet we became angry. We decided we won’t do this—we did it. We decided we will do that—we didn’t do it. We went on melting, went on breaking.
Whenever someone asks me, “What should we do for resolve?” their mind imagines that to increase resolve, something other than resolve will have to be done.
No. Understand? To increase resolve, you will have to practice resolve. To increase love, you will have to love. To deepen meditation, you will have to meditate. There is no trick here; no other thing is going to help you. You will have to do exactly what you want to grow. Do that. When a person wants to learn to ride a bicycle, what must he do? Ride. He will fall, get up, and ride again. Only by riding does riding come. There is no extra method. In life, whatever you do develops; if you don’t do it, it remains undeveloped.
And remember, even when you are not doing something, something is still developing—the opposite is developing. It slowly settles upon you. The experience of your life says you never made resolves; that too has become your conditioning. Or if you did make small ones, they were not completed.
So do not take a very big resolve all at once, one that you already know is beyond you—and this is what often happens: those who set out on the journey of resolve take resolves beyond their limits. Your own mind counsels you, “Yes, take it.” And then you get stuck, and you fall. Then the same mind says, “Now drop it. You’re not anyone’s slave; you took it yourself, now leave it.” Why does the mind do this? Because the greater your resolve becomes, the smaller your mind becomes. The day a resolve is fulfilled, the mind dies; it cannot survive. Mind and resolve are opposing forces. Mind is the name of your weakness; resolve is the name of your soul. Mind is your disease; resolve is your health.
Therefore the mind will keep putting you in difficulties. It will say, “Take a big one.” When you take it, it will say, “Take an even bigger one,” so that it can make you fall tomorrow. And the very moment you take it, it begins saying, “Now break it; this is not going to be manageable; this cannot be done.” This is the double game.
So understand the mind’s double game. First, when you take a resolve, take it within your limits—such that you can fulfill it. There is no need to stand facing a wall for an hour; stand for one minute. One minute is not small. But your mind will say, “What’s in that? Anyone can stand for a minute! If you’re taking it, take an hour!” And your ego will say, “True—one minute? If you tell anyone, they’ll laugh: ‘We kept looking at a wall for one minute—we fulfilled such a resolve.’” Your ego too will say, “If you take it, take an hour.” The moment you take it, the mind immediately starts the reverse refrain: “What are you doing? What’s the point of looking at a wall?”
Begin making resolves while keeping this double net in mind. As each resolve succeeds, you will keep growing. Take small ones, within your limits, such that you can fulfill them. The more you fulfill, the more your limits will expand. Then take within that; again your boundary will grow. One day you will find you can fulfill any resolve. And the day you can fulfill any resolve, that very day your mind is gone. On that very day, in the true sense, you become a man; before that you were only an aggregate of weaknesses.
For example, you decide, “Today I will not eat.” Then do not eat. Otherwise you will fall farther behind. Because if you do eat, you have practiced lack of resolve. Practice happened all the same. In that case it is better not to resolve at all; better to quietly go on eating. But if you decide, then keep it—no matter how difficult it becomes; otherwise one of two things will happen.
If you eat after having taken a vow, you become even more without resolve than you were before taking it. Your self-confidence will decrease. You will feel, “I have no strength, I am finished. I could not do even this small thing; I am good for nothing.” You were better off before; at least you still had the sense that “If I want to, I can.” Now even that is gone.
Make resolves, and complete them. Make them small, but complete them. There is no need to take very big resolves. Face a wall and decide for one hour not to turn away. No celestial nymphs will come dancing behind you, nor will there be a rain of gold at your back. Yet even looking at a wall for an hour will become difficult. The mind will say, “Look back.” Though for so many days you have been looking back and there is nothing there, the mind will say, “Look back—who knows what is happening!” Nothing is happening. So if you are to look at the wall for an hour, then look only at the wall. And even if something actually does happen behind you, do not look.
After an hour you will come out stronger. Your resolve will have increased; your self-confidence will have grown. You will know that when you say something, you can do something. You are worthy of trust. You will have risen in your own eyes. It is not a question of someone else’s eyes. It is a question of rising in your own eyes.
We are engaged in the opposite: we keep trying to rise in others’ eyes. And in our own eyes we have no respect. Remember, one who has no respect in his own eyes— even if he gains the respect of the whole world—gains nothing of real value. We are wretched in our own eyes. And we are so because we have never undertaken, in our own eyes, any noble, upward-moving journey of resolve. And whenever we have tried, we have been defeated. We decided not to be angry—yet we became angry. We decided we won’t do this—we did it. We decided we will do that—we didn’t do it. We went on melting, went on breaking.
Whenever someone asks me, “What should we do for resolve?” their mind imagines that to increase resolve, something other than resolve will have to be done.
No. Understand? To increase resolve, you will have to practice resolve. To increase love, you will have to love. To deepen meditation, you will have to meditate. There is no trick here; no other thing is going to help you. You will have to do exactly what you want to grow. Do that. When a person wants to learn to ride a bicycle, what must he do? Ride. He will fall, get up, and ride again. Only by riding does riding come. There is no extra method. In life, whatever you do develops; if you don’t do it, it remains undeveloped.
And remember, even when you are not doing something, something is still developing—the opposite is developing. It slowly settles upon you. The experience of your life says you never made resolves; that too has become your conditioning. Or if you did make small ones, they were not completed.
So do not take a very big resolve all at once, one that you already know is beyond you—and this is what often happens: those who set out on the journey of resolve take resolves beyond their limits. Your own mind counsels you, “Yes, take it.” And then you get stuck, and you fall. Then the same mind says, “Now drop it. You’re not anyone’s slave; you took it yourself, now leave it.” Why does the mind do this? Because the greater your resolve becomes, the smaller your mind becomes. The day a resolve is fulfilled, the mind dies; it cannot survive. Mind and resolve are opposing forces. Mind is the name of your weakness; resolve is the name of your soul. Mind is your disease; resolve is your health.
Therefore the mind will keep putting you in difficulties. It will say, “Take a big one.” When you take it, it will say, “Take an even bigger one,” so that it can make you fall tomorrow. And the very moment you take it, it begins saying, “Now break it; this is not going to be manageable; this cannot be done.” This is the double game.
So understand the mind’s double game. First, when you take a resolve, take it within your limits—such that you can fulfill it. There is no need to stand facing a wall for an hour; stand for one minute. One minute is not small. But your mind will say, “What’s in that? Anyone can stand for a minute! If you’re taking it, take an hour!” And your ego will say, “True—one minute? If you tell anyone, they’ll laugh: ‘We kept looking at a wall for one minute—we fulfilled such a resolve.’” Your ego too will say, “If you take it, take an hour.” The moment you take it, the mind immediately starts the reverse refrain: “What are you doing? What’s the point of looking at a wall?”
Begin making resolves while keeping this double net in mind. As each resolve succeeds, you will keep growing. Take small ones, within your limits, such that you can fulfill them. The more you fulfill, the more your limits will expand. Then take within that; again your boundary will grow. One day you will find you can fulfill any resolve. And the day you can fulfill any resolve, that very day your mind is gone. On that very day, in the true sense, you become a man; before that you were only an aggregate of weaknesses.
Osho, I want to ask you: a sannyasin lives with death before him; and Yoga—or, say, the ancient Tantrics—say that those who look at death, who look beyond death, go on becoming old...
Just understand: read that too, and understand this too. That was said in a completely different context; this is in a completely different context. Understand both, and the point will come to you.
Brother, since our connection with the state of witnessing has not yet happened, wearing the clothes often makes us feel as though we are superior to others.
All right.
So, witnessing hasn’t happened yet, has it!
No—then when will it happen? How will it happen? It won’t happen by itself; it will happen through doing. You understand? If you think, “When the state of witnessing becomes absolutely steady, then I will take sannyas,” then there will be no need for sannyas at all. And if you think, “I’ll take sannyas now,” then witnessing has not yet happened—then it will become very difficult. You have to begin somewhere. Perfect witnessing cannot come to you today; therefore you must begin the journey with imperfect witnessing. And when your ego rises up and says, “I am a sannyasin,” try to be a witness to that too. If you witness it, it will drop—it will drop.
There are two or three things I want to tell you; let me say them.
First, whatever you receive—an experience of peace, a taste of bliss, a flow of rasa—man’s mind is such that he forgets what he has received and remembers what he has not; this is the hallmark of a householder. To remember what you have received and to forget what you have not—that is the hallmark of a sannyasin. Only then will you be able to thank the divine; otherwise you will go on complaining. If you receive even a grain, thank the divine for that grain; and even if you do not receive a mountain, do not complain. Because from the complainer, even what he has is taken away; and to the grateful one, even what he does not have is given. Drop complaining. Complaint is not a trait of a sannyasin. Complaint is a tendency driven by craving.
So concentrate on what you do receive. Even if it is a little—just a grain, a speck of bliss—keep it in awareness. Keep tossing it aloft in your mind. That is what you have to grow—so keep it buoyant, keep remembering it; savor it again and again; thank the Lord: “Where did I have so much capacity? Where did I have such worthiness? Even what I have received—I had no claim to it. Had it not come, I could not have stood in any court and said, ‘Why didn’t I get it?’ What I have received is grace.” Give thanks for that.
And you will be amazed: the more you remember and taste what you have received, the more it will grow—more and more it will grow.
Then, whatever you receive, give news of it to others. Because, as I said, your inner feelings remain vague; the moment you express them in any form, they become clear. If you are getting a small glimpse of bliss, go and tell people that bliss is happening. Try to convey that bliss. In the very act of telling, it will become clear and evident to you as well; otherwise even to you it will not be clear. In this life, our deeper experiences become fully clear only when we speak of them to another. So I say to you: go and tell people; share whatever you receive.
Householders go around broadcasting their wretchedness. You must have seen: whenever a householder meets someone, he laments his sorrow, counts his difficulties, his troubles, his misfortune. What should a sannyasin do? The opposite. It cannot be that way for him. Whatever good fortune he has—however small, even a speck of good fortune—he should share that news. From the mouth of a sannyasin, talk of sorrow should cease.
It is not that sorrow has already ceased. Sorrow is there. But the very moment you take sannyas, talk of sorrow should stop. Words do not eliminate sorrow. Rather, as I said, when you give someone news of your joy, your joy deepens and clarifies before you; likewise, when you report your sorrow it also deepens and clarifies. It comes to seem more than it is—and joy too comes to seem more than it is.
You must have noticed how a sorrowful person savors the telling of his sorrow. If you don’t listen to his tale of woe, he becomes very miserable. From morning he goes about reciting his miseries to anyone he meets.
Sorrows exist. In your life too they have not vanished in a day. But there is also happiness, some flavor, some juice. The householder spreads the news of sorrow; you do not spread it. Whatever little rasa is there in your life, carry it and share it.
And remember, when you talk to someone about sorrow, you also stir up their sorrow; their sorrow rises to the surface of their consciousness. When you carry the news of joy—Jesus used to say: good tidings, the Good News—then their own joy rises from within them. When you speak of a ray of your own joy, you give them a chance to look for a ray of joy in their life. And when they see you filled with joy, giving thanks to the divine, then the possibility of gratitude also begins to grow in them.
The life of a sannyasin should be such that he spreads joy everywhere—standing, sitting, sleeping, waking—spreading joy. Only by spreading joy will the feeling of grace toward the divine arise.
You cannot persuade the world to be grateful to God. Because if one is not blissful, how can one be grateful? How will gratitude come? Gratitude is not something that can be imposed; it is a fruit of joy. Carry the news of joy. Even if your eyes are full of tears, still look for at least one smile. There is no heart in this world that has not a smile within it; otherwise living would be impossible—you would have died long ago.
There was a thinker in America, John Dewey. He used to say that the search for truth is such that it is never complete. A mountain peak appears; you climb, you labor hard, you reach the summit, you are filled with joy. But the moment you reach, another peak appears—higher. You climb that too, labor, reach the second peak—and you find yet another ahead. Just like this, peak after peak keeps unveiling itself.
Someone came to John Dewey and said, “What does this mean? If it is certain that beyond every peak there are more peaks, then why toil in vain? And when this is discovered again and again, won’t one get exhausted? If, as you say, peak after peak opens up and you have experienced it a thousand times, then what will you do?”
John Dewey said, “The day such a thought arises, and in the person in whom such a thought arises, that is the very person who kept account only of the difficulties of climbing each peak and did not keep the remembrance of the joy of climbing each peak.”
There is a difference! If you keep account only of the difficulty, you will be crushed. But if you keep the remembrance of the joy of every ascent, then every new peak is greater excitement, a bigger challenge, a fresh joy standing before you—‘We will climb this one too!’
That man asked, “But could there come a moment when we get tired?”
He said, “The moment you are tired, understand that you are dead. Up to that moment you were alive. He who keeps the account of sorrow dies long before dying; he who keeps the account of joy goes on living even after death.”
So keep the account of joy. For a sannyasin, in the ledger of his life only joy is entered. And if there is sorrow, it is like steps—there is no need to account for it. And start giving the news of this joy; do not keep it hidden within you. When you give this news, it will manifest in you; it will bloom, become a flower. Its fragrance will begin to emanate from your face, your eyes, your hands, your body.
Remember, when you talk to someone about sorrow, have you noticed? Your body shrinks, your life-energy withers, your eyes become meek; everything inside closes down. By giving the news of sorrow you are manufacturing sorrow—for yourself and for the other as well. So I tell you: if you give someone sorrow—even so much as by speaking of sorrow—that is violence. Stop the talk of sorrow. Carry the news of happiness; give the news of joy. And your joy will grow. And seeing you joyous, the other will become joyous. Everything—sorrow and joy—is infectious. Their contagion spreads. When you are filled with joy, waves of joy begin to ripple in the other’s heart as well; when you are filled with sorrow, the other also fills with sorrow.
Carry the news of joy. Speak it. You may find it difficult to say—everyone does not have words. It is not necessary to have them. Words are not the only medium. You can say it by dancing, by laughing, by singing a song, by playing the tanpura—whatever instrument appears in your hands, use it to give your news. Soon you will have to go far and wide; soon I will send you from village to village.
No, it is not necessary that you will be able to speak much. Nor is it required. Speak a few words and then sit silently. Speak a few words—and then say it by dancing. If you find it hard—“I cannot say it; I cannot find the words”—then dance. And tell people, “What I want to say does not come out in words from me, so I will say it by dancing, by laughing, by singing a song. I do what I can.” But begin to give the news of your joy by some means or other. As you walk on the road, let the shadow of your joy surround you. Only then can we make this new movement of sannyas widespread—worldwide!
There should not arise a situation where someone has to ask you, “Why did you become a sannyasin?” Your joy should so overwhelm him that he knows why—there should be no need to ask. And if someone does ask why you took sannyas, it is not necessary that you sit down seriously to explain, becoming very solemn and troubled. You can laugh, you can dance, you can embrace him, and move on. You can give him the news that something has happened. That very news will catch him.
In this world, for anything at all, proof is not only logical. Logical proof is the weakest of proofs; it has little real power. Proof must be existential. Seeing you, he should feel that he is making a mistake by not becoming a sannyasin. If he asks you why you became a sannyasin, he should instead, on seeing you, receive the news within himself: “Why have I not become a sannyasin yet?” Then know that you are behaving rightly, as a sannyasin should in joy. Whoever sees you should feel a pang: “Why have I not become a sannyasin?”
This can happen; it is a matter of taking it into your awareness once. You need to push away the foolishnesses of your sorrow and bring out your ray of joy. Both are within you. Be delighted in what is; be absorbed; dance. And remember, the moment you rejoice, joy finds its own way to express itself—just as sorrow does. Have you noticed that you need no practice to express sorrow? Everyone can express sorrow without learning any great scripture. But people ask, “How do we express joy?”
Simply remember it; its very being becomes its manifestation. There must be remembrance; it will begin to reveal itself.
The moment you become a sannyasin, you change the accounting. Now you do not keep the account of sorrow; you keep the account of happiness. You go on increasing it. Express it—through your sitting, standing, your whole personality.
I expect a wholly new kind of sannyasin. The old sannyasin has become decrepit—sad, serious, heavy, with the stones of scholarship piled on his head. Throw all that away. I want to see you light and airy, dancing, absorbed in joy. However you can! Pick up an ektara and go to some village. Play the ektara, dance, make the village dance, and take your leave. Carry the news of joy.
The world is very gloomy, very sad, very afflicted—by its own hands—because it keeps the wrong accounts, it keeps adding sorrow. You have to break this whole accounting system. Say what you can; whatever you can manage to say, say it. Soon I will have to send you out regarding speaking and sharing.
One more thing. There is a scientific method of speaking—that is a matter of training; it is not possible for everyone, nor necessary. There is a paramhansa method of speaking—for that no training is needed. Like Ramakrishna! Ramakrishna had studied only up to the second standard in Bengali; he knew little; he was not highly educated. But he had his own method. What was it?
He would begin to speak. Then he would feel, “No, now speech will not do,” and he would fall silent. Then he would feel, “Silence also is not making it understood,” and he would stand and begin to dance. And what could not be understood by his speaking would be understood by his dancing. And his speech need not be believed, but in his dancing many would join and begin to dance. And the whole of Ramakrishna’s being would begin to speak.
So I am not eager to teach you any scientific method. Christianity made that mistake. It trained all its monks and preachers in scientific methods; that is why a Christian pastor speaking from the pulpit today is as hollow as it gets—no one is so hollow. Because it should be your being that speaks, not a method. Yes, if someone has a natural scientificness, that is different; otherwise you proceed in the paramhansa way. There is no need for a platform and a meeting. Standing by the roadside at a crossroads, begin to dance; ten people will gather, stop them, and tell them of your joy. And tell them, “If anyone wants to attain joy, come.”
There is no need that there be a stage and an audience for you to speak. The Indian sannyasin has not spoken that way. He would go to a village and sit under a tree and start playing his tanpura. Four people would come and sit. They would see his joy and ask, “What has happened?” If he had something to say, he would say it; if not, he would keep smiling and playing his tanpura. The news would spread through the village.
Let your joy become your message. Then find your own way to express it. Discover unique ways that suit your personality.
Get to work in this direction quickly—begin today!
There are two or three things I want to tell you; let me say them.
First, whatever you receive—an experience of peace, a taste of bliss, a flow of rasa—man’s mind is such that he forgets what he has received and remembers what he has not; this is the hallmark of a householder. To remember what you have received and to forget what you have not—that is the hallmark of a sannyasin. Only then will you be able to thank the divine; otherwise you will go on complaining. If you receive even a grain, thank the divine for that grain; and even if you do not receive a mountain, do not complain. Because from the complainer, even what he has is taken away; and to the grateful one, even what he does not have is given. Drop complaining. Complaint is not a trait of a sannyasin. Complaint is a tendency driven by craving.
So concentrate on what you do receive. Even if it is a little—just a grain, a speck of bliss—keep it in awareness. Keep tossing it aloft in your mind. That is what you have to grow—so keep it buoyant, keep remembering it; savor it again and again; thank the Lord: “Where did I have so much capacity? Where did I have such worthiness? Even what I have received—I had no claim to it. Had it not come, I could not have stood in any court and said, ‘Why didn’t I get it?’ What I have received is grace.” Give thanks for that.
And you will be amazed: the more you remember and taste what you have received, the more it will grow—more and more it will grow.
Then, whatever you receive, give news of it to others. Because, as I said, your inner feelings remain vague; the moment you express them in any form, they become clear. If you are getting a small glimpse of bliss, go and tell people that bliss is happening. Try to convey that bliss. In the very act of telling, it will become clear and evident to you as well; otherwise even to you it will not be clear. In this life, our deeper experiences become fully clear only when we speak of them to another. So I say to you: go and tell people; share whatever you receive.
Householders go around broadcasting their wretchedness. You must have seen: whenever a householder meets someone, he laments his sorrow, counts his difficulties, his troubles, his misfortune. What should a sannyasin do? The opposite. It cannot be that way for him. Whatever good fortune he has—however small, even a speck of good fortune—he should share that news. From the mouth of a sannyasin, talk of sorrow should cease.
It is not that sorrow has already ceased. Sorrow is there. But the very moment you take sannyas, talk of sorrow should stop. Words do not eliminate sorrow. Rather, as I said, when you give someone news of your joy, your joy deepens and clarifies before you; likewise, when you report your sorrow it also deepens and clarifies. It comes to seem more than it is—and joy too comes to seem more than it is.
You must have noticed how a sorrowful person savors the telling of his sorrow. If you don’t listen to his tale of woe, he becomes very miserable. From morning he goes about reciting his miseries to anyone he meets.
Sorrows exist. In your life too they have not vanished in a day. But there is also happiness, some flavor, some juice. The householder spreads the news of sorrow; you do not spread it. Whatever little rasa is there in your life, carry it and share it.
And remember, when you talk to someone about sorrow, you also stir up their sorrow; their sorrow rises to the surface of their consciousness. When you carry the news of joy—Jesus used to say: good tidings, the Good News—then their own joy rises from within them. When you speak of a ray of your own joy, you give them a chance to look for a ray of joy in their life. And when they see you filled with joy, giving thanks to the divine, then the possibility of gratitude also begins to grow in them.
The life of a sannyasin should be such that he spreads joy everywhere—standing, sitting, sleeping, waking—spreading joy. Only by spreading joy will the feeling of grace toward the divine arise.
You cannot persuade the world to be grateful to God. Because if one is not blissful, how can one be grateful? How will gratitude come? Gratitude is not something that can be imposed; it is a fruit of joy. Carry the news of joy. Even if your eyes are full of tears, still look for at least one smile. There is no heart in this world that has not a smile within it; otherwise living would be impossible—you would have died long ago.
There was a thinker in America, John Dewey. He used to say that the search for truth is such that it is never complete. A mountain peak appears; you climb, you labor hard, you reach the summit, you are filled with joy. But the moment you reach, another peak appears—higher. You climb that too, labor, reach the second peak—and you find yet another ahead. Just like this, peak after peak keeps unveiling itself.
Someone came to John Dewey and said, “What does this mean? If it is certain that beyond every peak there are more peaks, then why toil in vain? And when this is discovered again and again, won’t one get exhausted? If, as you say, peak after peak opens up and you have experienced it a thousand times, then what will you do?”
John Dewey said, “The day such a thought arises, and in the person in whom such a thought arises, that is the very person who kept account only of the difficulties of climbing each peak and did not keep the remembrance of the joy of climbing each peak.”
There is a difference! If you keep account only of the difficulty, you will be crushed. But if you keep the remembrance of the joy of every ascent, then every new peak is greater excitement, a bigger challenge, a fresh joy standing before you—‘We will climb this one too!’
That man asked, “But could there come a moment when we get tired?”
He said, “The moment you are tired, understand that you are dead. Up to that moment you were alive. He who keeps the account of sorrow dies long before dying; he who keeps the account of joy goes on living even after death.”
So keep the account of joy. For a sannyasin, in the ledger of his life only joy is entered. And if there is sorrow, it is like steps—there is no need to account for it. And start giving the news of this joy; do not keep it hidden within you. When you give this news, it will manifest in you; it will bloom, become a flower. Its fragrance will begin to emanate from your face, your eyes, your hands, your body.
Remember, when you talk to someone about sorrow, have you noticed? Your body shrinks, your life-energy withers, your eyes become meek; everything inside closes down. By giving the news of sorrow you are manufacturing sorrow—for yourself and for the other as well. So I tell you: if you give someone sorrow—even so much as by speaking of sorrow—that is violence. Stop the talk of sorrow. Carry the news of happiness; give the news of joy. And your joy will grow. And seeing you joyous, the other will become joyous. Everything—sorrow and joy—is infectious. Their contagion spreads. When you are filled with joy, waves of joy begin to ripple in the other’s heart as well; when you are filled with sorrow, the other also fills with sorrow.
Carry the news of joy. Speak it. You may find it difficult to say—everyone does not have words. It is not necessary to have them. Words are not the only medium. You can say it by dancing, by laughing, by singing a song, by playing the tanpura—whatever instrument appears in your hands, use it to give your news. Soon you will have to go far and wide; soon I will send you from village to village.
No, it is not necessary that you will be able to speak much. Nor is it required. Speak a few words and then sit silently. Speak a few words—and then say it by dancing. If you find it hard—“I cannot say it; I cannot find the words”—then dance. And tell people, “What I want to say does not come out in words from me, so I will say it by dancing, by laughing, by singing a song. I do what I can.” But begin to give the news of your joy by some means or other. As you walk on the road, let the shadow of your joy surround you. Only then can we make this new movement of sannyas widespread—worldwide!
There should not arise a situation where someone has to ask you, “Why did you become a sannyasin?” Your joy should so overwhelm him that he knows why—there should be no need to ask. And if someone does ask why you took sannyas, it is not necessary that you sit down seriously to explain, becoming very solemn and troubled. You can laugh, you can dance, you can embrace him, and move on. You can give him the news that something has happened. That very news will catch him.
In this world, for anything at all, proof is not only logical. Logical proof is the weakest of proofs; it has little real power. Proof must be existential. Seeing you, he should feel that he is making a mistake by not becoming a sannyasin. If he asks you why you became a sannyasin, he should instead, on seeing you, receive the news within himself: “Why have I not become a sannyasin yet?” Then know that you are behaving rightly, as a sannyasin should in joy. Whoever sees you should feel a pang: “Why have I not become a sannyasin?”
This can happen; it is a matter of taking it into your awareness once. You need to push away the foolishnesses of your sorrow and bring out your ray of joy. Both are within you. Be delighted in what is; be absorbed; dance. And remember, the moment you rejoice, joy finds its own way to express itself—just as sorrow does. Have you noticed that you need no practice to express sorrow? Everyone can express sorrow without learning any great scripture. But people ask, “How do we express joy?”
Simply remember it; its very being becomes its manifestation. There must be remembrance; it will begin to reveal itself.
The moment you become a sannyasin, you change the accounting. Now you do not keep the account of sorrow; you keep the account of happiness. You go on increasing it. Express it—through your sitting, standing, your whole personality.
I expect a wholly new kind of sannyasin. The old sannyasin has become decrepit—sad, serious, heavy, with the stones of scholarship piled on his head. Throw all that away. I want to see you light and airy, dancing, absorbed in joy. However you can! Pick up an ektara and go to some village. Play the ektara, dance, make the village dance, and take your leave. Carry the news of joy.
The world is very gloomy, very sad, very afflicted—by its own hands—because it keeps the wrong accounts, it keeps adding sorrow. You have to break this whole accounting system. Say what you can; whatever you can manage to say, say it. Soon I will have to send you out regarding speaking and sharing.
One more thing. There is a scientific method of speaking—that is a matter of training; it is not possible for everyone, nor necessary. There is a paramhansa method of speaking—for that no training is needed. Like Ramakrishna! Ramakrishna had studied only up to the second standard in Bengali; he knew little; he was not highly educated. But he had his own method. What was it?
He would begin to speak. Then he would feel, “No, now speech will not do,” and he would fall silent. Then he would feel, “Silence also is not making it understood,” and he would stand and begin to dance. And what could not be understood by his speaking would be understood by his dancing. And his speech need not be believed, but in his dancing many would join and begin to dance. And the whole of Ramakrishna’s being would begin to speak.
So I am not eager to teach you any scientific method. Christianity made that mistake. It trained all its monks and preachers in scientific methods; that is why a Christian pastor speaking from the pulpit today is as hollow as it gets—no one is so hollow. Because it should be your being that speaks, not a method. Yes, if someone has a natural scientificness, that is different; otherwise you proceed in the paramhansa way. There is no need for a platform and a meeting. Standing by the roadside at a crossroads, begin to dance; ten people will gather, stop them, and tell them of your joy. And tell them, “If anyone wants to attain joy, come.”
There is no need that there be a stage and an audience for you to speak. The Indian sannyasin has not spoken that way. He would go to a village and sit under a tree and start playing his tanpura. Four people would come and sit. They would see his joy and ask, “What has happened?” If he had something to say, he would say it; if not, he would keep smiling and playing his tanpura. The news would spread through the village.
Let your joy become your message. Then find your own way to express it. Discover unique ways that suit your personality.
Get to work in this direction quickly—begin today!
Osho, suffering becomes lighter when we share it with one another. That is, when sorrow comes, if we speak it out and cry a little, we forget it. If we don’t speak, we don’t forget; the sadness lingers for a day or two.
That sadness remains because the issue is not whether you tell it to another or not—that is not the big question. The big question is that you give your attention to sorrow; that’s why the sadness stays. Give your attention to joy; keep the tally of joy.
Osho, then suffering does happen after all, doesn't it!
It does happen, but there is no need to give it your attention. A tree has been planted; on it grow rose blossoms and thorns as well. There is a single flower, and a thousand thorns.
No—where, in our world, there is no suffering; it is sat-chit-ananda, so there is no suffering...
Your case is entirely different; stay in your joy—there is no question for you. The question is for him. The question is for him, not for you; you remain happy. Where is the difficulty for you? Let him ask his question! He doesn’t yet know sat-chit-ananda. He still knows suffering.
By reading you, one can see it, right!
It won’t happen just because I say so. It should happen. For now there is suffering, and there is also happiness; between the two, if your gaze and your attention stay on suffering, then you are living in the manner of a householder; if your attention stays on happiness, then you are living in the manner of a sannyasin. And it may also be that out of a thousand situations there are nine hundred times suffering and a hundred times happiness—yet keep your attention on the hundred. Then that hundred will keep increasing. And if you keep your attention on the nine hundred, those nine hundred will keep increasing.
It won’t happen just because I say so. It should happen. For now there is suffering, and there is also happiness; between the two, if your gaze and your attention stay on suffering, then you are living in the manner of a householder; if your attention stays on happiness, then you are living in the manner of a sannyasin. And it may also be that out of a thousand situations there are nine hundred times suffering and a hundred times happiness—yet keep your attention on the hundred. Then that hundred will keep increasing. And if you keep your attention on the nine hundred, those nine hundred will keep increasing.
Even if you don’t say it, it makes no difference—you will keep thinking it inside. Why think it at all? Simply accept that it is there—fine. Accept it. Deepen happiness, and whenever suffering arises, remember happiness, increase happiness, and speak of happiness. Within three months you will find you are out of it. That suffering will remain lying in its corner.
And I do not say, “Sat-Chit-Anand exists, so just believe it.” Believing like that is not so easy. It should be in your experience—and it will come. For now, suffering is in your experience; now bring happiness into your experience. When happiness grows so much—so much—that by its very growth suffering becomes attenuated, you will not be able to find suffering even if you search for it; then entry into Sat-Chit-Anand will happen. Before that, it will not.
And I do not say, “Sat-Chit-Anand exists, so just believe it.” Believing like that is not so easy. It should be in your experience—and it will come. For now, suffering is in your experience; now bring happiness into your experience. When happiness grows so much—so much—that by its very growth suffering becomes attenuated, you will not be able to find suffering even if you search for it; then entry into Sat-Chit-Anand will happen. Before that, it will not.
Osho, this pendant—what does it mean?
Use a little of your own intelligence too. It is not right to lean on me for every little thing. Otherwise you will remain forever helpless. Today someone asks you about a pendant; tomorrow they will ask something else—and again you will wait for me to tell you what to say. Use your own intelligence. And always remember: the less you have to depend on me, the better. The more you can be free of me, the better.
Let answers arise from within you. And if no answer arises, you can at least say: “It’s my freedom, my joy.” I don’t go around asking people, “Why are you wearing that kind of collar? Why those shoes?” No one has the right to ask me why I wear this mala. I have that much right.
But the difficulty does not come from others; it comes from your own mind. You keep putting it on others. The difficulty is your own intelligence—that’s why you can’t find an answer. It isn’t really someone else’s question at all; it’s yours—“Why is this so?” The problem is yours.
If it weren’t your problem, the answer would come from within. It doesn’t come because there is a blockage within you. “Why these saffron clothes?”—that blockage is within you. “Why this mala?”—the blockage is within you. “Why is this picture hanging?”—the blockage is within you.
Understand it straight: if there is such a blockage inside you, then ask me. If there is no inner blockage, then answer directly. But never come to me saying, “People say this—what should I say?”
If you have no inner blockage, whatever you say will be right. If you do have one, come straight and say, “There is a blockage in me—why?” Then it makes sense to talk to me. Otherwise there is deception in this too.
My experience so far is that whoever comes and says, “People ask me—what should I say?” is using “people” as a cover. People may ask, but the question is their own. Then ask directly. Face-to-face with me, be absolutely clear; tell me, “This question is within me.” Then I will answer you. And if there is no question within you, I say: you answer. Whatever you answer, I will sign with my eyes closed. It will be right.
And do remember to start thinking for yourself. Otherwise you’ll get into trouble. Soon I will send you around the country and abroad. There people will ask you anything, and again you will be waiting for me—“What is the answer?”
It won’t do. Even after hearing all my answers, all my talks, I don’t want you to memorize my replies. I want your understanding to grow so that you can answer new questions too. My emphasis is on your understanding. I am not interested in stuffing you with fixed answers. What is the value of that? Tomorrow someone will twist a question a little, and you will be stuck. All my effort is to expand your understanding so that answers arise from you. I don’t want to give you ready-made answers.
I speak to you day and night. As much as I speak, no one has spoken on this earth in three thousand years. And yet your questions remain the same. When I look, I find it troubling. It means your understanding doesn’t seem to be growing. Even after all this speaking, you ask a question that shows you don’t intend to use your own understanding.
It’s good that people ask—they give your understanding a chance. You answer. Answer directly; let it come from your heart. If nothing comes from your heart, then come straight to me and say, “This is my question.” Then it becomes your question. Say, “This is my question; no answer comes to me.” Don’t push it onto “people.” I’m not saying this only for this question—I’m saying it for all questions. Because this way you escape responsibility; it makes it seem as if your understanding is fine and other people are confused. So you answer.
And this is not just one question; thousands like this will arise. I deliberately create situations in which questions should arise—otherwise how will your understanding develop? Let that understanding come directly.
And understand one more thing clearly: it isn’t necessary to have a logical answer for everything, because not everything has a logical answer.
You love someone, and someone asks, “Why do you love?” What will you answer? What can you say? If someone asks, “Why that particular person?” what answer do you have?
No—you don’t even seek an answer then. You say, “Love doesn’t have a logical reason. Love is beyond logic. Before we thought ‘why,’ love had already happened. Whatever we think afterward is secondary and not very valuable.”
Yet that is a deeper answer than any other. But you don’t even have that much courage. If you wear my picture around your neck and someone asks, “Why?” you don’t even have the courage to say, “I love this person.” Not even that much courage.
Well then, what to do! At least you can say: “I’ve hung around my neck the one I love—does that trouble you?”
But you won’t think for yourself; you will sit waiting with everything. Then it becomes weakness. Then anyone can discourage you.
But it is you who discourages yourself from within; no one else discourages you. And it will not be your words that touch others; it will be your feeling. If you wear the mala and someone asks a question and finds you anxious, the mala and you both become pointless. If they find you hesitant, it’s over. It could have been a moment of great joy—they gave you an opportunity to speak about me. A chance for so much could open—there was no need to hesitate. But your inner weaknesses torment you.
And many of your difficulties are also because of me; let me tell you that too. Because I keep saying I am not your guru, you don’t even have the courage to tell someone you are my disciple. My very stance creates many of your difficulties. And I will go on creating them.
Your courage has collapsed within; you have no courage. It is my saying that I am not your guru. But you can still learn from me.
And it is very amusing—very amusing indeed. I hold that the only worthy guru is the one who says he is not a guru. And the disciple worthy of learning is the one who has the courage to be a disciple even of the guru who denies being a guru. When a guru claims, “I am the guru,” and you become a disciple, you are worth two pennies. Don’t stand near such a guru—he is dominating you, pressing your neck. But when a guru says, “I am not your guru,” you rejoice, “Wonderful! Now there’s no bother of being a disciple, no need to learn.”
Your learning must continue. I deny being your guru precisely so that, from my side, there is no bondage upon you. But that does not mean that from your side there will be no connection to me. The truth is: only in such a situation—where there is no insistence and no bondage—can the connection be deep and pure. When someone says, “I am not a guru,” it is right, because whenever someone says, “I am a guru,” he is giving prestige to his ego. But when you say, “I am not a disciple,” then you are giving prestige to your ego.
Remember: when a guru says, “I am a guru,” he honors his ego; when you say, “I am not a disciple,” you honor yours. For the guru, claiming guru-hood is harmful; for the disciple, dropping the claim of being a disciple is harmful. Keep this in mind.
The real difficulty is that I even have to tell you what should happen from your side. That you should think. You should understand. It should arise from your own understanding. Then these difficulties will not remain. Otherwise they will. Your difficulties are of your own making.
Do not depend on me for all the answers. And soon I will stop answering many of your unnecessary questions, even though I answer them for others. After taking sannyas I will not answer your frivolous questions. In general, I answer others—I will not answer yours. I won’t, because now I want you to ask only what has meaning. If you seek and act, let it be meaningful. I will leave your trivial questions as if they were never asked. I want to make you capable of finding all answers within yourself.
And remember, I have no fixed answers; so you will never have to feel guilty or criminal. Usually in the world of gurus, answers are fixed—what the guru said is what you must say. If you answer otherwise, you are at fault. With me, there is no such difficulty. I tell you: answer what arises from your inner feeling. I have no set answer with which you must keep in step. Give your own answer. With me, keep harmony in your feeling. Live in joy—this much harmony with me is enough. And whatever arises from your joy is right.
So there is no need to worry about what I will say about this or that. No need to worry at all. You say it—your answer is authentic. Therefore stop asking me small, petty things. Ask me now about the depths of life.
And begin to create your life; asking questions will not resolve much. Start creating your life. And make ready quickly, as I said—you have to go far and wide. Prepare soon.
Let answers arise from within you. And if no answer arises, you can at least say: “It’s my freedom, my joy.” I don’t go around asking people, “Why are you wearing that kind of collar? Why those shoes?” No one has the right to ask me why I wear this mala. I have that much right.
But the difficulty does not come from others; it comes from your own mind. You keep putting it on others. The difficulty is your own intelligence—that’s why you can’t find an answer. It isn’t really someone else’s question at all; it’s yours—“Why is this so?” The problem is yours.
If it weren’t your problem, the answer would come from within. It doesn’t come because there is a blockage within you. “Why these saffron clothes?”—that blockage is within you. “Why this mala?”—the blockage is within you. “Why is this picture hanging?”—the blockage is within you.
Understand it straight: if there is such a blockage inside you, then ask me. If there is no inner blockage, then answer directly. But never come to me saying, “People say this—what should I say?”
If you have no inner blockage, whatever you say will be right. If you do have one, come straight and say, “There is a blockage in me—why?” Then it makes sense to talk to me. Otherwise there is deception in this too.
My experience so far is that whoever comes and says, “People ask me—what should I say?” is using “people” as a cover. People may ask, but the question is their own. Then ask directly. Face-to-face with me, be absolutely clear; tell me, “This question is within me.” Then I will answer you. And if there is no question within you, I say: you answer. Whatever you answer, I will sign with my eyes closed. It will be right.
And do remember to start thinking for yourself. Otherwise you’ll get into trouble. Soon I will send you around the country and abroad. There people will ask you anything, and again you will be waiting for me—“What is the answer?”
It won’t do. Even after hearing all my answers, all my talks, I don’t want you to memorize my replies. I want your understanding to grow so that you can answer new questions too. My emphasis is on your understanding. I am not interested in stuffing you with fixed answers. What is the value of that? Tomorrow someone will twist a question a little, and you will be stuck. All my effort is to expand your understanding so that answers arise from you. I don’t want to give you ready-made answers.
I speak to you day and night. As much as I speak, no one has spoken on this earth in three thousand years. And yet your questions remain the same. When I look, I find it troubling. It means your understanding doesn’t seem to be growing. Even after all this speaking, you ask a question that shows you don’t intend to use your own understanding.
It’s good that people ask—they give your understanding a chance. You answer. Answer directly; let it come from your heart. If nothing comes from your heart, then come straight to me and say, “This is my question.” Then it becomes your question. Say, “This is my question; no answer comes to me.” Don’t push it onto “people.” I’m not saying this only for this question—I’m saying it for all questions. Because this way you escape responsibility; it makes it seem as if your understanding is fine and other people are confused. So you answer.
And this is not just one question; thousands like this will arise. I deliberately create situations in which questions should arise—otherwise how will your understanding develop? Let that understanding come directly.
And understand one more thing clearly: it isn’t necessary to have a logical answer for everything, because not everything has a logical answer.
You love someone, and someone asks, “Why do you love?” What will you answer? What can you say? If someone asks, “Why that particular person?” what answer do you have?
No—you don’t even seek an answer then. You say, “Love doesn’t have a logical reason. Love is beyond logic. Before we thought ‘why,’ love had already happened. Whatever we think afterward is secondary and not very valuable.”
Yet that is a deeper answer than any other. But you don’t even have that much courage. If you wear my picture around your neck and someone asks, “Why?” you don’t even have the courage to say, “I love this person.” Not even that much courage.
Well then, what to do! At least you can say: “I’ve hung around my neck the one I love—does that trouble you?”
But you won’t think for yourself; you will sit waiting with everything. Then it becomes weakness. Then anyone can discourage you.
But it is you who discourages yourself from within; no one else discourages you. And it will not be your words that touch others; it will be your feeling. If you wear the mala and someone asks a question and finds you anxious, the mala and you both become pointless. If they find you hesitant, it’s over. It could have been a moment of great joy—they gave you an opportunity to speak about me. A chance for so much could open—there was no need to hesitate. But your inner weaknesses torment you.
And many of your difficulties are also because of me; let me tell you that too. Because I keep saying I am not your guru, you don’t even have the courage to tell someone you are my disciple. My very stance creates many of your difficulties. And I will go on creating them.
Your courage has collapsed within; you have no courage. It is my saying that I am not your guru. But you can still learn from me.
And it is very amusing—very amusing indeed. I hold that the only worthy guru is the one who says he is not a guru. And the disciple worthy of learning is the one who has the courage to be a disciple even of the guru who denies being a guru. When a guru claims, “I am the guru,” and you become a disciple, you are worth two pennies. Don’t stand near such a guru—he is dominating you, pressing your neck. But when a guru says, “I am not your guru,” you rejoice, “Wonderful! Now there’s no bother of being a disciple, no need to learn.”
Your learning must continue. I deny being your guru precisely so that, from my side, there is no bondage upon you. But that does not mean that from your side there will be no connection to me. The truth is: only in such a situation—where there is no insistence and no bondage—can the connection be deep and pure. When someone says, “I am not a guru,” it is right, because whenever someone says, “I am a guru,” he is giving prestige to his ego. But when you say, “I am not a disciple,” then you are giving prestige to your ego.
Remember: when a guru says, “I am a guru,” he honors his ego; when you say, “I am not a disciple,” you honor yours. For the guru, claiming guru-hood is harmful; for the disciple, dropping the claim of being a disciple is harmful. Keep this in mind.
The real difficulty is that I even have to tell you what should happen from your side. That you should think. You should understand. It should arise from your own understanding. Then these difficulties will not remain. Otherwise they will. Your difficulties are of your own making.
Do not depend on me for all the answers. And soon I will stop answering many of your unnecessary questions, even though I answer them for others. After taking sannyas I will not answer your frivolous questions. In general, I answer others—I will not answer yours. I won’t, because now I want you to ask only what has meaning. If you seek and act, let it be meaningful. I will leave your trivial questions as if they were never asked. I want to make you capable of finding all answers within yourself.
And remember, I have no fixed answers; so you will never have to feel guilty or criminal. Usually in the world of gurus, answers are fixed—what the guru said is what you must say. If you answer otherwise, you are at fault. With me, there is no such difficulty. I tell you: answer what arises from your inner feeling. I have no set answer with which you must keep in step. Give your own answer. With me, keep harmony in your feeling. Live in joy—this much harmony with me is enough. And whatever arises from your joy is right.
So there is no need to worry about what I will say about this or that. No need to worry at all. You say it—your answer is authentic. Therefore stop asking me small, petty things. Ask me now about the depths of life.
And begin to create your life; asking questions will not resolve much. Start creating your life. And make ready quickly, as I said—you have to go far and wide. Prepare soon.
Osho, what is the meaning of life?
Life has no ready-made meaning. The meaning of life has to be discovered; it is not given. It has to be created; it is not there. It has to be invented; it is not there. Meaning isn’t stored somewhere, waiting for you to go and pick it up. You will have to search, you will have to create, you will have to bring it forth. That very effort is sadhana, spiritual practice. The deeper the sadhana, the more the meaning of life reveals itself. Nowhere is it kept prepared in advance. And the day I come upon life’s meaning, it will not be the same as the meaning that comes to you.
A musician will discover life’s meaning through music—the taste will be different. A dancer will discover it through dance—another taste. Meanings will differ; they will arise from each one’s own life. In the rose, roses will bloom; in the jasmine, jasmine will bloom. Blooming is one, but meanings are many. And ultimately, the one who goes beyond even meaning attains the supreme life—where there are no meanings, no search for meaning, no purpose, no goal.
Search! Ask me about the ways of searching. I cannot tell you the meaning; no one can. It will arrive in your life, and then you will know. But I can show you the paths of seeking, how to search. I am saying to you: remove suffering, increase your well-being, immerse yourself in joy—slowly, slowly meaning will dawn. Yet there is no ready-made formula, nothing like “two and two make four” for life’s meaning. It simply is not so. And what meaning will blossom in your life—what flower will bloom—cannot be said until it blooms. Water, nourish, care, practice, meditate, dive in—one day it will blossom. And when it blossoms, then others too will recognize what the meaning of your life is.
What is the meaning of my life—I know. But what has that to do with you? It is not going to be your meaning. Your life’s meaning will be your own. Keep asking how to search; don’t ask what it is. When it blooms, you will know—and others will know too. Ultimately, you have to go beyond even that. And when one goes beyond even meaning—becomes meaning-transcending, transcendental—only then does life flower totally. Totally! The roots become flowers, the leaves become flowers, the branches become flowers—everything becomes flowers. It is no longer that one flower has bloomed on a tree while the rest are leaves—there are only flowers. So, search!
Such questions have no meaning. People think they are asking very precious questions: “What is the meaning of life? What is God? Who created the universe?” They think these are valuable questions. There are none more childish, more juvenile. They have no point. “What is love?”—there is no point to such a question, though it sounds very precious. “What is the purpose of life? What is the goal?”—no point. They seem precious; they are not worth a penny. Because they are not questions—they are journeys.
What is love? Love is a journey. Live it, pass through it, go beyond it. You will be bruised, you will fall, wounds will happen; out of that the meaning of love will arise. And when your meaning arises, it will not be the same as someone else’s. His wounds will be different, his journey different—everything different.
People go on asking these very questions all the time…
I once went to a village. Many had asked questions. One man brought me three printed questions—on a card! I was amazed—printed questions, as if he had them published. I asked, “Who has asked these printed questions?” One of them was: What is the meaning of life? Where is God—at what place? Why did he create the universe? I said, “Where did these printed questions come from?”
He said, “I have been asking them forever, but I never get answers, so I had them printed thirty years ago. For thirty years, whoever comes along, I hand him this card: these are my questions.”
I said, “You can keep them printed for thirty lifetimes and you still won’t get answers. Don’t blame those you ask. These are not questions!” He hands over the card so he doesn’t have to write again and again; the questions remain the same. These are not questions.
Deep questions are always about method, the how—not about ends, not about goals. Ask: How will the meaning of life unfold? That makes sense. Don’t ask: What is the meaning of life?—you will know when it unfolds. Ask: How to reach the divine? Don’t ask: Where is God?—you will know where when you arrive. Don’t ask: Why did God create life? Enter life, dive deep! And you will know why—and, knowing, you will be fulfilled.
A musician will discover life’s meaning through music—the taste will be different. A dancer will discover it through dance—another taste. Meanings will differ; they will arise from each one’s own life. In the rose, roses will bloom; in the jasmine, jasmine will bloom. Blooming is one, but meanings are many. And ultimately, the one who goes beyond even meaning attains the supreme life—where there are no meanings, no search for meaning, no purpose, no goal.
Search! Ask me about the ways of searching. I cannot tell you the meaning; no one can. It will arrive in your life, and then you will know. But I can show you the paths of seeking, how to search. I am saying to you: remove suffering, increase your well-being, immerse yourself in joy—slowly, slowly meaning will dawn. Yet there is no ready-made formula, nothing like “two and two make four” for life’s meaning. It simply is not so. And what meaning will blossom in your life—what flower will bloom—cannot be said until it blooms. Water, nourish, care, practice, meditate, dive in—one day it will blossom. And when it blossoms, then others too will recognize what the meaning of your life is.
What is the meaning of my life—I know. But what has that to do with you? It is not going to be your meaning. Your life’s meaning will be your own. Keep asking how to search; don’t ask what it is. When it blooms, you will know—and others will know too. Ultimately, you have to go beyond even that. And when one goes beyond even meaning—becomes meaning-transcending, transcendental—only then does life flower totally. Totally! The roots become flowers, the leaves become flowers, the branches become flowers—everything becomes flowers. It is no longer that one flower has bloomed on a tree while the rest are leaves—there are only flowers. So, search!
Such questions have no meaning. People think they are asking very precious questions: “What is the meaning of life? What is God? Who created the universe?” They think these are valuable questions. There are none more childish, more juvenile. They have no point. “What is love?”—there is no point to such a question, though it sounds very precious. “What is the purpose of life? What is the goal?”—no point. They seem precious; they are not worth a penny. Because they are not questions—they are journeys.
What is love? Love is a journey. Live it, pass through it, go beyond it. You will be bruised, you will fall, wounds will happen; out of that the meaning of love will arise. And when your meaning arises, it will not be the same as someone else’s. His wounds will be different, his journey different—everything different.
People go on asking these very questions all the time…
I once went to a village. Many had asked questions. One man brought me three printed questions—on a card! I was amazed—printed questions, as if he had them published. I asked, “Who has asked these printed questions?” One of them was: What is the meaning of life? Where is God—at what place? Why did he create the universe? I said, “Where did these printed questions come from?”
He said, “I have been asking them forever, but I never get answers, so I had them printed thirty years ago. For thirty years, whoever comes along, I hand him this card: these are my questions.”
I said, “You can keep them printed for thirty lifetimes and you still won’t get answers. Don’t blame those you ask. These are not questions!” He hands over the card so he doesn’t have to write again and again; the questions remain the same. These are not questions.
Deep questions are always about method, the how—not about ends, not about goals. Ask: How will the meaning of life unfold? That makes sense. Don’t ask: What is the meaning of life?—you will know when it unfolds. Ask: How to reach the divine? Don’t ask: Where is God?—you will know where when you arrive. Don’t ask: Why did God create life? Enter life, dive deep! And you will know why—and, knowing, you will be fulfilled.
Osho's Commentary
We pass through the same world. And the person who feels that the world is the end is a householder. By householder I mean: one who has taken the world to be home. By sannyas I mean: one who has not taken the world to be home, but only the way, the path, a middle stretch to be passed through.
Inevitably the vision and the conduct of the two will differ greatly. On a road you have only to pass; you will not become attached there. You are not to stay there; you will not spread the roots of attachment there. Where you have to cross over, you will remain no more than a witness. Where you are not to linger, you will not set up permanent arrangements. Everything there will be temporary, just for use. You will not build houses of iron and stone. You will pitch a tent, whose pegs you will pull out in the morning and move on. A sannyasin does not build a house; at most he pitches a tent—because the pegs have to be uprooted at dawn; there is no need to make anything too strong.
The moment it enters your vision that the world is a road and one has to arrive elsewhere, the roots of attachment do not spread on the road. You are upon the road, and yet you remain free of it. You use the road, but the road cannot use you. You place your foot upon it only to lift it again. Your whole conduct changes. It changes because your gaze shifts from the everyday. Your attention no longer remains entangled in what is routine. If it happens, good; if it does not, good. Your eye is on that supreme attainment where one has to arrive, on what has to become.
So the sannyasin lives here too—on these same roads, in these same houses, among these same people, in these same marketplaces—this is the whole world. But his vision is different, utterly different.
The householder’s tendency is always to postpone death, to forget it. The memory of death destroys his entire arrangement, so he lives by forgetting death. I give it this second meaning: the householder lives by forgetting death, by living in oblivion, by assuming there is no death. The sannyasin lives with death before him, face to face. He knows death is. Whatever he does, the remembrance of death is present within him.
A great difference arises. If you live by forgetting death, the most trivial events of life will become immensely important. If you live with death before you, even the important events of life will become trivial. Suppose someone tells you that an hour from now you will die. Your whole behavior will change. You had thought to file a case against someone, to quarrel—this thought will drop. Someone had abused you and you meant to answer—this thought will drop. The matter is finished. If you yourself are going to drop in an hour, what meaning is there in returning an abuse?
If you come to know that in an hour you will die, then whatever things seemed important to your mind before that knowing will cease to be important. And those things you had indefinitely postponed—“we will do them tomorrow”—they will suddenly become essential.
The sannyasin lives every moment with death before him. Therefore I call sannyas courage, and I call the householder a coward. By coward I mean one who turns his back on the greatest truth of life, death—who lives by forgetting it, as if death were not. This is a deception, self-betrayal.
The sannyasin lives facing what is. For him, death is a truth. And the one who stands before death, who does not fear it and does not flee, his life changes—his outer life changes—and by encountering death, by standing face to face with it, his inner soul also changes and awakens. Hence we change the old name of the sannyasin. The declaration is that the old man has died. The old way you were seen is gone. His clothes are changed so that the old identification, the old identity—“I am this”—breaks. Now he may live in a new way, view life from a fresh angle, include death within his very arrangement.
If a person lives each moment knowing that death can come in the next, he will not remain greedy, nor angry, nor lustful. If death stands revealed beside you, your anger, greed, delusion—everything will depart at once. These exist only when you stand with your back toward death. If death stands before you, what greed remains? Death will take everything; then what insistence to clutch a coin? Death will erase all; then what is lost if someone abuses you?
A third thing: what appears to our eyes—the seen—is not the whole truth. The sannyasin begins to search this from within. You see me; but what you see is only my body—you do not see me. And when I close my eyes I find the body is not there at all. I am something very different from the body—deeper, invisible. And if the invisible is hidden within me, it is impossible that the invisible is not hidden within you also. Everything has an inside. There is an outer sheath, and there is an inner sanctuary. Everything! Even a stone has an inner heart; a tree has an inner soul.
The sannyasin, by seeking within himself, finds that outwardly he appears only as a body. What is hidden within cannot be known from the outside. Others too, whom he sees from the outside—objects, the whole world—only the form is visible. From his inner experience of the formless, the arupa, the nirakar, he slowly begins to search the arupa, the nirakar within all.
Thus the householder’s understanding is always built by seeing the outer coverings of others—and with that understanding he also judges himself. He takes you to be a body because a body is what is seen; hence he takes himself to be a body. The householder’s entire understanding is constructed from others, and from that borrowed understanding he infers about himself.
The sannyasin’s entire understanding is self-born, and from that self-born clarity he decides about others. His whole vision of life wells up from the inner source. The deeper he discovers his inner source, the more the inner source of the other becomes visible to him. Then, in every particle, the remembrance arises that the particle is not as it appears from above; someone is hidden within.
To take what is manifest as all—that surface, that outline—is the attitude of the householder. No, it is not sufficient. There is one present within, deeper still; the continuous search for that is the journey of the sannyasin. As this becomes clearer, a new world dawns within this very world. Matter begins to vanish; Paramatma begins to be revealed. What appears outside no longer seems to be the whole; only the outer sketch of what is hidden within remains. The householder lives in outlines, in skeletons. The sannyasin does not live in the outline; he enters what is hidden within the outline.
His search is the same everywhere. He takes even a flower in his hand and very quickly leaves the outline to enter the formless. Whether he sits, stands, walks, lives—everywhere, there is a continuous inquiry into the arupa and the nirakar. Sannyas is a continuous exploration of the formless. Householding is a continuous hankering for form. Living on the surface is the way of the worldly; to go deeper and deeper, to descend into the bottomless—that is the sannyasin’s plunge.
And the moments of supreme bliss in life arrive to the extent that we descend into depth. The waves of sorrow in life are greater the more we remain on the surface. Truth never unveils itself on the surface.
If these three things are kept in mind, they are the very soul of the sannyasin. Whoever moves remembering these three becomes sannyast. The rest—the sannyasin’s clothes, the changing of the name—these are declarations. They are of great value initially; ultimately, they are useless. Ultimately useless; initially of great use. The human mind is such that once a declaration is made, the resolve becomes intense, and when a thought is brought into action, the thought gains clarity. Very few are so capable that they can make a thought perfectly clear while keeping it as thought.
You will never have clarity about love as an idea until you love someone. Only when love becomes action will it become clear. When it becomes action, it becomes solid. Thoughts are like clouds drifting in the sky—water is hidden there too—but actions are like ice, water condensed; water is hidden there too. But you cannot rely on a cloud in the sky—here now, gone the next moment, dissolving, forming and reforming. When water becomes solid, becomes ice, then you can rely on it. So when your thoughts become your actions…
No thought becomes action without a declaration. The moment you declare, you drive a peg into the ground. The moment you declare, “I enter sannyas,” you become committed. You give your life-stream a direction and a focus. A remembrance will now grow dense within you.
To make this remembrance utterly clear, outer devices are primarily necessary. Because when a man sets out upon the journey of sannyas, in the first steps he is still outside, not yet within. Only his orientation has changed. He still stands on the very ground he stood upon a moment ago—form, shape—there he remains; only the gaze has changed, turned toward the formless. In the journey toward the formless he will still have to take some steps that belong to form. He should take them. The more he takes them, the more the path becomes assured, clear, the direction distinct, the fog thinning away.
And each step you take, even a small one, creates in you the strength for the next step.
Now someone comes to me and says, “What will happen by changing clothes?” I say to him, “If you cannot gather the courage even to change clothes, what else will you be able to change?” He says, “I will change the soul itself.” And he has not the courage to change even his clothes—yet he says he will change the soul!
If a man cannot change his clothes, how will he change his soul? Changing clothes is no work of great courage. To change the soul is great audacity. But in changing the soul he can remain deluded; in changing clothes he cannot remain deluded. If he changes his clothes, everyone will see it. He can talk of changing the soul his whole life—nothing will be visible to anyone, not even to himself.
When someone comes and says to me, “What will happen by changing clothes?” I ask him, “Then why have you not changed the soul till now? Why are you still waiting? And if you have changed it, why are you concerned with clothes at all?”
No—he is searching for devices. The human mind is very cunning; it finds a thousand strategies. It says, “Let me live in the hazy. Where things are not solid, where decisions are not taken, where nothing is made definite—let me live there.” That suits him.
Even a small act brings you out of the haze. You change your name, you change your clothes; you step out before the world—your decision is declared. People all around begin to see that you have become a sannyasin. Now your difficulty begins: you will no longer be able to live the way you lived yesterday. If you do, guilt and sin will arise within you. If you live as before, your conscience will begin to ache. Your own mind will say, “What are you doing? Who asked you to take sannyas?”
The moment you take even a small step, your ties with the old world grow thin and ties with the new world begin. A small step is enough to connect you with the new.
So the remaining arrangements of sannyas are only for the weak. And man is weak. We often entertain the illusion that perhaps we are the exception. Everyone in this world thinks he is an exception. Never fall into this delusion. It is a deep one. Each thinks, “Fine—others may need the robe, others may need the mala, others may need the name; I do not.”
But he never notices that the other needs anger as much as he does; the other needs sex as much as he does; the other needs greed as much as he does. In everything he is exactly like the other; only in this matter—others need the robe and he does not! When the thought arises that “I am an exception,” look and see where you are an exception. When someone throws a stone at you, the same happens within you as within another. When someone abuses you, your night’s sleep is disturbed, just as another’s is. When you are honored somewhere, you swell just as another swells. Where, then, is the exception?
If you find yourself an exception in all these, then I will say you need no outer form for sannyas. But such a man does not stop—he has already become a sannyasin. He is done; he is not stuck. And the amusing thing is, such a man will never come and say, “What will happen by changing clothes?” He will never say it—because he knows, he understands. Whoever comes and says, “What will happen by changing clothes?” is afraid of changing clothes, is frightened.
We do not even want to reveal our fear. We do not wish to say we are afraid. We will not even confess that changing clothes scares us. We will turn our fear into a philosophy. We will say, “No, I do not change my clothes because nothing will happen by changing clothes.”
The greatest deceits of the human mind come from its rationalizations, from the effort to justify everything. He will say, “I am not afraid of anyone.” Yet if two men laugh on the road, he cannot remain at ease the whole day. He will say, “I am not afraid of anyone.” Yet if four people stare at him on the street, their eyes pierce his chest. And he says, “I fear no one.” But he will hide it. He will say, “What will it do?”
The rest of the arrangement of sannyas is made seeing man’s weakness. And man is weak. And the man who is not weak is already a sannyasin. For him perhaps no arrangement is needed. But leave him aside. He is not the rule. He is of no use to you. Keep so much in mind—and it will be enough.