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Part VIII : Dental Sessions and three new books
During the winter, Osho has dental work in his own house. In
the sessions he talks with his attendants, and reminisces about
his life. His dentist, Devageet, makes notes of these talks, which
are later published.
My dentist chair is not just a dental affair…."
With me everything is a little strange. From the dental chair,
I have created three books! It must be absolutely unprecedented,
because people are so afraid of the dental chair and the dentist.
I have enjoyed it so much—but it created difficulties for
poor Devageet, because you cannot work on the teeth while I am
talking. What he could have done in ten minutes would take two
hours!…
I was talking to only two persons, Devageet and Ashu (my dentist
and dental nurse). And I have my own games to play. I had put
Ashu against Devageet—she is his dental nurse. I can experience
whatever is happening, even under a high dose of laughing gas,
and I used to remind Ashu again and again: "Don't listen
to Devageet. As far as this dental room is concerned, I am still
your master." Even with closed eyes…because they tried
that too. They blindfolded me so I could not see what was going
on, but I could see that the gas was not at the maximum. And I
was beating Ashu continuously—"You are listening to
Devageet!" Devageet stopped talking. He managed to give messages
by signal.
It was a beautiful time, and many things that I would have never
bothered to talk about, I talked about in the dental chair. I
was creating difficulty for them—because how can you work
inside the mouth when I am speaking? But my sensitivity is such
that just a lower degree of gas and I would hit Ashu immediately.
She was in a great difficulty…she has to listen to the doctor,
but as far as I am concerned the doctor and the nurse both are
my disciples. I have beaten Devageet so much that sometimes I
feel sad about the poor fellow. He has been doing his best, but
he was doing it according to his medical understanding. With me,
things cannot be in any way ordinary. mani14
Osho addresses his dentist: Don't be afraid. I am always in favor
of danger, and this is dangerous because you are on the very verge
of consciousness. This is the time you want to stop, but this
is the time I want you to go on, because danger is beautiful,
you cannot have too much.
But I see you are already going back, you are backing away. What
is there to fear? Chemistry is there, the body is there; I can
talk—what does it matter if I am not in the body? One man
is not important…but what I am saying matters. What I am
saying will remain, it will stay; it is of the essence. I don't
matter. What matters is what I am saying.
If the time is over, okay, but five minutes for my silence….
I was just trying to feel the chair, because I am so in the sky,
to be in this chair at the same time is wonderful. I am not joking.
I have never joked in my life. All those jokes…I have forgotten
them. notes01
Never act out of fear. Don't be worried about my body, it is
okay. Don't listen to my body but to me. My body is always a little
strange…it's bound to be.
Once you are aware, the body starts losing its grip over the consciousness.
Once you are aware, you are no more of this world. That is why
the awakened one dies and is not born again. He cannot be born,
it is impossible. He cannot have another body. This is my last
body.
You are fortunate to be with a person who is in the last body.
I will not be again because I am Being. Once you are Being you
cannot be born again. It is Being which matters. It is Being which
is eternal. Bodies come and go; Being remains. Bodies are born
and die; Being is neither born nor dies.
The music is beautiful but stop it. I am unpredictable. It is
beautiful, but a hindrance to the ultimate flight. It is a bridge
and you cannot make your home under a bridge. The bridge needs
to be dropped. Mohammed was averse to music because the very beauty
of music can keep one rooted. It is just between this and that,
but I want only that. I hear music during the day but only to
keep myself rooted in the body a little more because I love you
so much. I want to create a home for the people I love. I do not
want history to say I dreamed but could not make my dream become
a reality. Just for this I want to linger in this body. All who
are gathered in this room are helping me. Thank you all. notes01
Remembering the snow falling from the trees, just like flowers
falling from madhumalti, a haiku flashed….
The wild geese
Do not intend to make their reflections.
The water has no mind
To receive their images.
Ahhh, so beautiful. Wild geese not intending to make their reflections,
and the water not intending to receive them either, and yet the
reflection is there. That is the beauty. Nobody has intended,
and yet it is there—that's what I call communion. I have
always hated communication. To me communication is ugly. You can
see it happening between a wife and a husband, the boss and the
servant, and so on and so forth. It never really happens. Communion
is my word.
I see Buddha Hall with all my people…just for a moment like
a flash, so many moments of communion. It is not just a gathering;
it is not a church. People do not come to it formally. People
come to me, not to it. Whenever there is a master and a disciple—it
may be only the master and just one disciple, that does not matter—communion
happens. It is happening right now, and there are only four of
you. Perhaps with my eyes closed I can't even count, and it is
good; only then can one remain in the world of the unaccountable…
glimps01
Sheela was thinking of buying a plane for me. A million dollar
plane so I can fly…but I am flying, flying without a license,
and flying to the highest, where there are no limits. Otherwise
there are always limits….
This is beautiful. Without wasting a million dollars….
Good. I am now high. It is so good. notes01
I myself have come to the point where you cannot go any higher.
Howsoever high you go, you are still on the same height. In other
words, there comes a moment in spiritual growth which is untranscendable.
That moment is called, paradoxically, the transcendental. glimps15
I love to be on these peaks. I love the heights. This beauty,
this is sundram. This is something that I can only explain to
my lovers. It is beautiful. This is not a story, it is not a novel,
it is reality. My tear is a proof. Truth has to be proved by one's
tears, by one's existence, by one's way of living. notes01
My eyes are beginning to collect dewdrops. Please don't interrupt….
Good. Don't be worried about me and my tears. It is good to have
tears once in a while, and I have not wept for so long. books13
Now poor Devageet simply writes his notes, and he does it perfectly.
Once in a while I check by asking, "What was I saying?"
and he reminds me exactly what it was that I was saying. He does
his work, and because he is so full of love for me he cannot resist
sighing, and breathing as if something he could never believe
would happen has at last happened—and he cannot believe
it still. And my difficulty is that I think that he is giggling!
He is not giggling, just the sound of his excited breathing makes
me feel that he is giggling.
He has written to me about it. I know it, but whenever he does
it—I am also a diehard—immediately the word that comes
to me is giggling. So again he is giggling. This too is an old
habit from when I was a professor. And you can understand: a professor
is, after all, a professor, and he cannot allow giggling in his
class. I don't mind it now, I enjoy it. glimps38
I will wait…Devageet's ink has run out. What a fountain
pen you have! My God, it seems it must have belonged to Adam and
Eve! What a noise it makes! But one cannot expect anything else
in this Noah's Ark. books10
Osho's talks form four series, the first two series under the
title Notes of a Madman:
Vivek calls your notes "The Ramblings of a Madman"…written
by a madman, but not ramblings. If I am mad, then who is sane?
If I am mad then who can say he is not mad? Nixon? Who can claim
sanity? This poor earth is full of mad men, so I appear to be
mad. A sane man among the insane always appears so….
I am surrounded by madmen. I am in a whole world of madmen. Certainly
I will look mad…mad, even to my own people….
At least I cannot go mad. And I am not going to die at this moment.
I have a few more strange things to do yet. notes01
Go to the stars,
the rainbows,
to the world which is beyond…
which I cannot describe, nobody can describe. I am a madman. It
is not easy to deal with me. notes01
I like this light, it is good. It is something like what I am
facing. I am facing such tremendous light…this is nothing.
I am facing so much music I am almost drowned in it. To be close
to beauty is to be close to death. I cannot forget that. I have
been close to death again and again. I have been coming close
to death many times in my life, knowingly. You may not know but
we have faced death infinite times, but with such fear we have
not seen its beauty; otherwise death is another name for God.
I am amazed nobody has said it yet. It is another name for God,
for light, for joy, for beauty.
So I go on and on,
into myself.
Deep into the beyond,
and the beyond is all there is.
All else is going to disappear.
Only that which is beyond
will remain forever.
I am talking of the beyond. notes01
If you all put your energies together you can help a buddha make
millions of buddhas in the world. I am mad; otherwise just to
think of one buddha is enough, and I always think of millions
of buddhas. Less than that is not enough. I always think big.
We have to create millions of buddhas, only then a new man can
be born. Only then can we make Christians disappear and christs
appear. The beginning of the buddhas will be the death of the
Buddhists.
I am a beginning and also an end.
I am an end…end in the sense that after me there can be
no Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Mohammedanism. After me there
is no possibility of any ideology. With me ends the old and begins
the new—the New Man. Man with no ideology, no religion,
no philosophy, no concept to live, but only a joy to live, a celebration.
notes02
The second series of talks in the dental chair are about mantras:
Om Mani Padme Hum
I can repeat this mantra forever. Its beauty is such and you are
so deaf that it has to be repeated again and again. Truth by its
very necessity has to be repeated, because those who are hearing
are not hearing. They have lost that sensitivity, that receptivity.
So I will go on repeating this mantra. The day I see that it has
penetrated to your unconscious, beyond you, within you, where
right now you cannot reach…but I can…. The moment
I see it has reached, the seed has found its soil, I will say
it no more. That will be the end of the series.
Om Mani Padme Hum…
Om Mani Padme Hum.
Just the vibe of it is thrilling, tremendously thrilling, just
overwhelming; one is drowned in it.
This mantra was not composed by a poet. Poets can say beautiful
things but those beautiful things are sweet nothings. This mantra
was conceived, not composed, conceived just as a woman conceives
a child, conceived by the mystics….
This mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum, was conceived like a child, in
the hearts of the mystics on the peaks of the Himalayas. The Himalayas
are covered with snow from eternity; it has never melted. It has
remained the same.
This mantra comes from Tibet, the hiddenmost part of the Himalayas.
And on these heights I hear it: it is a sound like the sound of
bees buzzing. And the humming is so beautiful. One cannot be grateful
enough to the mystics who tried to make this humming sound into
a mantra. Om Mani Padme Hum…aahhh, the Jewel in the Lotus.
notes02
In the third series, Books I have loved, Osho talks about 176
of his favourite books:
In the library there are thousands of books; there are over one
hundred thousand volumes in the beautiful library. I love the
library; it contains all the best that has ever been written.
I am giving it all to our university. Of all the thousands of
books I have told Vivek to carry only one. That is my only book
now. It is written by a man who has not reached but has come very
close, very, very close—Khalil Gibran. I wanted to talk
about his book many times but did not. The time was not yet right.
The man was only a poet and not a mystic, not one who really knows,
but he reached to heights in his imagination. notes01
But there is a queue standing at the door. You don't know what
a fix I am in. I had not thought of it before, because I am not
a thinker and I never think before I jump. I jump, and then I
think. It was just by the way that I mentioned ten beautiful books.
I was not thinking so many others would start bugging me. So,
ten more. books04
Okay, how many books have I talked about in the postscript—forty?
"Thirty, I think, Osho."
Thirty? Good. Such a relief, because so many books are still waiting.
You could understand my relief only if you had to choose one book
out of a thousand, and that's exactly what I am doing. The postscript
continues. books10
I also remembered Mikhail Naimy's book The Book of Mirdad. That
book is just unbelievable. I feel jealous of only one man, Mikhail
Naimy. Jealous not in the ordinary sense, because I cannot feel
jealous in that sense; jealous in the sense that he has written
it already, otherwise I would write it. I would have written it…it
is of the same heights I am flying to. notes02
I apologize because this morning I did not mention a few books
that I should have mentioned. I was so overwhelmed by Zarathustra,
Mirdad, Chuang Tzu, Lao Tzu, Jesus and Krishna that I forgot a
few of the books which are even far more significant. I could
not believe how I could forget Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet. It
is still torturing me. I want to unburden—that's why I say
I am sorry, but not to anybody in particular.
How could I forget the book which is the ultimate: The Book of
the Sufis! Perhaps I forgot because it contains nothing, just
empty pages. For twelve hundred years Sufis have been carrying
The Book with tremendous respect, opening its pages and studying
it. One wonders what they study. When you face an empty page for
a long time, you are bound to rebounce upon yourself. That is
the real study—the work.
How could I forget The Book? Now who will forgive me? The Book
should have been the first to have been mentioned not the last.
It cannot be transcended. How can you create a better book than
one which contains nothing, and the message of nothingness?
Nothingness should be written in your notes, Devageet, as no-thing-ness;
otherwise nothingness has a negative meaning—the meaning
of emptiness, and that's not it. The meaning is 'fullness'. Emptiness
in the East has a totally different context…shunyata. books02
Masnavi of Jalaluddin Rumi. It is a book of small parables. The
great can only be expressed in parables. Jesus speaks in parables:
so speaks the Masnavi. Why did I forget it? I love parables; I
should not have forgotten it. I have used hundreds of parables
from it. Perhaps it has become so much of my own that I forgot
to mention it separately. But that is no excuse, apology is still
required. books02
The Isa Upanishad. It is easy to understand why I forgot about
it. I have drunk it, it has become a part of my blood and bones;
it is me. I have spoken on it hundreds of times. It is a very
small Upanishad. There are one hundred and eight Upanishads and
Isa is the smallest of them all. It can be printed on a postcard,
on one side only, but it contains all the remaining one hundred
and seven, so they need not be mentioned. The seed is in the Isa….
The Isa Upanishad is one of the greatest creations of those who
have meditated. books02
I forgot to say something about Gurdjieff and his book All and
Everything—perhaps because it is a very strange book, not
even readable. I don't think there are any living individuals
except me who have read from the first page to the last. I have
come across many Gurdjieff followers, but none of them had been
able to read All and Everything in its totality….
I have read this book not once but many times. The more I went
into it the more I loved it, because the more I could see the
rascal; the more I could see what it was that he was hiding from
those who should not know. Knowledge is not for those who are
not yet capable of absorbing it. Knowledge has to be hidden from
the unwary, and is only for those who can digest it. It has to
be given only to those who are ready. That's the whole purpose
of writing in such a strange way. There is no other book stranger
than Gurdjieff's All and Everything, and it certainly is all and
everything. books02
J. Krishnamurti's The First and Last Freedom. I love this man,
and I hate this man. I love him because he speaks the truth, but
I hate him for his intellectuality. He is only reason, rationality.
I wonder, he may be a reincarnation of that goddamned Greek Aristotle.
His logic is what I hate, his love is what I respect—but
his book is beautiful. books03
I want to bring J.Krishnamurti back to your notice again. The
name of the book is Commentaries on Living. There are many volumes
of it. It is made of the same stuff stars are made from.
Commentaries on Living is his diary. Once in a while he writes
something in his diary…a beautiful sunset, an ancient tree,
or just the evening…birds coming back home…anything…a
river rushing to the ocean…whatever he feels, he sometimes
notes it down. That's how this book was born. It is not written
systematically, it is a diary. Yet to just read it is enough to
transport you to another world—the world of beauty, or far
better, beautitude. Can you see my tears?
I have not read for some time, but just the mention of this book
is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I love the book. It is one
of the greatest books ever written. I have said before that Krishnamurti's
First and Last Freedom is his best book, which he has not been
able to transcend—of course not as a book, because Commentaries
is only a diary, not a book in the real sense, but all the same
I include it. books10
A man, Idries Shah. I will not mention any of his books because
all of them are beautiful. I recommend every one of this man's
books.
Don't be afraid, I am still insane. Nothing can make me sane.
But one book by Idries Shah towers above all the others. All are
beautiful, I would like to mention them all, but the book The
Sufis is just a diamond. The JUSTIFY">Don't be afraid,
I am still insane. Nothing can make me sane. But one book by Idries
Shah towers above all the others. All are beautiful, I would like
to mention them all, but the book The Sufis is just a diamond.
The value of what he has done in The Sufis is immeasurable….
Whenever I recognize something like this I always appreciate it.
And this is beautiful—this is what you will understand if
you can understand Idries Shah's book The Sufis. He is the man
who introduced Mulla Nasruddin to the West, and he has done an
incredible service. He cannot be repaid. The West has to remain
obliged to him forever. Idries Shah has made just the small anecdotes
of Nasruddin even more beautiful. This man not only has the capacity
to exactly translate the parables, but even to beautify them,
to make them more poignant, sharper. I include all of his books.
books09
I have always loved the books of P.D. Ouspensky, though I have
never loved the man himself….
It is a small book, and its name is The Future Psychology of Man.
He wrote in his will that the book should only be published when
he was no more. I don't like the man, but I must say, in spite
of myself, that in this book he almost predicted me and my sannyasins.
He predicted the future psychology, and that is what I am doing
here—the future man, the New Man. This small book must become
a necessary study for all sannyasins. books10
I always wanted to talk about this book but was afraid that I
was going to miss because there was no time. I did not plan, just
as always I go unplanned. I had thought to talk about only fifty
books, but then came the P.S. and it continued and continued.
Again fifty titles were completed, but there were still so many
beautiful books that I had to continue and start the P.P.S. That
is why I can now talk about this book. It is Dostoevsky's Notes
from the Underground.
It is a very strange book, as strange as the man was. Just notes—like
Devageet's notes, fragmentary, on the surface unrelated to each
other, but really related with an undercurrent of aliveness. It
has to be meditated upon. I cannot say anything more than this.
It is one of the most ignored great works of art. Nobody seems
to take note of it, for the simple reason that it is not a novel,
just notes, and they too seem to the unmeditative to be unrelated.
But to my disciples it can be of great significance; they can
find treasures hidden in it. books14
In the fourth series, Glimpses of a Golden Childhood, Osho speaks
for the first time in detail about his childhood; many stories
have been used in this compilation
I just had a golden experience, the feeling of a disciple so
lovingly working on his master's body. I'm still out of breath
because of it. And it also reminds me of my golden childhood.
Everybody talks of his golden childhood, but rarely, very rarely,
is it true. Mostly it is a lie….
First, one has to choose one's birth. That's almost impossible.
glimps02
Forgive me, but I have decided to tell the whole truth whatsoever
it is. And mind you all, I am going to tell it howsoever long
it takes. Devageet, Devaraj, and Ashu—it may take years
for me to tell it and then I will tell you that you have to finish
the book quickly, so don't go on piling it up.
Don't in any way depend upon tomorrows. Just do it today; only
then will you be able to do it. glimps35
And this is for the first time that I have ever told the story
of Shambhu Babu. I have kept it a secret all these years, forty
years. It feels like a relief.
This morning Gudia said, "You slept so late."
Yes, last night I slept, for the first time in many years, as
I would like to sleep every night. During the whole night I was
not disturbed even for a single moment. Usually I have to look
at my watch once in a while just to see whether it is time to
get up. But last night, after many years, I did not look at my
watch at all. I even had to miss Devaraj's concoction. That's
what I call his special breakfast mixture. It is a concoction
but it is really good. It is difficult to eat because it takes
half an hour just to chew it, but it is really healthy and nourishing.
We should make it available to everybody—Devaraj's concoction
for breakfast. Of course it is not fast, it is slow, very very
slow. Can we call it a "break-slow"? But then it would
not sound right.
I had to miss breakfast today for two reasons: first, I had to
keep Devageet's time, and still I was five minutes late, and I
don't like to be late. Secondly, if I had started that concoction
it would have taken so much time to eat that by the time I had
finished, it would have been lunch time. There would have been
no gap, which is needed. So I thought I would miss it. But I really
enjoy it, and in missing it, I really miss it.
Last night was one of the rarest for the simple reason that yesterday
I spoke to you about Shambhu Babu, and it relieved me of a weight.
I also talked about my father and the continuous struggle and
how it ended. I felt so unburdened. glimps21
Love is good. Transcend it, because it can lead you to something
better: friendship. And when two lovers become friends, it is
a rare phenomenon. One wants to cry just out of joy, or celebrate,
or if one is a musician, play on the guitar, or if one is a poet,
then write a haiku, a rubaiyat. But if one is not a musician or
a poet, one can still dance, one can still paint, one can sit
silently and look at the sky. What more can be done? Existence
has done it already….
From love to friendship, and from friendship to friendliness—that
can be said to be my whole religion. Friendship is again a "ship,"
a relation-ship, a certain bondage…very subtle, more subtle
than love, but it is there; and with it all the jealousies and
all the diseases of love also. They have come in a very subtle
form. But friendliness is freedom from the other; hence there
is no question of relationship.
Love is towards the other, so is friendship. Friendliness is only
an opening of your heart to existence. Suddenly, at a particular
moment, you may be opening it to a man, to a woman, a tree, to
a star…at the beginning you cannot just open it to the whole
of existence. Of course in the end you have to open your heart
to the whole, simultaneously, unaddressed to anybody. That is
the moment…let us just call it the moment.
Let us forget the words enlightenment, buddhahood, Christ-consciousness,
just let us call it THE MOMENT—write it in capitals. glimps24
The other day I told you about Masto's disappearance. I think
he is still alive. In fact I know he is. In the East, this has
been one of the most ancient ways—to disappear in the Himalayas
before you die. To die in that beautiful part is richer than to
live anywhere else; even dying there has something of the eternal.
Perhaps it is the vibe of the saints chanting for thousands of
years. The Vedas were composed there, the Gita was written there,
Buddha was born and died there, Lao Tzu in his last days disappeared
in the Himalayas. And Masto did almost the same….
Masto…it is difficult to say goodbye to you, for the simple
reason that I don't believe you are no more. You still exist.
I may not be able to see you again; that is not very important.
I have seen you so much, your very fragrance has become a part
of me. But somewhere in this story I have to put a full stop as
far as you are concerned. It is hard, and it hurts…forgive
me for that. glimps33
I have not played on musical instruments, but I have played on
thousands of hearts. I have created a far deeper music than any
instrument can—noninstrumental, nontechnical. glimps29
Now, Dale Carnegie may have written How to Win Friends and Influence
People, but I don't think that he really knows. He cannot. Unless
you know the art of creating enemies, you cannot know the art
of creating friends. In that, I am immensely fortunate.
I have created so many enemies that you can depend on it, that
I must have made a few friends at least. Without creating friends,
you cannot create enemies; that is a basic law. If you want friends,
get ready for the enemies too. That's why many, the majority of
people, decide to have neither friends nor enemies, but just acquaintances.
These are thought to be common-sense people; in fact they really
have uncommon sense. But I don't have that, whatsoever it is called.
I created as many friends as I created enemies; in fact, in the
same proportion. I can count on them both. They are both reliable.
glimps37
I am reminded of a small anecdote. I used to use this anecdote
as a joke. Many of my jokes are perhaps painted a little here
and there to make them look like jokes, but many of them come
from real life. And real life is far more of a joke book than
any joke book could ever be. How do I know this joke comes from
real life? Because it cannot be otherwise, there is no other way.
I remember I used to tell this joke and this is the way I remember
it….
The small boy, already very afraid, completely drenched with water,
somehow had still reached the school. But a schoolteacher is a
schoolteacher. She asked, "Why are you late?"
He had thought it was enough proof. It was raining so hard…cats
and dogs were raining, and he was completely wet, dripping. And
yet she was still asking, "Why are you late?"
He invented, just like any child would, saying, "Miss, it
is so slippery that as I took one step forward, I slipped two
steps back."
The woman looked even more stern and said, "How can that
be? If you take one step forwards and then slip back two steps—you
cheat—then you could never have got to school."
The small boy said, "Miss, please understand: I turned towards
my house and started running away from school, that's how I got
here."
I say it is not a joke. That schoolteacher is real, the boy is
real, the rain is real. The schoolteacher's conclusion is real,
and the small boy's conclusion could not be more real. I have
told thousands of jokes and many of them came from real life.
Those which don't come from real life also come from real life,
but from the underground life, which is also real but never on
the surface—it is not allowed. glimps33
How many houses have I lived in? It is almost impossible for
you to imagine that in almost fifty years of life I have been
just moving houses, and doing nothing else. Of course, the grass
was growing—I was moving house, and doing nothing, and the
grass was growing. But the whole credit goes to "nothing,"
not to my moving house….
I was saying I have never had a house. Even this house, I cannot
call it my house. From the first one to the last—perhaps
this is not the last, but whichever is the last, I cannot call
it my house. Just to hide the fact, I call it Lao Tzu House. Lao
Tzu has nothing to do with it.
And I know the man. I know that if he meets me—and someday
a meeting is bound to happen—the first thing he will ask
will be, "Why did you name your house 'Lao Tzu House'?"
Naturally, the curiosity of a child—and nobody could be
more childlike than Lao Tzu, neither Buddha, nor Jesus, nor Mohammed,
and certainly not Moses. A Jew being childlike? Impossible!…
And I had to watch it happen, moving from one house to another.
I can remember hundreds of houses, but not a single one where
I could have said, "This is my house." I was hoping,
perhaps this one…that's been the way for my whole life:
"Perhaps the next one."
Still…I will tell you a secret. I am still hoping to have
a house somewhere, perhaps…. "Perhaps" is the
house. My whole life I waited and waited in so many houses for
the real one to come. It always seemed just around the corner.
But the distance remained the same: it remained always just around
the corner. I can again see it….
I know that no house is ever going to be mine. But knowing is
one thing: once in a while, something which can only be called
"being" covers it. I call that "all-knowing";
and in those moments, again I am searching for "the home."
I said it can be named only "perhaps"; I mean that is
the name of the home. It is always going to happen, but never
really happens…always just about to happen….
I have been continuously leaving, always packing for the new house.
In a way it was good; otherwise I would have had nothing else
to do, just packing and then unpacking, then again packing and
unpacking. It kept me more occupied than any other buddha before,
and more harmlessly. They too were occupied, but their occupation
implied others.
My occupation has always been, in a certain sense, personal.
Even if thousands of people are with me it is still a one-to-one
relationship between you and me. It is not an organization, and
it can never be. Certainly for managerial purposes it has to function
as an organization, but as far as my sannyasins are concerned,
each single sannyasin is related to me, and only to me, not via
anybody else.
I am a very unoccupied man. I cannot say unemployed, hence I
have used the word 'unoccupied', because I rejoice in it. I am
not applying for any employment. I am finished with all employment;
I am just enjoying. But to enjoy a certain milieu is needed. That's
what I am creating.
The whole of my life I have been creating it, gradually, in
steps. I have spoken again and again about the new commune. It
is just to remind myself, not you, so that I don't forget the
new commune—because the moment I forget it, I may not wake
up the next morning.
Gudia will wait…. You will run; yes, I have seen you coming,
almost running. You will wait, but I will not be coming because
I will have lost the only small thread with which I was holding
myself….
It started with my school, and it is just the second day. Life
is so multidimensional. When I say so multidimensional, it may
look absurd because just multidimensional covers it. Why call
it so multidimensional? Life is multi-multidimensional.
You must be feeling hungry, and hungry ghosts are dangerous people.
Just two minutes for me….
Just end it now. glimps37
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