Chapter 1: Sutra 2
The nameless One is the father of earth and heaven. The one with the name is the mother of all things.
Existence is anonymous.
The thing is born as soon as it is named.
Until it is named, everything is part of the infinite existence. As soon as it is named, it breaks apart, becomes separate and distinct. Name is the boundary of separation. Name means to separate. Until it is named, everything is one. As soon as it is named, things break apart and become separate.
Lao Tzu says, "The nameless is the originator, the original source, of heaven and hell. And the name, or the nameless, is the mother of all things."
The first thing we must understand is that if humans were not on earth, there would be no difference between things. There would be no difference between a rose flower and a rose thorn. There is no difference at all. The rose thorn is connected to the rose flower like your eyes are connected to your heart. There would be no difference between the earth and the sky either. It is difficult to pinpoint where the earth ends and the sky begins. They are united, two ends of the same thing. Where the ocean begins and where the earth begins is difficult to pinpoint—if there are no humans. So, within the ocean lies the expanse of land, and within the ocean lies the expanse of land. That is why, if you dig a well anywhere, you find water. Even if you go deep into the ocean, you will find land. The ocean has a little more water and a little less soil; and within soil, there is a little less water and a lot of soil. There can be no water without soil; and there can be no soil without water.
If we remove man, there is no difference between things; everything is connected and one. As soon as man comes into being, things become separate. They don't exist, they appear separate to man. If I look at you, your hands seem separate to me, your eyes seem separate to me, your ears seem separate to me, your feet seem separate to me. But within you, within your being, there is no difference anywhere. Eyes and ears, hands and feet, are all united, extensions of the same thing. The energy and power flowing within the hand are indistinguishable from the energy and power that sees within the eye. The hand sees through the eye; the eye touches through the hand. Within you, within your being, there is no gap at all. But when viewed from the outside, when names are given, the gap begins. The eye becomes separate from the ear. The hand becomes separate from the hand. The hand becomes separate from the foot. By giving names, we draw a boundary and separate things.
Lao Tzu says, "The Nameless—until we name it—is the source of all existence. And Lao Tzu has given existence two names: heaven and hell, heaven and earth."
In human experience, in perception, happiness and sorrow are two experiences—the deepest of all. The experience of existence, if we abandon names, is either like happiness or like sorrow. And happiness and sorrow are not two things. If we abandon names altogether, happiness will seem like a part of sorrow, and sorrow will seem like a part of happiness. But we go about giving names to everything. If I feel happiness within me, and if I don't say that this is happiness, then every perception of happiness has its own pain. This will be a little difficult to understand. Every perception of happiness has its own pain. Love also has its own pain. Happiness also has its own sting, happiness also has its own prick, happiness also has its own thorn—if we don't give them names. If we do give them names, we separate happiness and separate sorrow. Then we forget the sorrow that comes with happiness, believing that it is not a part of happiness. And we forget the happiness that comes with sadness, believing it's not part of the sadness. Because our words don't include happiness in sadness, and our words don't include sadness in happiness.
Just today I was talking to someone about how, if we delve into experience, it's very difficult to distinguish between love and hate. There's a clear distinction in words. What greater difference could there be? Where is love, where is hate? And those who define love will say, "Love exists where there is no hate, and hate exists where there is no love." But if we delve into lived experience, hate transforms into love, love transforms into hate. In fact, there's no love we've known in which a trace of hate doesn't exist. That's why we also hate those we love. But words are a problem. In words, love only expresses love, and hate disappears. If we delve into experience, look within, we also hate those we love. In experience, not in words. And we hate those we hate because we love them; otherwise, hatred would be impossible. There's a kind of friendship even with an enemy; there's a kind of attachment even with an enemy. There is a kind of separation and enmity even with a friend.
The obstacle is words. Our words are solid and do not absorb their opposite. Existence is very fluid and always absorbs its opposite. Death is not contained in our birth; but in existence, death is connected with birth, contained within it. There is no place for health in our illness. But only a healthy person can become ill in existence. If you are not healthy, you cannot become ill. A dead person does not become ill. To become ill, one must be alive; to become ill, one must be healthy. Illness can only occur with health. And if you become aware that you are ill, then only you know that you are healthy. Otherwise, who will know about illness? How will you know? I am saying that where existence exists, our opposite distinctions fall away and the One expands. Where we give a name, things break into two parts; a dichotomy, a duality is created—instantly. Here, the name is given, there existence is fragmented. Naming is a process of fragmentation. And giving up the name is the way to know the eternal.
But we don't live even for a moment without naming it. Without naming it, there would be great restlessness. We see, perhaps we name it as soon as we see it. We hear, we name it as soon as we hear it. Seeing a flower, the mind immediately names it—a rose, whether it's beautiful, or ugly, whether it's known before, or not known before, whether it's unfamiliar, or familiar. Immediately, the rose is discarded, and a web of words is created over our mind. Then, when we see existence within that web of words, existence appears broken.
Lao Tzu is saying that the nameless is the father of existence, the source of all existence; and the name is the mother of all things.
So we won't be able to give God a name; because the moment we give it a name, God becomes an object. Anything we name will become an object. Even if we give a name to the soul, it will become an object. And if we don't give a name to a stone, it will become a soul. If we refrain from giving a name, and our mind doesn't create a name, and we look at even a stone without words and without a name, then God will appear in the stone. And if we give a name to a heart beating with love—my son, my mother, my wife—that heart, which was beating with life, will also become a piece of stone. Give a name, and consciousness becomes an object. Let go of the name, and objects become conscious.
So Lao Tzu divides existence into two parts. To explain existence, he divides it into heaven and earth. By earth, Lao Tzu means matter. And by heaven, Lao Tzu means experience, perception, consciousness. So, the father of all matter and all consciousness is the nameless. Heaven is an experience, earth is a state. Lao Tzu's purpose for earth is—in the days when Lao Tzu used these words in China, earth had the same meaning as we do with matter, and heaven had the same meaning as we do with consciousness. Because consciousness will perceive and experience heaven. Matter means inertia, and heaven means consciousness. The original source of all consciousness and all matter is the nameless. And the mother of all things is the process of naming.
We live in a world of objects. We neither live in the world of matter nor in the world of heaven, of consciousness. We live in a world of objects. If you take a closer look at your surroundings, you will understand. We live in a world of objects—we live in things. It is not that because you have furniture in your house, you live among things; because you have a house, you live among things; because you have money, you live among things. No; furniture, house, money, doors, and walls—these are objects. But the people who live among these walls, doors, furniture, and things, almost become objects as well.
When I love someone, I want my love to last tomorrow; I want the person who loved me today to love me tomorrow as well. Now, tomorrow can only be trusted with objects, not with people. Tomorrow can only be trusted with objects. The chair I placed in my room can be found there tomorrow. It is predictable, it can be predicted. And it is reliable, it can be relied upon. Because a dead chair has no consciousness, no independence of its own. But the person I loved today, I will receive their love tomorrow as well—if the person is alive and conscious, then there is no certainty. It may or may not happen. But I want, no, that tomorrow the same thing happens as today. Then I will have to try to erase this person and make them an object. Only then will it become reliable.
Then I should make my lover my husband or my beloved my wife. I should take the help of the law and society. And tomorrow morning, when I demand love, that wife or that husband will not be able to refuse. Because the promises have been made, the agreement has been reached; everything is certain. To refuse now is to betray me; it is to shirk my duty. So, the one whom I bound in love yesterday, I have turned into an object. And if he shows even a little consciousness and personality, there will be obstacles, there will be conflict, there will be strife.
That's why all our relationships become conflicted. Because we expect people to be like objects. Despite our best efforts, no one can become an object. Yes, we try, but that only makes us become more inert. Still, it doesn't happen; a little consciousness remains awakened within, creating trouble. Then our whole life becomes an attempt to suppress that consciousness and impose that material burden.
And if I suppressed someone and turned them into objects, or if someone suppressed me and turned me into objects, then another tragedy occurs: if someone truly becomes an object, then the very meaning of loving them is lost. There is no meaning in loving a chair. The joy was that there was consciousness there. Now this is the dilemma of man, this is the conflict of man: he wants the kind of love from a person that can only be found in objects. And he doesn't want to love objects, because what is the meaning of loving objects? A similar impossible possibility keeps running through our minds: to receive the kind of love from a person that one gets from an object. This is impossible. If that person remains a person, love will become impossible; and if that person becomes an object, our interest will be lost. In both situations, nothing will be gained except frustration and sadness.
And we all continue to turn each other into objects. What we call family, society, is less a group of individuals and more a collection of objects. If we delve into the underbelly of this state of ours, we'll find the same phenomenon Lao Tzu describes. In fact, where there's a name, the individual dissolves, consciousness disappears, and only the object remains. If I even say to someone, "I'm your lover," I become an object. I've given a name to a living phenomenon, one that continues to grow and expand, expand, and become new. And who knows what it would be like! What it would be tomorrow cannot be said. I gave it a name, now I've set a limit. Now I'll stop tomorrow, I won't let anything else happen that I've named it.
Tomorrow morning, when I feel anger, I will say, "I am a lover, I should not be angry." Then I will suppress my anger. And when anger has arisen and is suppressed, the love that is shown will be false and hollow. And a lover who is incapable of anger will be incapable of love. Because the person whom I cannot consider close enough to be angry with, I will never be able to consider close enough to love.
But I said, "I am a lover!" So what will happen to the anger that comes tomorrow morning? At that time, I will have to cheat. Either I swallow the anger, suppress it, hide it, and continue to show love. That love will be false, the anger will be real. The real will be suppressed within, the fake will accumulate on the surface. Then I will become a false object, not a person. And this anger, suppressed within, will take revenge. It will push back every day, it will want to break out every day. And then, naturally, hatred will develop towards the one I loved. And I will start trying to avoid the very one I loved.
But I made a mistake by naming it. Lao Tzu says, "I made a mistake by naming it. When I told someone, 'I am your lover,' I understood exactly what it means to be a lover. I gave a name to a momentary feeling that was stable. If I had looked within, perhaps I would not have given it such a name. Perhaps it would have been better to remain silent. Perhaps I made a mistake by speaking."
Coolidge, a president of the United States, spoke very little, very little. No politician in the world has ever spoken so little. A year before his death, a friend asked him, "Coolidge, you speak so little, you've spoken so little in your entire life. What's the reason?" Coolidge replied, "I never get punished for what I haven't said; I never have to regret what I haven't said. I have had to regret what I have said." That wasn't much of an experience, Coolidge said. "If I get the chance again, I'll remain completely silent." That wasn't much of an experience; I learned gradually from experience. But now I can say that I've always been punished for what I said; I've never suffered for what I didn't."
Perhaps you think you might have abused someone and received punishment. No, abuse is punishable; it's obvious, to be obvious. No, even telling someone you love them has consequences.
In fact, we gave ourselves words and names, and this will lead to punishment. Because we created an object where there was no object, where there was a fluid personality. Where there was a fluid flow, we tried to erect a wall in the middle of the river by hammering it. Now there will be discomfort, now there will be pain. Life will want to flow like the current; and the planks of names that we have hammered will create obstacles. And life is big; no plank of name that is hammered will last; it will be swept away. But then the sting of pain, remorse, and sadness are left behind.
Lao Tzu says, "Don't even give it a name. Just give it a name and things are born."
Consider for a moment, if suddenly such an event were to occur: all of us sitting here, and we all forget language—for an hour! Would there be any difference between earth and sky? Would there be any difference between darkness and light? Would there be any difference between you and your neighbor? Would Hindus and Muslims be different? Would there be a difference between men and women? If we forget all language for an hour, all distances would instantly fall away, even for an hour. It would be a unique world—full of expanse, where there would be no boundaries. Where things would expand, but never stop. Then you wouldn't feel like anyone is sitting next to you. Because language is necessary for this feeling. Then you wouldn't even feel like there's a neighbor. Because language is necessary for this feeling. Then you wouldn't even feel like there's a friend; you wouldn't even feel like there's an enemy. Then a vast existence would remain.
In that existence there will be two appearances—appearances, not names—two appearances, which Lao Tzu calls heaven and earth. Or, in today's language, it would be more accurate to say: matter and consciousness. There will remain two extensions—matter and consciousness. This will be an appearance, but not a name. This will be an appearance. All other names are for objects. An object can be a substance, an object can be a person. If we name a person, that person also becomes an object. If we name a substance, that person also becomes an object. If I say this chair, that too becomes an object. And if I say wife, husband, son, they too become objects. A son can also be possessed, a chair can also be possessed. A son can also be owned, a chair can also be owned.
But life cannot be owned. And neither can matter. Because you don't know that this chair existed even when you weren't there, and it will exist even when you're gone. And the person you call your son, if he stops breathing tomorrow, you'll go and cremate him in the cremation ground. And when he's breathing, you won't be able to say to the sky, "My son, how did he stop breathing without my permission?" You won't be able to tell your son, "You're so undisciplined, so unruly. You didn't even ask me, and you stopped breathing. You should have asked me when you died. I am your father! I gave you birth!"
But at the time of death, neither will the son be able to ask, nor will the father's permission be needed. Existence does not accept anyone's ownership. Even at birth, you are under the illusion that you gave birth. Existence does not accept anyone's ownership, nor do objects accept anyone's ownership. But ownership arises with a name; and with a name, an object is created. The other end of an object is ownership. Wherever there is ownership, there will be an object. Whether it belongs to a person or to a substance, it makes no difference. Wherever someone says, "Mine!", ownership arises; there things lose their existence and become objects. We live surrounded by objects. The creator of all these objects, Lao Tzu says, is the process of naming—the naming! This is what we keep naming.
I have always been talking about Lao Tzu. Lao Tzu goes out for a morning walk with a friend. They have been friends for years. The friend knows that Lao Tzu is always silent. So a guest has come to the friend's house and he has brought him along for a walk. On the way, the guest experiences great discomfort. He becomes very restless because neither Lao Tzu nor his host speaks. The friend becomes very upset. Finally, it becomes beyond his control, so he says, "The morning is very beautiful, let's take a look!" But the friend neither looked nor responded, and Lao Tzu neither looked nor responded. Then his restlessness increases further. It would have been better if he had remained silent.
They returned. After returning, Lao Tzu whispered in his friend's ear, "Don't bring your friend back; he seems too talkative." The friend was a little surprised, because he hadn't talked that much. In about an hour and a half, he had said only one thing: "The morning is beautiful."
In the evening, the friend came and said to Lao Tzu, "Sorry, I stopped him. But I've been restless too. I didn't say much. I just said that the morning is beautiful." Lao Tzu said, "Things given names are destroyed. The morning was beautiful until your friend spoke."
It will be difficult to understand. Lao Tzu says, "The morning was beautiful until your friend spoke. Until then, there was no limit to that beauty. Until then, that beauty seemed to end nowhere. Until then, there was no end to that beauty. But as soon as your friend said, 'The morning is beautiful,' everything shrank and became smaller. Your friend's words put limits on everything. Your friend dominated everything. And when there was so much beauty, speaking was just ugliness. Where there was so much beauty, speaking was just a hindrance. So I tell you, your friend has no idea of beauty. He just talked, he has no idea of beauty. Because if he knew of beauty, a talking person would become silent. How could a silent person speak? Beauty has an impact. When beauty surrounds you, the soul becomes silent. Even if the heart beats, you don't realize it's beating. Everything becomes still. But we were silent, and your friend spoke. He had no idea of beauty, he had no idea of morning. He was just looking for a peg to start a conversation and a discussion.
We all search for it. We meet anyone, we start talking about the weather, anything. It's just an excuse. In reality, it's so hard to remain silent that we resort to any excuse to start talking.
Now, when you start a conversation with someone again, be careful, you'll quickly realize these are just excuses. They don't concern the morning, the sun, the clouds, the rain—they don't matter. But the conversation must begin somewhere, because two people have forgotten the art of silence, of being able to be silent when they're together.
Freud, after a lifetime of experiences, wrote, "I used to think we talk to say something, but now my experience is that we talk to hide something. There are some things that would be revealed if we remained silent, but we hide them by talking."
Sit silently with a person for an hour and you'll get to know them more than you would if you spent a year talking to them. The point is, they're building a web around themselves to hide themselves. You won't be able to see their eyes anymore, but you'll be caught in their words. You won't be able to see them get up, you won't be able to see them sit down, you won't notice their gestures. Their words will be all around you.
Have you ever noticed that when you remember someone from the past, do you remember anything other than words? Do you remember how that person looked at you? Do you remember how he touched your hand? Do you remember what his body smelled like? Do you remember the way his eyes looked? Do you remember how he entered the room? Do you remember how he sat and stood up?
I don't remember anything. All I remember is what he said. He wasn't a man, he was a gramophone. The memory you've formed of him is just words. You have no idea of his entire existence. How amazing! Even if you were to look closely at your mother's face with your eyes closed, you wouldn't be able to tell for sure what she looked like.
You'll probably immediately deny what I'm saying, wondering how this is possible. Go home and do it. Close your eyes and see what your mother looks like. And you'll find that until you didn't pay attention, you knew something about her. But when you do, it will become very blurry, all outlines will disappear, and you won't even be able to make out her face. Because which son has ever seen his mother?
And even if you remember her, it will be because of a photograph, not because of your mother. You may remember her because of a picture. There is a picture hanging in your house, you will remember it. But understand the difference. Your mother was present, but you don't remember her. You grew up with her blood, you were raised in her lap, you ran with her, sat with her, talked to her, did everything, but you don't remember her. You remember a photograph hanging in your house! A photograph is an object, your mother is a person. But you don't remember a person, but you remember a picture. What, what could be the reason?
In fact, we avoid contact with the living; and we also try to protect others from becoming aware of our being. Our whole life is a form of protection. And language provides this protection very skillfully.
A French scientist lived among the Eskimos in Siberia for twelve years. Twelve years is a long time. And the Eskimos are one of the few nations on Earth who still haven't gone mad because of language. It's enough if an Eskimo speaks ten or five words a day. If an Eskimo is hungry, he doesn't just say, "I'm hungry," he simply says, "Hunger!" And the words are less forceful. His hands say hunger, his eyes say hunger, his whole body says hunger!
I was in great trouble. I used to read that scientist's memoirs. He wrote that my first six months were like living in hell, because they wouldn't speak at all. And I was yearning to speak. But to whom should I speak? He wrote that I would go alone and speak aloud to myself.
All of you also talk to yourselves in private. Look at people walking down the street; almost everyone is talking to themselves. Sometimes the conversation even becomes heated—in private. Even hands and feet move; the head nods, gestures are made. And every person is engaged in talking to himself within. You are talking outside; you are talking inside; there is not a moment's respite for you to move away from the name, from the word, and move into existence.
But the scientist suffered greatly for six months. After six months, he began to have unique experiences. For the first time, wordless gaps and wordless intervals began to appear in his life. And then he realized that the Eskimos lived in a different world.
The world Lao Tzu is talking about, the people he is talking about, the possibilities he is talking about, is the possibility of wordless experience. With words comes the world of objects. With the removal of words, the world of objects disappears, leaving only existence.
Question:
Why is this silent experience of God, the nameless, given dualistic names like heaven and earth, or consciousness and matter? Why is non-duality not expressed?
Only duality can be expressed; non-duality remains unexpressed. So the most that can be done is to give two things in speech. The closest thing to truth is to give two things in speech. Outside of speech, only oneness remains. But language cannot express anything without dividing it into two.
Lao Tzu is speaking and writing, so he is making the least possible mistake. It couldn't be more accurate. And even if we were to deny this, we would still use the word. So we would say non-duality, not two. But even then, we would have to use two. Even to say no, we would have to say, not two. That two will haunt us. As long as we try to speak, two will haunt us. If we stop speaking, only one remains.
We can say why don't we say just one?
But we don't realize it. When you say "one," the thought of "two" immediately arises. It's hard to find a person whose words don't evoke the thought of "one" and "two." And even those who say "one" immediately conjure up the thought of "two." In fact, "one" would have no meaning if there weren't two. One merely serves as a stepping stone to reach "two," nothing more.
Lao Tzu uses the word "two" because the maximum that can be expressed in words is two. The many can be reduced to two. Beyond that lies the world of the wordless. Beyond that, even as much as Lao Tzu is saying cannot be said. It cannot even be said that it is nameless. That one cannot be expressed. Whatever we say becomes two as soon as we say it.
It's almost like if we put a stick in water, and as soon as we put it in, it becomes slanted. It doesn't actually happen, it just appears. Had it become so, there wouldn't have been so much trouble. Even that would be true: the stick became slanted. It doesn't actually happen, it just appears. We take it out, and it becomes one again. It doesn't become one; it was one. We put it back in water, and it becomes slanted again. And when a person who has put it in water a thousand times tries it out, and then puts it in for the thousand and first time, he shouldn't hope that he's become so experienced that it won't appear slanted anymore. It will definitely appear slanted, and experience will only benefit him in that he won't believe it's slanted. It will definitely appear slanted.
Just as the law of radiation changes when immersed in water, the speed of the rays changes, and therefore the wood appears slanted, similarly the radiation changes when truth is immersed in language; and even if you put a word denoting one in the language, it immediately becomes slanted and starts indicating two.
Even Lao Tzu knows that what he is saying is duality. But there is no way around it. Even if Lao Tzu were to speak, he would have to use duality. The difficulty is so great that even if Lao Tzu remained silent and tried to speak while remaining silent, duality would still be created. The very attempt to express would create duality.
Understand! This has happened on many occasions.
Someone went to Sheikh Farid and asked him to tell him something. But only say what is true, not even the slightest falsehood. Tell me the truth that the saints have pointed to and said cannot be expressed. Tell me the truth that is wordless. What did Farid say? Farid said, "I will definitely tell you, but just formulate your question in such a way that it has no words. You ask in silence, and I will answer in silence. But don't be too harsh on me by asking in words and I answer in silence. You go and make your question wordless. I promise I will answer in silence."
The man left. It was a problem. He thought a lot, for years. Sometimes, when Farid passed by his village, he would knock on his door and ask, "Brother, what happened to your question? Have you been able to formulate it yet?" The man would say, "I try very hard, but I can't formulate a question without words." Try harder, Farid would say. When you've exhausted your efforts and formulate a wordless question, come to me! I have the answer ready.
That man also died, Farid also died. Neither did he ever go to Farid; nor did anyone ever get to hear Farid's answer. As he was dying, someone asked Farid, "Do you have a ready answer?" That man never comes, we are all eager to hear it. Tell us! Farid remained silent. They said, "Tell us!" Farid remained silent. They said, "Tell us! This is your last moment, lest the answer goes with you." Farid said, "I am telling you; I am silent, this is my answer." But even if I say that I am telling you through silence, it creates duality. Because it means that something can be told through silence, but it cannot be told without silence. Duality arises, distinction is created, a difference is created. So don't make me say that I am telling you through silence; I am silent, and you should understand, don't use words."
But how can it be understood through silence alone?
Lao Tzu wrote only this one book. And he wrote it in the last part of his life. He never wrote any other book. And all his life people hounded him. From ordinary people to emperors, everyone pleaded with him, "Lao Tzu, write down your experiences." Lao Tzu would laugh and dismiss it. And Lao Tzu would say, "Who has ever been able to write? Don't put me in that foolish position. People have tried before. Those who know laugh at their attempts because they failed. And those who don't know grasp their failure as truth. Don't make me make this mistake. Those who know will laugh at me, saying, 'Look, Lao Tzu is doing the same thing. He's saying what can't be said; he's writing what can't be written.' No, I won't do that."
Lao Tzu kept postponing it all his life. As death approached, the pressure from his friends and the insistence of his disciples became overwhelming. Lao Tzu truly possessed immense wealth. Very few people have possessed such wealth, very few have seen and explored so deeply. So naturally, the insistence of those around him was also justified and right: Lao Tzu, write, write.
When the urge grew too great, and death seemed in no sight, Lao Tzu found himself in a difficult situation. He escaped one night. He escaped because of those who were hounding him, demanding, "Write! Speak! Speak!" In the morning, the disciples found Lao Tzu's hut empty. The bird had flown away, the cage empty. They were in great trouble. The emperor was informed, and Lao Tzu was caught at the country's border. The emperor sent officials and had Lao Tzu stopped at the customs post, where China ended. He told Lao Tzu that the emperor had said he couldn't leave without paying the customs duty. Lao Tzu replied, "I'm not taking anything with me! Should I pay any taxes? I'm not taking anything with me!" The emperor sent word, "No man has ever escaped from this country with more wealth than you. Stop at the customs post and write down everything you've learned!"
This book was written at that toll station. If you write it, you will be able to leave the country, otherwise you will not. This book was written under compulsion, under police protection. Lao Tzu said, "Okay, I have to go out anyway, so I'll write something."
This Tao Te Ching is a unique book. No book has ever been written like this. Lao Tzu was running away to avoid writing this very book. It certainly seems harsh, the emperor did; but it also feels like mercy. This book wouldn't have existed! And there have been others like Lao Tzu who haven't written. But what good is it to those who don't write? What good is it to those who write? At least there's no debate about those who don't write. Those who do write are debated. We ponder over every word of those who write, wondering what the meaning is! And meaning lies beyond words. If there ever is a final accounting of humanity, it's hard to say whether those who wrote will be considered wise or those who didn't write. In any case, choosing between the two is a choice of duality. Some choose to remain silent against writing; others choose to write against silence. There's no escape from duality.
So when Lao Tzu uses words, duality creeps in. Therefore, he knowingly says that the nameless is the father of earth and heaven, and that he is the original source of named things.
Duality certainly comes with words. But people like Lao Tzu use words in the hope that perhaps they can push towards the wordless. This is possible. Because duality only appears, it does not exist; therefore, it is possible. Duality only appears, it does not exist. If it did, then there would be no possibility.
Imagine I pluck and release the string of a veena. Sound is produced in this building, it resonates, then gradually fades into nothingness. Can you tell when the sound will disappear and when the nothingness will begin? Can you draw a line, when you can say, 'Up to this point the sound of the veena resonated and beyond this it stopped resonating?' Can you clearly delineate a line between sound and silence? Or will you find that sound gradually fades into silence; the word gradually becomes nothingness? If you sit with the string of your mind plucked from the string of a veena, and as the sound of the string begins to fall into nothingness, you too begin to fall into silence with it, then within a short time you will find that with the help of sound you have reached silence, with the help of words you have reached wordlessness.
It is in this hope that Lao Tzu, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Christ speak. It is in this hope that perhaps, through their words, they can gently lead you into silence. As a means of escape.
Buddha constantly said, "Whatever I say, it's not to say what is, but to take you to that place. Not to say what is, because that cannot be said. But you can be taken to that place where it is. Perhaps, hearing the sound of my words, you will embark on a journey in that direction. If your face turns in that dimension, in that direction, then perhaps one day you will fall into that great pit, that abyss, that abyss, where the ultimate is realized."
But duality will creep into everyone's language. Buddha talks about the world and nirvana, and that's duality. Mahavira talks about matter and soul, and that's duality. That's fine, but Mahavira says, "Okay, I accept duality." Shankara doesn't accept duality; but it's impossible to do without talking about Maya and Brahman. Shankara says there are no two, yet we have to talk about Maya and Brahman. Because if there are no two, then what is Shankara telling people? What is there to be freed from if there are no two? What is there to be freed from if there are no two? If there is only Brahman, then we are all Brahman. Now where do we go? Where do we reach? What do we do? So even Shankara has to be freed from somewhere. There is something to be let go of—ignorance, Maya, nescience. Then two things arise. Shankara is in great difficulty, wondering what to do?
Mahavira therefore clearly stated that there are two, and we should accept them. Because when the two disappear, you will know for yourself that there is one; we should not discuss that. We should discuss only the two, and through the discussion of the two, we should take you to the place where both fall away. Shankara said, "We will discuss only that which is one." But we ran into difficulties and had to discuss the two. Even those who have discussed the two have had to point to the one.
Buddha says this much - leave the world, attain nirvana. And in the last words he says, the world and nirvana are one and the same. I was very shocked. This saying of Buddha has been a cause of restlessness for Buddhist monks and seekers for two thousand years. The world itself is nirvana! What could be more difficult than this? If the world itself is nirvana, then where is one to go? Then what is one to leave? Then what is one to attain? So there are some sects of Buddha who deny that this saying could not be of Buddha. Because Buddha says, leave the world and attain nirvana. How can he call these two as one? They deny that this saying could not be of Buddha.
But those who know say, these are the words of the Buddha; the rest can be discarded. When the Buddha has known, there is no difference between the world and nirvana. Then there is no difference between body and soul. Then Maya and Brahman are one. And then bondage and freedom are two forms of the same thing—bondage and freedom! But this experience, this expression, will immediately become two.
To give expression to this, Lao Tzu says: Earth and heaven, matter and consciousness.
Question:
, it was said yesterday that that which can be named cannot be the eternal and unchangeable Truth. However, the names given to the Absolute Truth are temporary, and people have also attained the Nameless through the practice of chanting the Name. Please explain why one cannot begin the journey with the changeable Name and attain the unchangeable Nameless?
Lao Tzu prefers leaps, not stairs. In fact, even stairs are small leaps. Even when you climb stairs, you don't just climb steps, you take small leaps. You divide them into twenty parts. One person leaps a twenty-step staircase all at once, jumping over a twenty-step section in a single leap. If we want to say it, we can also say that the person builds a large staircase. If we don't want to say leaps, there's no problem; we can say that the person builds a single staircase of twenty steps. Another person breaks that section into twenty pieces and climbs the staircase. We can also say that the person takes twenty leaps. It depends on the individual; it depends on courage.
Lao Tzu is a leapfrog. He says, "Why hold on to something that has to be let go anyway? Going from the changeable to the changeless is possible only by letting go. Let go and reach."
Those who are ladderists, who believe in gradual progress, as is common among the meditators and saints who chant the name of the , like Meera or Chaitanya, also reach the same point as Lao Tzu. But they say, "Letting go is a must, but let go gradually. We will let go one step at a time."
So now, as Nanak has become. All those steps... Nanak says, first start chanting, start remembering the name. And he goes on saying that He has no name; He has no name. He who is Alakh Niranjan has no name; He who is Akaal is beyond time. But remember the name. First, remember the name with your lips—this is the first step. Then close your lips, then remember the name with your throat—this is the second step. Then let go of the throat as well, then remember with your heart—this is the third step. Then let go of the heart as well, then let it become Ajapa Japa. You don't do it, let the chanting happen. You don't do it. And it happens. With the lips; then with the throat; then not even with the throat, then only with the heart; and when it starts happening with the heart, then let go—then the name starts resonating in every hair of the body, in your entire existence. But this too is not the destination; you are just climbing the steps. Then let go of this too. Then Ajapa; no more chanting. But this is abandoned in four steps. Ajapa will come, the nameless will come, but it is abandoned in four steps.
Lao Tzu says, why let go so slowly of something that has to be let go? Lao Tzu says that if you let go so slowly, it means you don't feel like letting go. You want to hold on, so you postpone it. You say, let me do it with my lips, then I will let go of my lips. Then I will do it with my throat, then I will let go of my throat. When you have to go into Ajapa, Lao Tzu says, right here and now! Why waste time? Let go. Jump, jump.
But what Lao Tzu says isn't necessarily easy for everyone. Sometimes, to break free, you have to do it gradually. There are people, there are types, there are vastly different kinds of people.
If we tell someone that there's no way but to jump, that there's no way to climb down the stairs, that doesn't mean they'll jump. If they're not going to jump, they won't even climb the stairs; that's all they'll have to do. They'll just sit there. They'll say, "This isn't useful for me." But there must be a way for them to reach God, too. Someone tells them, "Come down the stairs."
What Lao Tzu is saying is his own type of thing. Always keep this in mind, otherwise you will constantly have difficulty understanding what I say. My own, personal nature is such that when I speak about Lao Tzu, I speak as Lao Tzu. Then I will forget that there ever was a Chaitanya, that there ever was a Meera, that there ever was a Krishna, that there ever was a Gita. That will not come into my way. That matter is over.
So it would be better if when I am speaking on Lao Tzu, others do not raise questions in between. It will not be beneficial in understanding, it will only harm. When I am speaking on Krishna, then ask; then do not bring Lao Tzu into the picture. Because when I speak on Krishna, I have to speak as Krishna himself. Then there is no need to bring anyone else into the picture. And I have no personal attachment; that is why I can be complete with anyone. I have no personal attachment. If I had any personal attachment, then I would not be able to be complete with anyone. If my attachment was that one can reach him only through chanting his name, then I would not be able to explain Lao Tzu to you. It would be unfair.
No! I say, Lao Tzu is absolutely right, absolutely right. And yet, when I speak on consciousness, I will say that Chaitanya is absolutely right. One can reach there by stairs. But don't bring it up now. Because bringing it up won't make it any easier to understand Lao Tzu. Forget it, forget it completely. If you are trying to understand Lao Tzu, then understand the concept of leap completely.
Otherwise, our mind does this: when I sit down to explain the leap, you bring up the stairs, and when I sit down to explain the stairs, you bring up the leap. You miss the point. That's dishonesty of the mind. Because when I say, "Do kirtan," you say, "What will kirtan accomplish?" And when I say, "Throw everything away, burn the name, etc.", you say, "You were saying it would happen through kirtan. You neither did that, nor will you do that." You'll keep searching for your defense.
Do whatever you can. But at least do this much: understand what I'm explaining completely, authentically. Don't involve anyone else in it. That's all foreign. Just like don't bring up the name in Lao Tzu's mind. Don't even raise the question of sankirtan, kirtan. It's utter rubbish. It's useless in Lao Tzu's system. It's like someone taking a bullock cart's wheel and trying to fit it to a car. It's not that the bullock cart won't move; the bullock cart keeps moving. The reverse won't happen either. Don't even try to fit a car's wheel to a bullock cart. It's not that it won't move; it does too. A system moves within itself, but becomes useless outside of itself.
For Lao Tzu, everything is meaningless. And Lao Tzu is right, not wrong. In fact, it is precisely this great thing: truth is so vast that it can accommodate truths that are opposite to itself. Truth is so vast that it can even welcome its opposite as a guest. Falsehood is too small; it cannot welcome its opposite as a guest. In the house of truth, as Jesus said, "There are many mansions in my 's house." Each room is so large that there can be one Krishna, one Buddha, one Mahavira, one Lao Tzu, and a thousand such people, one room is enough for each of them. And all those rooms are rooms in the 's temple.
But when I show you the door to Lao Tzu's room, don't say, "This door is red." Yesterday, the door to Krishna's room you showed me was yellow. You said the entrance would be through the yellow door. Now you say the entrance would be through the red door!
And the funny thing is that you did not enter through the yellow door and now you will not enter through the red door under the cover of the yellow door.
You can enter from anywhere! While making a leap, take the leap. Those whose mind is young and full of courage should take the leap. Those who are scared, frightened, who might break their hands and legs while jumping, they should also at least climb down the stairs. They will reach there sooner or later. But do not remain sitting. Because the one who sits will never reach. And I am also not saying that everyone should jump. Because the one who does not feel like it should not do so. Because it is not necessary that one will reach by jumping, one can also break hands and legs. It is not necessary that there is any pride in jumping. If it is possible then take it, if it is not possible then come down the stairs.
But why should someone who can jump waste time climbing down stairs? And remember, someone who can jump can also fall down stairs. The stairs will be too short for him. He could fall and break his limbs. Just as someone who can climb stairs can break their limbs while jumping, someone who can jump can break their limbs while climbing stairs.
No, make sure. Understand yourself. I could go on and on, talking about countless paths. Whichever door feels right to you, enter it. Don't worry about understanding the next door further. Whichever one feels right to you, enter quietly.
And finally, when you reach the center of the temple, you'll find that people who entered through other doors have also arrived there. No one asks you which door you came from when you reach the inner sanctum of the temple—which door did you come from? Did you come from the left or the right? Did you climb the stairs by jumping or did you climb them easily? Once inside the temple, near the idol of the , no one will ask you whether you came slowly or quickly? Did you climb one step at a time, did you jump two? Did you come by jumping? No one will ask what you did. Nor will you remember how you came. Upon reaching the destination, the traveler immediately forgets the path. The path is remembered only as long as the destination is not there.
Don't raise these questions; it will make it difficult to understand Lao Tzu. And it won't make it any easier to understand Chaitanya or Meera. If you want to understand Lao Tzu, immerse yourself completely in him, understand what he says. He is absolutely right. Some people have reached there through his path, some can reach there through his path. There may be some among you too who can reach there through his path. Understand it completely. Perhaps you are the one. So, if that essence settles in your mind, then the path will be created.
But our mind is always like this. Earlier, I was teaching people to meditate while sitting quietly. Then they would come and tell me that nothing happens in this, they just keep sitting. When I started teaching them fast meditation, those same people came and told me that the silent sitting was much better than this. They were the same people who had told me that nothing happens in this, that sitting quietly wastes time. Now they tell me that it was very good, that sitting quietly was a great joy. At that time, they told me the opposite.
No, not pleasure; now we have to avoid it. Back then they were avoiding it, thinking it didn't help. Now they look back and say it did. Now we have to avoid it.
If you want to keep avoiding it, then there's no problem. Otherwise, when you set out to understand one thing, forget everything else. Then become completely absorbed in it, immerse yourself in it. Perhaps that path will become your path.
If you have any other questions, please ask, we will take the information tomorrow.
Question:
the thoughtless state you describe requires consciousness to be inactive. So, if the conscious mind becomes completely thoughtless and inactive, what difference would there be between it and a lifeless existence? When the goal is to do nothing, simply to be done, then there is no difference between such a state and dead peace? What purpose could the existence of consciousness serve for us? Please explain what the difference is between the existence of a wooden chair and the existence of a thoughtless, inactive human being.
You have never experienced a wooden chair, nor have you ever experienced a thoughtless human being. You have neither. But we think there must be a difference between the two; or perhaps there is no difference between the two. You have no idea what a wooden chair feels like. Whether it experiences it or not, you have no idea. You have no idea what a thoughtless human feels like. But the question arises in the mind. The question is absolutely natural. All our questions are like this. All our questions are such that we create questions about what lies beyond our experience. No answer to them will be fruitful. Only experience can be fruitful.
So first let us understand the experience a little, then let us look at the answer also.
When all a person's thoughts calm down, consciousness remains, but self-consciousness disappears. Consciousness remains, but self-awareness disappears. But we face great difficulty, because we have never known any other consciousness except self-consciousness. When we say, "I am conscious," it means, "I am." Our consciousness has only one meaning: we know our existence; we know that we exist. However, we have absolutely no idea who we are. What we are. We don't know anything; we just exist.
This self-consciousness of ours is a disease, a sickness.
The component of this self-consciousness is called ego. We try thousands of ways to increase this self-consciousness. What happens when you go out wearing very nice clothes, as if no one else has them? This self-consciousness strengthens. It becomes difficult to be self-conscious in ordinary clothes. In extraordinary clothes, you become self-conscious. If you are riding a chariot while others are walking on the ground, you become self-conscious. If you are sitting on an elephant while others are on the ground, you become self-conscious. You are something. This intense sense of being is a disease, a sickness. This is worry, this is stress, this is unrest.
A person whose thoughts become void will be conscious, but not self-conscious. He will be fully conscious, consciousness will permeate every fiber of his being, and consciousness will flow all around him; but within that consciousness there will be no center called "I"—centerless! There will be no center called "I."
But this will be difficult to understand without experience. Because our experience is the same; that center called I keeps throbbing in the middle like a wound. We only know about it. That is why it feels good to be unconscious; it feels good after drinking alcohol. Because in it that self-consciousness gets drowned. That wound is forgotten for a while. If we sleep deeply at night, then we feel good in the morning. Because in that deep sleep of the night, that disease goes away for a while. If we listen to music somewhere for a while, we forget, we feel good. That disease called I gets dissolved for a while.
But we have never known consciousness. We have only known this concentrated ego, this concentrated ego. This ego is a disease of consciousness.
When thoughts are void, silent and thoughtless, then consciousness is complete, but there is no you, no I. I just am. If we break this I am into two parts, separate the I, so only am remains, then am becomes am – amness. Not I am, amness. I am not like this; I am. There is no sense of I anywhere in this am. And since there is no sense of I in am, there is no question of you. I fall here, you fall there.
So when we are self-conscious, we are individuals; and when we are just consciousness, we become the whole. When I am, I am separate and the whole world is separate. I become an island, separate. And when I am just, I am lost, then I become a continent. All the moons and stars begin to revolve within my being. The sun begins to rise within me. Flowers begin to bloom within me. Friends, enemies, all those who were, in yesterday's language, all begin to happen within me. I expand. The old way of saying this is that I become Brahman. Brahman means, I expand. I expand so much that everything comes within me, nothing remains outside me.
So as long as there is self-consciousness, everything is outside, and you are separate. And when only consciousness remains, everything is inside, everything is inside, nothing is outside—there is no outside. For consciousness, there is no outside; everything is inside—only insideness.
But if we don't experience it, it won't come to mind. How can it come to mind? Because we can't even imagine that there could be an inside that doesn't have an outside. Wherever there is an inside, there is an outside. All our experience tells us that if there is an inside of a house, there must be an outside as well. Because we don't know about that house, which is this entire vast house, there is nothing outside of it. When only consciousness remains and thoughts disappear, everything comes inside.
Then the question is, what difference will there be between the inanimate and the animate? They ask you, what difference will there be between a chair and us?
This question arises now because you see a difference between the chair and yourself. In that state of vast consciousness, the chair will also be within you, a part of you. It will be as conscious as you are. The chair will also be alive; as alive as you are. The chair is still alive, but the dimension of its aliveness is so different that you cannot become familiar with it. Nothing is outside of consciousness; everything is within consciousness. And there is nothing that has consciousness outside of it; consciousness resides within everything. But in many ways. If we understand the way a little, it will come to our mind.
If I pick up a stone and throw it over a wall, it doesn't cross it; it lands on this side of the wall. But if I throw it through the air, it crosses the air. The wall is one way, the air is another.
The wall is one way, the air is another. But there are things that cross the wall; like an X-ray, it crosses the wall. For it, the wall behaves just like air. For an X-ray, the wall doesn't behave like a wall, it behaves just like air. The X-ray won't know whether the wall is in the middle, or the air is in the middle, or whether the wall is in the middle, or whether there was a stone or air, it won't know anything. The X-ray crosses both. For the X-ray, the wall is like air, but for the stone, it's not like air. The stone will say, "The wall is different, the air is different."
I'm telling you that how we perceive things depends on our consciousness. If we are self-centered, the chair is separate, and I am separate. And if the self is broken, then just as the wall and the air become one for an X-ray, so too, for that consciousness, both become one; there is no distinction.
But only if we know about it. What if we don't know about it? So, until there was no knowledge of X-rays, no one would believe that a picture of your stomach's intestines could be taken from outside. How could anyone believe it? How could this even be possible? The photographer would say, "You've gone mad! If you take a picture, it will be of your skin, how can it be of your bones inside?" He also uses rays, but ordinary rays. But there is also a ray that penetrates the skin and reaches the bone. When we learned about that ray, we realized that this could be possible.
In fact, even consciousness has dimensions. The consciousness we live in has no expanse at all. We remain confined within ourselves. The chair is separate, the neighbor is separate; everything is separate, we are separate. Separateness is the nature of our consciousness, as it exists now. And as soon as the form of consciousness changes—as thoughts disappear, a qualitative difference occurs—the separation between things falls away, the distances between them disappear. All things begin to feel one. And everything begins to feel alive in a new way.
The first time Aldous Huxley took LSD—fortunately, it matches your question—there was a chair right in front of where he was sitting. And when he took LSD, within a short while, he was astonished! It was as if rays began to emanate from the chair! The chair, a simple, lifeless chair, began to emit rays. It began to appear in unique colors. He was astonished. He had never seen such beauty and majesty in a chair. When he wrote his book describing this, he said, "I was astonished! That day, I realized for the first time," Huxley wrote, "that a chair could exist like this! But it wasn't this chair; it was something else entirely. The colors were so beautiful, they couldn't have come from a diamond! It was so vibrant, it couldn't have been sat on! It was so beautiful, I've never seen a sun, moon, or star so beautiful!"
Then Aldous Huxley wrote that the other day it occurred to me... LSD hadn't done anything. LSD expands consciousness a little; it's a consciousness-expanding drug. Your consciousness expands a little, for a few moments. But in that very expansion, the chair came alive! So Aldous Huxley wrote that now I can believe those people who, upon seeing a stone, bowed to God like a god. There must have been some other expansion of their consciousness. So Aldous Huxley wrote that now I can believe a painter like Van Gogh, who painted a chair. Because why would someone paint a chair? You might think that if someone sits down to paint, they would paint a chair? And a unique painter like Van Gogh would be crazy to paint a chair, laboring for months. Is a chair even something worth making? But Huxley said that until then, he had never understood why Van Gogh painted a chair. Then I understood that Van Gogh must have seen this chair in some other moment of consciousness, which he painted.
But our colors are still very pale. The colors we see after LSD are colors we've never seen before. But LSD doesn't do anything but expand your ordinary consciousness a little, like filling a balloon with a little more air and making it bigger. But in that little expansion, all the colors change. Ordinary roadside pebbles and stones start to shine like diamonds and pearls.
If LSD has such an impact on the entire West today, and the entire new generation of the West is enamored with it, there's no other reason for it. The entire world becomes incredibly beautiful. It's filled with a sensation we've never known. An ordinary hand can feel like the hand of God. Ordinary clothes can take on a radiance and splendor beyond imagination. All this... LSD has opened up a new idea. That new idea is that if consciousness expands even a little, the world becomes completely different.
But when consciousness like Mahavira's or Lao Tzu's expands completely—not just in a small way, but completely—in fact, all the restraining factors of ego will have fallen away, the expansion will have become complete—at that moment, what difference will there be between the chair and you? It will be difficult for you to understand right now, because the chair you know is not the real chair; and the you you know is not the real you. You will sit there calculating between two fake things; nothing can come to mind.
If you become real, the chair will also have a chance to become real. Because a fake person cannot see a real chair. And then new doors open for you... Huxley named his book: New Doors of Perception - with LSD. And LSD is just a chemical change. It will last for six hours, eight hours, twelve hours, then it will disappear; and that too for a very short time. But for those who have experienced God, whose self-consciousness has disappeared - not consciousness, whose self-consciousness has disappeared - and who have become conscious, for them all distances fall away and every particle of every universe…
If Mahavira walked carefully, it wasn't, as Jains think, to save an ant; that he was worried about the mosquitoes dying. The mosquitoes you see are not visible to Mahavira. Otherwise, even he wouldn't be so concerned about them. If the ant you see is visible to Mahavira, even he wouldn't be so concerned.
In fact, in an ant, we first get a glimpse of the Brahman, which we never get. That's why Mahavira walks cautiously, it's not like that. There's no other way; one has to walk cautiously. A mosquito is not a mosquito, an ant is not an ant. As much life has manifested in them as is manifesting within Mahavira himself. The door to a different world opens. When the door to that world opens, you no longer live in this world. Therefore, don't ask questions of this world. There is no coherence, no consistency, no relevance of that world to the questions of this world.
Our questions are almost like this, if you ask me that when I fall asleep in my dream, then when I fall asleep, what is the relation between my room and me in my dream state?
There's no connection. Is there any connection? You can sleep in this room and dream of being in London. You can sleep locked inside a room and dream of being under the open sky, under the moon and stars. What connection do you have with this room while you sleep?
No, as soon as you fall asleep, you enter another dimension of consciousness. This room remains in the same dimension it was in; you have gone to another world. Then, if you want to go out of this room, you don't have to open the door. Naturally, you will ask, should you keep a key with you if you want to go out in a dream? Or should you wear glasses if you want to dream clearly? No, there will be no need for glasses, no matter how weak your eyes are. You are entering another dimension, where there will be no need for such glasses. There will be no need for this eye either. There will be no need to open this door, and you will be out.
But if you tell someone who has never dreamt that there is a situation where you can go out without opening the door, he will say, "Excuse me, are you in your right mind?" If you tell someone who has never dreamt that there is a situation where you can neither board a plane, nor a train, nor travel by ship, and reach London from here in a moment, without needing any vehicle in between; don't open the door, don't need a key, just leave and reach there, he will say, "Are you in your right mind?" Someone who has never dreamt will ask you, "Won't you bump into a closed door? How will the lock open without a key?" All his questions are reasonable. Yet you will laugh. You will say, "You don't know about dreams. These questions are not reasonable there."
As soon as thoughts fall away and thoughtless consciousness is born, you enter a completely different world. In that world, nothing of this world is consistent. Nothing, no rule is consistent. What appears inert in this world will become conscious there. What appears dead in this world will become alive there. Where there were doors in this world, there will be walls. Where there were walls in this world, there will be doors. No question in this world is consistent. Therefore, the questions we raise have no meaning.
Questions can be meaningful only because they ask how we can enter that world. But if you think that sitting in this world, we can understand the things of that world through questions, then you are mistaken. That cannot be possible.
That's all for today. Anything else you want to ask? That's good.
Question:
, yesterday you said that if you meet God, you will easily know that you have seen Him. Secondly, you said that nothing exists, and whatever exists, exists. And today you also said that matter and consciousness are not two, but one, one and the same. So, is that God, who is one and the same, the same state or something beyond?
Both are true. That constant state is indeed God. But that constant state always expands beyond and beyond. It never ends.
Imagine I jumped into an ocean. I can say I dove into the ocean, but I still can't say I dove into the entire ocean. All I can say is that I touched a corner of the shore. The ocean is beyond. Where I stand, a wave or two touches me. The ocean is infinite.
So when someone knows God, they know that all that exists is God. But they also know that what they know is not enough; there is more beyond, more beyond, He is even more beyond. And no matter how much they know, this beyondness never ends; it remains. This is its mystery; this is its secret. No matter how much they know, no matter how far they travel, they still find that there is no trace of the other shore. They only know about the shore from which they descended. No matter how far they go, there is no trace of the other shore.
And a curious thing happens, one that seems inexplicable. When he returns, he finds that the shore he left behind is no longer there. It's not that one shore remains; it exists only as long as you're standing on it. Once you jump into the ocean, you can never find the other shore. Even if you return and search for your own shore, you'll find that the place where you were standing is no longer there.
Whatever is, is God. But whatever is, it always expands further and further, further and further. The further we go, the more we find it extending further and further.
And no one has ever reached a place from where he said, this is all till here! And no one will ever be able to reach such a place. It is logically impossible. Because if a person reaches such a place and says that this is the last stop, God is till here, then the big question that will arise is what lies beyond this? There must be something after this. No boundary is formed alone; to form a boundary, another is needed. The fencing of your house, if your house is alone, then it becomes difficult to form it. It is formed only because of the neighbor's house. If there is nothing else beyond, then the boundary cannot be formed. And God is alone. That is, that which is alone, that is what we call God; that which is existence, is the only one.
So we will never reach a place where we can say, "Enough is enough!" Because that can only happen if something else begins from there. Any beginning, any start, is the end of something. And any end is the beginning of something else. If something else is beginning, then we can find the end of God. But there is no other thing anywhere that can begin.
Scientists are also in great trouble; because they too have a big problem, this universe must end somewhere. God is not a question for them right now. But the universe must end somewhere. This universe must be complete somewhere. Where will it be complete? And if it is complete, then what will happen? This question immediately arises. Wherever it reaches its limit, there… so scientists say, another universe will begin. But that does not provide any solution. Now let us think together about all the universes that can begin and then ask where will they end? They cannot end.
Truth or power is infinite, in this sense.
Therefore, God is what He is. And at the same time, He is also what transcends. That which is beyond and beyond is accepted within it. These are not two things.
Therefore, we can never say that this is God. We can only say that this is God; there is something beyond, something beyond. What we know is also God; what we do not know is also God. What someone has known is also God; what no one has known is also God. And that too, which perhaps no one will ever know. He is not only unknown, but unknowable as well. Because we call unknown that which can someday be made known. Today it is unknown, it is unknown, tomorrow it will become known. God is simultaneously unknowable, it is unknowable. It is also such that it will never be known. That which will always remain, that which will always remain, that which will always be present behind, that too will have to be included.
So, it must be said that this is indeed God, and that which lies beyond it is also God. And that which remains forever beyond is also God.
We will talk again tomorrow.