Chapter 1: Sutra 4
It is the same in both aspects; but as it progresses, people refer to it by different names. This collection of names is what we call mystery. Where the intensity of mystery is supreme, there lies the entrance to the subtle and miraculous.
Within two resides only one. Wherever the intellect perceives two, there is only one existence. In other words, the intellect's way of seeing is to divide things into two. As soon as the intellect sets out to look at something, it cannot help but break it into two.
There are reasons for this. The intellect rejects the incompatible. The intellect cannot hold the opposite together; the intellect breaks the contradiction. For example, if the intellect goes to observe life, it is impossible for the intellect to see death within life. Because death seems completely opposite. It has no coherence with the logic of life. It seems as if death is the end of life. It seems as if death is the enemy of life. It seems as if death is outside of life, an attack on life.
But in reality, this is not so; death is not an event that occurs outside of life. Death occurs within life, it is a part of life, it is the completeness of life. Death and life are like the outgoing breath and the incoming breath. The incoming breath is the same as the outgoing breath. The incoming breath at birth is the same as the outgoing breath at death. In existence, death and life are one and the same. But when the intellect starts thinking, it cannot accept the incompatible; it can accept only the compatible. From the perspective of compatibility, life becomes separate and death becomes separate.
But existence accepts even the incompatible, the opposite, the contradictory. Existence has no problem growing flowers and thorns on the same branch. Existence has no problem keeping darkness and light going simultaneously. The truth is that darkness is a dim form of light, and light is a less intense state of darkness. If we erase light from the world completely, the intellect will immediately say that only darkness will remain. But if we truly erase light from the world completely, then even darkness will not remain.
And if we understand it simply, it will become clear. If we completely eliminate heat from the world, the intellect will say that only cold will remain. But what we call cold, is a form of heat. If we completely eliminate heat from the world, cold will disappear completely; it will not remain anywhere. If we can completely eliminate death from the world, life will end. Existence is with its opposite. The intellect excludes the opposite. The intellect is a very small thing; existence is very big. It is beyond the intellect's understanding that the opposite can also be one, that life and death can be one, that love and hate can be one, that darkness and light can be one, that hell and heaven can be one. It is beyond the intellect's understanding that sorrow and happiness are two names for the same thing. How can the intellect understand this?
The intellect says, "Happiness is different, and sorrow is different; happiness must be attained, sorrow must be avoided; sorrow must not be allowed to come, happiness must be invited." But existence says, "Whoever invited happiness has also invited sorrow. And whoever wanted to escape sorrow has had to give up happiness as well. In existence, the opposite is one."
And Lao Tzu says, under these two aspects, it is really the same. That which is within the name and that which is within the nameless, in these two aspects it is one and the same.
Lao Tzu said with such intensity that the path cannot be wandered upon; and that the truth cannot be given a name. And now Lao Tzu says, that which is within the name and that which is within the nameless, they are both one and the same—really the same. In reality, they are actually the same.
This is also the duality of our intellect that we say, this is the world of the nameless and this is the world of the named, that we say that this is the world of objects and that is of existence, that we say that this is the world of individuals and that is of the impersonal, that we say that this is the world of form and that is of the formless.
Lao Tzu says, "No, in reality, it is the same within both of them. The nameless resides within what we name; and we have already given a name to what we call the nameless. What difference does it make that we call it nameless? We have named it! We have named the nameless."
This may seem a little difficult, because Lao Tzu emphasized very strongly in the beginning that the two are completely different. Don't give it a name; if you give it a name, it will cease to be true. Don't speak of it; if you say so, it will become distorted. Don't walk on that path, because that unchangeable path cannot be walked. And now, after a moment, Lao Tzu says that there is actually only one thing within both of them. It will be difficult to understand. But this is even deeper; it is even deeper than what Lao Tzu said earlier. It is the same within the name, it is the same within the form.
When I look out the window of my house, I see the sky in form. But the sky I see from inside the window, bound by form, appears formless when I go outside. What will I say then, that the sky I saw from the window was different?
Of course, there is a difference. Because when I saw it through the window, it appeared embedded in a shaped frame. And now that I see it, there is no frame, no shape. Of course, there is a difference. But where is the difference deep down? Through the window, I saw only this, which is formless. And if there was a mistake, it was not the sky's, but the window's. And how can a window give shape to the sky? If something as small as a window is capable of giving shape to a vast element like the sky, then it becomes more powerful than the sky.
So, that which the intellect has known by giving it a name is also the same which the wise have known by going beyond the intellect and knowing it to be nameless.
And Lao Tzu says, "You won't reach there by walking; you will reach there by stopping." However, by stopping, a person reaches where they can only reach by running. There is no difference between the two, no distinction between them.
Lao Tzu has dealt a profound blow to duality in this short statement—the final blow, attempting to incorporate the opposite. And it should be immediately clear that all dualities are created by the mind. Existence is unfamiliar with them. Existence has never known duality, has never known dualism. The opposite of the opposite is connected and united in existence. Not only is it connected and united, but it is one. We have to say "connected and united" because our mind sees only by dividing it into two.
We see two sides of a coin. And there are clearly two sides. Yet, can we say that one side can be separated from the other? Can we save one side of a coin and discard the other? No matter what we do, the coin will always have two sides, and we can't save one or remove the other. What we call the other side is the same coin. Yet, it's curious that we can't see both sides of even a small coin simultaneously. A coin isn't a big thing; we can hold it in our hand and examine it. But whenever we look at a coin, our eyes can only see one side. The second side exists only in our imagination. When we look at it upside down, we see the second, and the first is hidden. Who can say...
Berkeley was a thinker in the West, a valuable thinker. He used to say that when you leave a room, the things in it vanish into nothingness. When you come back in, they reappear. But when no one is in the room, there are no objects left. Berkeley said, "If someone can prove the opposite, I'm ready." But proving the opposite is impossible, because to prove it, you have to be inside the room. Berkeley simply said that as long as someone is in the room, objects exist. When there's no observer inside the room, the objects disappear. Because, he said, "How can the scene exist without the observer? How can the scene exist without the observer?" If you make a hole and peek through the wall, the observer becomes present, and the objects become visible.
What Berkeley was saying was that there is a deep connection between the observer and the observed. Of course, Berkeley's assertion that when there is no observer, objects cease to exist is not true. But it is certainly true that when there is no observer, objects are no longer the same as they are when there is an observer.
For example, even physics now accepts that when you leave a room, the objects in the room lose their color; they lose their color. They can't have any. When you're outside a room, the room is closed off from all sides and there's no one to observe, the objects in the room become colorless. Surely, if objects become colorless, what would the painting hanging in your room be? At least, it wouldn't be a painting.
They become colorless because physics says that color is created by the eye. If I see you sitting wearing white clothes, your white clothes are not dependent on your white clothes; my eyes see them as white. If there were no eyes in this room, the clothes would no longer be white. Color is connected to the eye. And it is not necessary that the shape remains the same as we see it, because shape is also connected to our eyes. Even if the object remains inside the room, when we go out, it will not remain exactly the same as it was when we were there. And whatever it remains, we will never be able to know it. Because whenever we come back, it will no longer be the same.
That's why Immanuel Kant, a German thinker, used to say that a thing as it is—the thing-in-itself—can never be known. Whenever we do know it, we will know it as we can know it.
In fact, whatever we know depends on, and is created by, our capacity to know. It's not necessary that all of us sitting in this room will also have a spider walking, a lizard slithering along the wall, a fly passing by, an insect slithering along; they won't all see the room the same way. The lizard may see things we'll never see. And the spider may experience things we'll never experience. And the insect slithering along the ground may hear sounds we can't hear at all. And it's absolutely certain that none of these creatures will be familiar with what we see, know, and hear.
Whatever we see, the observer becomes involved. As soon as the intellect sees something, it gives it its own pattern, its own structure. The intellect's deepest structure is that of duality. It first breaks things into two parts. It separates the opposite, separates the contradictory.
And everything is made of contradiction. I say I don't get angry, I only forgive. But there is no forgiveness without anger. Or can there be? If you haven't been angry, can you forgive? To forgive, it is absolutely necessary to become angry first. Forgiveness follows anger; it comes as a part of anger. Forgiveness is not possible without anger. But we see anger and forgiveness as separate. We say, "This person is angry, and that person is forgiving." And we will never be able to see that anger itself is forgiveness.
Intellect breaks things. Intellect continues to break things on all levels of life.
Lao Tzu says that within all these fragments of the intellect lies the One. No matter how much we break it down, we cannot break it down. It remains the same. No matter how many boundaries we create, it remains infinite, boundless. Whether we name it or not, it is the same.
So first of all Lao Tzu says that within all this duality, within all these two, only that one resides.
We are sitting inside this room; we have built walls; we have separated the sky of the room from the sky outside. But have you ever wondered how you can break the sky? A sword cannot cut the sky. A wall cannot cut the sky, because the wall itself has to be in the sky. And the sky is contained in every pore of the wall. So the division we have between the sky outside and the sky inside, that division actually exists nowhere. But it is enough to get by. It would be difficult to sleep in the sky outside; we sleep comfortably in the sky inside the wall. Of course, there is a difference. It is raining in the sky outside; in the sky inside, we sit unconcerned with the rain.
Yet, we haven't divided the sky into two parts. We will never be able to divide it. The sky is unbroken, one. Inside and outside are our temporary distinctions. What is inside is also outside. What is outside is also inside. Even the words inside and outside are created by the duality of our intellect. Otherwise, there is neither anything inside nor anything outside. There is only one. Sometimes we call it inside, sometimes we call it outside.
Lao Tzu is saying that the duality of the intellect is superficial. Within, in the inner being, in the depths of existence, there is only one. Just as a tree emerges from the ground, at first it is one. Then soon its branches begin to break off. And then the branches keep breaking off. That is why Lao Tzu says, as soon as progress occurs, as soon as development occurs, the multiplicity is born. Infinite names appear.
Hindus have thought of life as a tree for some five thousand years. And they have thought of salvation as an inverted tree. The world is a tree that originates from one and then becomes many. A tree begins with a branch, a stem we call a pind, and then it branches out into many branches. And then each branch becomes many branches. And then each many branches expands into many leaves. Moksha is the opposite tree, in which from many branches we move to fewer branches. Then from fewer branches to even fewer branches. Then from even fewer branches to one. And then from one we move into the seed from which everything is created and grows.
Lao Tzu says, as soon as development occurs, as soon as unfolding occurs, as soon as things open up, they become many. A seed is one, but the tree divides into many branches. And then many seeds grow on many branches—from a single seed. Similarly, existence is one, nameless, yet many branches of names emerge from it. Truth is one, wordless, yet many branches of words emerge from it, and many leaves grow.
But Lao Tzu says, "Still, what is in one is also in many. And what is in the seed is also in the leaf. How can there be another? There is no possibility for another. There is no other."
In the second part of this verse: As progress occurs, people call it by different names.
It doesn't become different; people just call it by different names. I said that a tree is one in the seed and becomes many in its branches. But even that is visible to those of us standing outside. If the tree could speak, it would say, "I am one." The tree would feel that both its leaf and its root are connected. Within, there is only one flow, a single stream of sap.
Do you feel your toe and your head, your eye and your fingertips as separate from within? Close your eyes and observe, there is a continuous flow of oneness within. In that flow, all these forms disappear.
If someone looks at you from the outside, your eye is separate, your finger is separate. Certainly, breaking a finger will not cause the eye to burst. And certainly, breaking an eye will not cause the finger to break. From the outside, everything appears to be different. But inside? I said that breaking a finger will not cause the eye to burst, this too is from the outside. Inside, even breaking a finger weakens the eye. Inside, even the bursting of an eye blinds the finger as well. There is only one flow inside. There is no difference at all inside.
And if we ask an anatomist, he says the same thing. Anatomists say something very unique. The latest discoveries restore some ancient mysteries. Anatomists say that the cells that make up the eye are the same as the cells that make up the toe. There's no difference at all. If there is any difference, it's simply the specialization of those cells. The cells of the entire body are the same. But some cells have specialized in seeing. Other cells have specialized in hearing. And some have specialized in touch. But all those cells are the same. There's no difference in the life-essence of those cells. Not even the slightest difference. The tiny pupil of the eye is also your skin. It's also skin that has begun to see in a very subtle way. And scientists say that the skin of the hand is equally capable of seeing. If she can be trained, she too can see. Because the cell that creates both is the same. There is no difference in it.
When a child is born into a mother's womb, it has no eyes, no ears, no nose, no hands, no feet. On the first day of seeding, there's nothing. Just an empty cell. Then, from that cell, cells are born. And all those cells cannot be different from the cell they originated from; they are the same. Then, gradually, some cells begin to function as eyes, some as ears, some as hearts. Cells of the same kind continue to proliferate. And all the differences in the body are created.
The seed is one, but the branches appear distinct. The sap flow is one, the life flow is one, but everything begins to appear distinct—at unfoldment, when things open up. The cell that was created on the first day in the mother's womb is closed. It will now open, unfold, break its veil, and expand. As it expands, there will be many needs. According to each need, many parts will begin to perform different functions. And when all these begin to perform different functions, they will have different names.
We can understand this with an example. Hindus have always said that this world, like a person, is created from a tiny egg. And everything in this world, too, has the same life force. Then, everything separates; as it unfolds, it expands. And Lao Tzu is saying the same thing. He says, people call it by different names. The Upanishads say, "Truth is one, but those who know it know it in many ways. The secret is one, but the wise have called it by different names. It is the names that become different. But because of names, we begin to misunderstand that things are separate. Then we make a mistake, then we become confused. If that misconception is broken, then we can remember non-duality."
And Lao Tzu says that he who remembers such non-duality is the one... He who is remembered by different names, and yet is one. This collection of names is what we call the mystery—the mystery!
What is the secret of this world?
Science does not accept mystery, religion accepts mystery. That is the difference between science and religion. Science believes that there is no mystery in the world. And the more we know, the less mystery will be. That is, mystery is the name of ignorance. According to science, mystery means ignorance. What we do not know, appears to be a mystery. If we know, the mystery will end. And what does science do to know? If we understand properly, it does exactly the opposite of what Lao Tzu is saying. What does science do? Science goes on naming things. And whatever thing science is able to name, it thinks that it has known. It decides the definition of the name and knows that it has known.
That's why science becomes increasingly specialized every day. There was a time when science was unified. Then, its divisions began. Then, the existing branches of science began to branch out. And now, even the branches have begun to branch out.
There was a time when all knowledge in the world was subsumed under philosophy. That's why even today, in our old universities, we continue to award Ph.D. degrees—even to those who have no connection to philosophy. Now, if someone does research in chemistry, we award them a Ph.D. degree. That's a thousand-year-old practice. They call them Doctor of Philosophy. It has nothing to do with philosophy now. But a thousand years ago, chemistry was a part of philosophy.
Aristotle wrote a book two thousand years ago. Each chapter in his book bears the same name as a science today. And a very amusing incident occurred. The chapter he wrote on physics, the chapter after that, was on religion. And so, in the West, Greek religion came to be called metaphysics. Metaphysics simply means the chapter after physics. The chapter that comes after physics was called metaphysics. Even today, the old plaque at Oxford University, marking the Physics Department, reads: Department of Natural Philosophy. A thousand years ago, physics was natural philosophy. Then came the division. And science will divide. Because the more we want to know, the more systematically we want to know, the more narrow the scope of our research will have to be. The more we want to know about something, the fewer things we will have to choose to know. Therefore, the definition of science is: the attempt to know as much as possible with respect to as little as possible.
So, as we reduce things, things will continue to fall apart. Now, even physics isn't alone. We've had to break physics into parts. Now, even chemistry isn't a single science. Organic chemistry will be separate, inorganic chemistry separate. And the parts will continue to fall apart every day. Science gradually reaches its limits, moving further away from mystery.
Lao Tzu says, the oneness between the name and the nameless, that is called mystery, that is called secret.
In fact, whoever moves towards non-duality will move towards mystery. And whoever moves towards the many will not move towards mystery. That is why science gradually breaks down mystery. It thinks, there is no mystery, we will know all the secrets. And yet mystery will remain in its place. Science's way of knowing is such that it will be deprived of mystery. And that is why the more science develops, the less man's sense of mystery diminishes. Of all the damages to religion, the deepest is the loss of the sense of mystery. Nothing seems to be a mystery. Everything is known.
You see a flower. Someone says it's beautiful. You say, "You're talking nonsense. What beauty is there in it? It's such and such a color, it's made of such and such elements. Go and have a scientist analyze it; he'll figure it all out and tell you what it is. And there's no beauty in it at all."
As soon as we know and name all the facts of things, the oneness that was hidden within everything disappears, it vanishes. With its disappearance, the mystery dissolves.
Lao Tzu says, we have given names to many, yet that which is one, we call it mystery. That which remains one despite being many, we call mystery. That which appears different but remains inseparable, we call mystery. That which appears divided in duality, yet is not divided, it is undivided, that is what we call mystery. Understand the meaning of mystery. Mystery means that which we know and yet are unable to know. In the language of religion, mystery means that which we know and yet are unable to know. That which we recognize and yet remains unrecognized.
If we consider this with an example, it might become clear. You love someone and have been with them for fifty years. Have you been able to get to know them? You must have become well acquainted. If you haven't been able to get to know them in fifty years, when will you be able to get to know them? You have become well acquainted, you seem to know everything. And yet, can you boldly say that you have gotten to know them? You have known every nook and corner of them, every detail of theirs, you know all their habits. Still, can you say that they are predictable? Can you tell what they will do tomorrow morning?
No, that unpredictable element exists. And it's not that fifty years is too little; it will still be there in five hundred years. That's the mystery, the unpredictable! That which we will be unable to declare, that which we will be unable to predict! That which, even after knowing, we will not be able to say that we have understood.
And look from some side.
Someone asks Saint Augustine, "What is time?" Augustine replies, "As long as no one asks me, I know perfectly well; and when someone does ask, that's when the confusion arises."
You too know what time is; you know it very well. You wake up on time. If you didn't know, how would you wake up on time? If you didn't know, how would you reach home on time? If you didn't know, how would you decide that it's time? You definitely know time. But Augustine has rightly said that until someone doesn't ask me, I know exactly what time is, and you ask and everything is lost. If someone asks what time is? Till date, the wisest man in the world has not been able to answer. And such foolish men are using time. Such foolish men are living in time. And the wisest man cannot even point out that this is time.
Forget it, time is a little complicated; life is not that complicated. We are all living. We have lived enough. Those who know say we have lived thousands of lives. Forget them; just accept that we have lived one life. Fifty years, forty years, twenty years, sixty years. Life has to be known. But if someone asks what is life? Then it just slips away. What happens? What is life? When you have lived it, then you should tell.
Lao Tzu says, "We call this a mystery. We know it, yet it remains unknown. We know everything, yet we find that everything remains unknown. Existence is present everywhere. It is the same inside and outside. It permeates every hair, every breath. Yet it remains unknown. What have we learned?"
These ocean waves must have been crashing onto this shore for millions of years. The shore, these waves, must not yet have known what it is. And neither must this shore have known what these waves are. But you might say, forget about the waves. But even if you keep crashing against this shore for a million years, you will still only know as much as the waves have. Can we know? A superficial acquaintance, an acquaintance, is formed. And we begin to call this superficial acquaintance knowledge. Calling this superficial acquaintance knowledge creates a great confusion; then we lose sight of the mystery. Lao Tzu says, "Don't mistake this superficial acquaintance for knowledge; know that it is merely a superficial acquaintance. Then you will see mystery present everywhere, every moment. Mystery is there. No matter how much we learn, it has no end."
And now, now that science has become a little deeper and more serious, and its childishness has broken, because science hasn't been born for very long. As for religion, there are traces of it being born for approximately twenty thousand years. So, even if religion said five thousand years ago that life is a mystery, even then it was a fifteen thousand year old event, an experience. Science has only been born three hundred years ago. It's completely childish. It's certain that the day science reaches fifteen thousand years old, it will declare with equal force that life is a mystery.
Fifteen thousand years is far away; Einstein was still around. So, the greatest genius we have produced in science was present in that man. But as he died, he said, "In my youth, I thought that truth could be known. I no longer think so. I now believe that truth is unknowable and will remain unknowable. We will learn a lot, that's for sure. Yet, there will remain as much to know as there was before we learned. Our knowledge will make no difference. It will be like filling a handful of water from the ocean. Perhaps filling a handful of water from the ocean will shrink the ocean a little, but that all-encompassing expanse of the unknown, the unknowable, will not diminish even a handful no matter how much we learn."
Religion calls it a mystery; it always remains—unknown, unfamiliar. It remains as it is. The meaning of mystery is…
Understand three things. Ignorance; ignorance is not a mystery. Science thinks that this mystery is known only because of ignorance. That is science's mistake. Ignorance is not a mystery; because in ignorance we do not know anything. How can we know a mystery? We do not know anything. Knowledge is also not a mystery; because in knowledge we know something. Mystery is an event above knowledge. Knowledge happens above ignorance; mystery happens above knowledge. One who goes from ignorance to knowing will become a wise person. And one who goes from knowledge to knowing even above knowledge will become a mystic.
Understand these three steps. One is the step of ignorance. If you move beyond ignorance, the second step is that of knowledge. The world of knowing begins from not knowing. But if you stop at not knowing, you remain ignorant; and if you stop at knowing, you remain wise; if you rise above knowing, the world of mystery begins. And then, in that state, despite having knowledge, there is a complete realization of ignorance. Knowledge and ignorance become one in mystery. As Lao Tzu says, they are the same within both aspects. The experience of mystery is experienced by one who begins to see the sameness in both ignorance and knowledge. And who feels that there is not much difference between the ignorant and the wise. The ignorant is under the illusion that they do not know. The wise are under the illusion that they know. The mystic knows that there is no possibility of knowing.
No, the mystic doesn't say don't know. He says, "Know, know thoroughly; but know so deeply that you transcend even knowing. Don't let that knowing become your bondage and your limitation. You have risen above ignorance, rise above knowledge as well."
The sage of Ishavasyam has said, the ignorant get lost in darkness, but what can be said about those wise people who get lost in great darkness!
Which wise man would wander in the great darkness? We have only heard that the wise do not wander, the ignorant wander. What is this sage of Ishavasyam saying? Surely he knows the same thing as Lao Tzu. He is saying that the ignorant wander because they do not know. And the wise wander because they think they know. And remember, the sage says, the ignorant wander in darkness, the wise wander in great darkness. His humility is also lost, and his ego becomes intense.
Mystery transcends both knowledge and ignorance. Mystery is the knowledge that you may know a lot, but you won't be able to. Try hard to know, but your efforts will fail. Run, search, invent, but in the end, you will discover only one thing: life is an unfathomable mystery, its bottom untraceable.
Lao Tzu says, "This is what we call mystery. There is one reality within both; this is what we call mystery. There is oneness in birth and death, oneness in darkness and light; this is what we call mystery."
And the line after this is very amazing.
"This collection of names is what we call mystery. And where the intensity of mystery is supreme, there lies the entrance to that subtle and miraculous."
Where the intensity of mystery is paramount! The intensity of mystery! What would the intensity of mystery even mean? One has to turn back.
The ignorant know that they don't know. Ego is subtle and weak. It exists because even they are aware that they don't know. The wise know that they do know. The ego has become stronger and more intense.
The ignorant also harbors a sense of mystery due to ignorance. They see many wonders, strangeness all around them, because they cannot understand anything. When lightning flashes in the sky, they think that perhaps Indra is angry. When it rains, they think that perhaps the gods are pleased. When the harvest is harvested, they think it is the result of their good deeds. When the harvest fails or an earthquake strikes, they think it is the result of their sins. They continue to make their own calculations. But mystery exists, dependent on ignorance. The self is less intense, and the perception of mystery is less. But ignorance quickly transforms even mystery into various interpretations. Lightning becomes Indra, rain becomes the result of sin and virtue. Happiness and sorrow become principles of justice and karma. Even the ignorant create some interpretation. The more interpretation they make, the stronger their ego becomes.
The wise know the facts. The more they know, the stronger their self becomes. And the stronger their self becomes, the more the sense of mystery becomes rarefied. Not dense, but rarefied. The intensity of the sense of mystery dissolves.
In the third stage, where the wise man remains neither wise nor ignorant, knows and yet knows that he does not know, there the I is completely lost. And where the I is lost, there the mystery becomes intense. These are two things: I and mystery. If the I is very intense, the mystery will become rare. If the I is rare, the mystery will become intense. If the I becomes completely strong, the mystery will disappear completely. And if the I becomes absolutely empty, the mystery will become completely dense and intense. The amount of the center of the I will determine how intense the mystery is. That is why all mystics say, dissolve the I; lose the I; then you will know the secret of life.
Why does this "I" hinder me? This "I" blinds me, preventing me from seeing the mystery. The very meaning of mystery is that I will have no control, I will not be able to know. I have no power, I am helpless. Only then will the mystery be realized.
That is why old people are not surrounded by mystery as much as small children are. Small children live in the world of mystery. Why? Right now I am not that dense. Right now when a butterfly flies, it feels as if the ultimate dream has come true. Right now when a flower blooms, it feels as if the doors of infinity have opened. Right now when the sun rises, it feels as if the ultimate light has been seen. Right now when the waves of the ocean crash, a wave of joy dances in the heart. Right now when a child picks up coloured pebbles lying on the side of the road, he sees diamonds and pearls in them. Right now I am not very dense. Right now one sees mystery all around.
So a child's entire time is spent immersed in poetry, in a poem. That's why young children can't differentiate between dreaming and being awake. A small child can wake up in the morning and cry for the doll that was lost in a dream last night, screaming that the doll is broken, where has it gone! And no matter how much we explain to him that it was a dream, we can't. The reason is that right now there's no clear distinction between dreaming and being awake. Right now he dreams even during the day. Right now there's not much difference between night and day, there's only the difference between the opening and closing of the eyelids. The inner being is still very fluid. Right now the sense of mystery is very strong.
Then, as I grow stronger, the mystery will dissolve. The more a child becomes educated, earns certificates, grows older, stands on his own two feet, and acquires more and more abilities, the more I will gradually become clearer and more refined, and the more the mystery will fall away.
But the mystery of a child is one of ignorance. The mystery of a saint is a mystery that comes after knowledge. There is a mystery before knowledge, that of ignorance. There is a mystery after knowledge, too, that is not of ignorance.
This is the difference between a poet and a sage. The poet also lives in mystery, but filled with ignorance. And the sage also lives in poetry, but poetry that transcends knowledge. Rishi also means poet. But such a poet, one who has eyes, who has seen. The sage also lives in poetry. For him, the world is not prose, it is poetry. For him, the world is not prose, it is not dry. For him, the world is full of verse, bound in song, imbued with rhyme, covered with dance, and song. But the sage is the poet of the mystery that comes after knowledge. And the poet is the sage of the mystery of ignorance that precedes knowledge. This is the only difference between the two.
Therefore, we cannot call the sages of the Upanishads mere poets. Although poetry like theirs has been produced infrequently. And we cannot even call our greatest poet a sage, because his poetry is merely the poetry of ignorance. Our poet is, in fact, a child who remains a child. His body continues to grow, but the line of distinction between his inner dreams and the outside world remains undefined. He is childlike! Therefore, it is not surprising if poets are seen acting like children. This is why poets' behavior appears immature, immature. And often, we cannot understand. And this is why much of poets' behavior appears immoral.
Now Picasso loves a woman. He does, he does, he's absolutely crazy. Few people love like Picasso can. But one day, the love is ruined. And he begins to love another woman just as he loved this one. To the world around him, this will seem immoral. But the point is that Picasso is absolutely childlike.
Like a child was loving a doll; he was doing it, he was walking around holding it close to his chest. Then one day he got bored, so he kept it in a corner. Now he doesn't even look back. We will not call a child immoral, because we assume that he is a child. We will call Picasso immoral, what kind of love is this? This is a deception. Although Picasso did not cheat. When he loved, he did it only to the extent that a child would walk around holding a doll close to his chest, not leaving it at night. He loved only this much, he loved intensely. But when he left, he left. He went away like a child. Now he is loving someone else. It will seem immoral.
To be honest, the root cause of the immorality we see within poets, painters, and musicians is simply that their bodies may have matured, but their childhood hasn't vanished. Deep down, they remain childlike. That's why they can write poetry. But that's why their lives become a mess. That's why they can paint beautiful pictures, but their lives are ugly. That's why they can sing beautiful songs, but in terms of life, no one is as unrefined as them.
A sage is something else entirely. He is childhood regained, childhood regained. He is not childhood. He is simplicity, innocence, the same innocent feeling found again after all maturity and all knowledge.
Therefore, even a saint may exhibit childlike emotions, but he cannot exhibit the immorality of a poet. A saint may possess the simplicity and innocence of a child, but not the unruliness of a poet. Even within his innocence, even within his absolute freedom, there will be order, a rule, and a discipline. Even within his freedom, there will be a self-discipline. Within all his childlike behavior, there will be a current of ultimate experience. And yet, he transcends knowledge and experience, yet he transcends knowledge itself.
Lao Tzu says, "We call this a mystery. And from this mystery, if the intensity of this mystery increases, then the subtle secret of life, the door to a miraculous life, opens."
It will become dense when the ego becomes sparse. This will always be proportionate. We can think of it like this: 100% ego, then zero% feeling of mystery. 90% ego, then ten% feeling of mystery. 10% ego, then ninety% feeling of mystery. Zero% ego, then one hundred% feeling of mystery. This power is absolutely the same. Whatever falls into the ego is the same power that falls into mystery. Therefore, the more the ego becomes free, the more it will release that power, and the more that power will enter into mystery.
Life energy has two alternative directions: identity and mystery. I and you. That you, the divine, is mystery. Here, I grow stronger, while you diminish.
Our century hasn't denied God without reason. Our century is the most arrogant century on Earth. And the funny thing is that the arrogance is of knowledge. It is natural; only knowledge has arrogance. Our century is the most knowledgeable century. This may seem counterintuitive, but if you have carefully considered my previous statement, you will understand.
Our century is the most knowledgeable in the known history of mankind. And consequently, the most arrogant. And ultimately, the most devoid of mystery. The more knowledgeable we become, the more our libraries grow, the more our universities become repositories of knowledge, the more our children become knowledgeable, the more mystery will disappear. And a time may come—and that is humanity's final suicidal moment—when a civilization becomes so knowledgeable that it loses all sense of mystery, leaving no option but to die. Because life is lived by mystery, not ego. Even we, the egoists, live by mystery. Living with complete ego is impossible; only death is possible, only suicide is possible. If we come to believe we know everything, then there will be nothing left to know except death.
Therefore, the more we look back, the more we find people relishing life. Suicides are less common the further we go. It's interesting that ignorant civilizations don't commit suicide. Because they don't possess the intense ego required for suicide. To die, one needs a very strong ego; an ego so strong that one can deny the entire mystery of life and resort to murder. To destroy oneself requires a very strong identity. To slit one's own throat requires a very intense ego. Therefore, the older the civilization, the more ignorant, the more primitive, the less suicide one commits. The tribal people don't even know about suicide. They are unfamiliar with it, and they can't even think about it. Even today, there are many languages on Earth that don't have a word for suicide because they never considered why someone would kill themselves!
But the situation has completely changed for us.
Albert Camus begins one of his books by saying, The only philosophical problem is suicide – there is only one philosophical problem and that is suicide.
How would a man begin a philosophical treatise like this? And Albert Camus was one of the wisest men of our time. No, Camus did not discuss God in his book, that the problem of philosophy is God. He discussed that
The only problem of philosophy is suicide, that if a man lives, why should he live?
It's okay to ask that. If there's no mystery, then what's the point of living? To live to eat? To live in a house? To have children? Then why should children live? Should they live to have more children? What's the purpose of all this? Houses are built, roads are built, airplanes are built—but why live?
If you say, for love! Then you have entered the world of mystery. Camus will say, where is love? I searched everywhere, but found nothing except lust. Love is a mystery, lust is a fact. If you try to catch it, you will catch lust, but not love. Someone will say, for happiness! Happiness is a mystery; the reality is so-called happiness and sorrow. And behind all happiness, sorrow is hidden. Then Camus will say, why live? And it is okay, I have seen happiness once.
Nasruddin is sitting in a hotel. Someone comes and asks him...someone sits down and starts talking, asking about the news of the village. He's a stranger, a foreigner. Nasruddin asks him, "Don't you play cards? Otherwise, we could play cards." The man says, "I tried playing once, but found it useless." Nasruddin says, "You're not interested in chess, are you? Otherwise, I should call you for chess." The man says, "I played chess once, but no, I didn't find it worthwhile." Nasruddin says, "Then what can I arrange for you? Would you like to listen to music? I can play some instrument." The man says, "I heard it once, but didn't find it worthwhile." Nasruddin says, "Are you fond of fishing? Then let's go. The weather is nice, let's go fishing." The man says, "I can't go. I have a son, so take him along."
Nasruddin says to her, "Excuse me, I think he's your only son!" Nasruddin says to her, "I think he's your only son. Because you must have seen love, sex, once, and then again... I presume he's your only son," Nasruddin says. "Because I tried playing cards once and found it useless. I tried chess once and found it useless. I tried fishing once and found it useless. So I presume he's your only son!"
There is no fact in life that is worth seeing again. And if it is worth seeing again, it will not be a fact; it will contain some mystery that remains unknown, which will have to be known again, and again. If it still remains unknown, then it will have to be known again. If we know something completely, there is no question of knowing it again. What is the question? We cannot know it completely, so we know it again, know it a third time, know it a thousand times, and yet the desire to know it a thousand and one times arises. Because that unknown, unfamiliar mystery remains behind.
So Camus is right: if there is no mystery, then suicide is the only philosophical problem. Ours is the most enlightened age, the most suicidal, the most egoistic. That's why we say there is no God, no religion, no mystery.
And Lao Tzu says, for one who will rarefy the identity, will intensify the mystery, the subtle and miraculous aspects of life will be revealed to him.
These two words, subtle and miraculous, must be kept in mind. First, the meaning we generally take for subtle is not what people like Lao Tzu take for granted. By subtle, we mean less gross. We say, "The wall is gross, the air is subtle." But air is also gross, not subtle; it is less gross. The difference between air and wall is not very great. It is not a qualitative difference; it is only a difference of quantity. It is a difference of quantity, not of quality.
And a wall of air can be created. And even with air, you can be thrown with such force that you'd never fall on hitting a wall. Even if you escape the wall, if a dense wall of air is built, you won't be able to escape it. It's not just the wall that has weight; the air itself has weight—a tremendous amount of weight. You don't realize it because the air around you exerts the same weight on your body. Therefore, the air counteracts its own weight. Otherwise, thousands of pounds of weight weighs on you. You could die right away if the air were to separate from one side. When a strong wind blows, you're likely about to fall forward. You might think the air behind you is pushing you down, but you're wrong. The air behind you isn't pushing you down. The air in front of you is being pushed by the force of the air behind you, creating a void. You'll fall into that void.
Air itself has a very gross form. What things do we call subtle? All our subtle is a form of the gross. When people like Lao Tzu use the word subtle, the subtle, they mean that which cannot be grasped by the senses in any way. You should understand the meaning of subtle. Air is not visible to our eyes, but it is visible to the hand. It can be grasped by the senses, but it is not subtle. Subtle means that which is beyond the grasp of the senses.
Have you ever known anything that is beyond the reach of the senses? Whatever is known, is known through the reach of the senses. You see it with your eyes, hear it with your ears, smell it with your nose, and touch it with your hands. You have no experience of the subtle. Let us explain it this way: that which is known through the senses is gross; and that which is not known through the senses and yet is known is subtle. Then you will understand. Otherwise, the distinction we make is based on the differences in the senses.
If a sound is loud, we call it gross. And if it is very subtle and slow, we call it subtle. There is no difference between them. These are the frequencies of the same sound. And the ear can pick up both. And even if the ear cannot pick up, but the radio can, it is still not subtle; it is gross. This means that a slightly larger ear can pick up on it. A smaller ear cannot pick up on it, a slightly larger ear can pick up on it.
Images are passing through here right now. The television catches them; our eyes cannot. But even that is not subtle. Because television is a very gross thing. Its eyes are only slightly sharper than ours. The radio's ears are sharper than ours. The difference is in quantity.
Therefore, whatever comes within the grasp of the senses—or let me add one new thing, which the ancient sages did not add because they were unaware—whatever comes within the grasp of the senses, or any instrument made by the senses, is all gross. Because the instruments created by the senses will not be able to grasp the subtle. The instruments made by the senses are extensions of the senses, nothing more. What is our telescope? It is an extension of our eye. What is our radar? It is an extension of our eye. What is our gun? It is an extension of the stone we could throw with our hands. We are busy enhancing our senses. What are our knives, our swords? Our nails are elongated. A wild animal tears a man's chest with its nails, but we make an iron claw and tear it apart. Whatever comes within the grasp of the extensions and extensions of all our senses is also gross.
The subtle is that which cannot be grasped by the senses, and yet can be grasped. Keep in mind, if it cannot be grasped, then you will not even know about it. Therefore, keep another thing in mind also. It can definitely be grasped, but it should not be grasped by any sense. It should be immediate, there should not be any mediator in between. There should not be any intermediary sense in between. If I see you without eyes, I hear you without ears, I touch you without hands, then it is subtle - really subtle. There is no hand in between, there is no instrument in between; there is no one in between. There is no one in between, if my consciousness directly reaches the experience, then that experience is subtle.
Lao Tzu says, the person whose understanding of mystery becomes intense, opens the door to the subtle.
As the awareness of mysticism intensifies, as the ego falls, we no longer need the senses. This is a fascinating thing. As the ego falls, we no longer need the senses. In fact, it is the ego that functions through the senses. If the ego falls, there is no need for the senses. And without the senses, non-sensory experiences begin. And when experiences occur without the senses, they are called subtle.
Such experiences sometimes come to you too. Sometimes, in a moment, on an occasion, in a situation, when your ego is thin, such experiences come to you—spontaneously. But the ego becomes dense again, and the experience is lost. And then, no matter how hard you try to understand, you won't be able to grasp it. The ego won't understand it. You've heard voices that you later denied, saying, "No, I couldn't have heard them." Because how could I have heard them? There was no one there! You've sometimes seen forms in such moments, which you later denied, saying, "How could I have seen them? There was no one there!" You've come close to such possibilities many times—spontaneously—that even you yourself can't believe later. Because when your ego becomes dense, it says, "How can this be possible? How can it be without senses?"
A friend of mine, his father had passed away. But on the day his father passed away, my friend, a poet, took the 6 o'clock bus to another village that evening. His father was fine, well, there was nothing wrong. He was going to the other village to attend a poetry conference. So, on the way, sitting in the bus, he remained immersed in his poetic world, composing his own poem.
Now, when someone immerses themselves in poetry, the ego dissipates. Because they become a child, they regress back to the old world. They fly among the butterflies, laugh among the flowers, and speak to the birds. They descend. Waterfalls begin to speak, trees begin to buzz, clouds in the sky begin to carry messages. That ego dissipates.
So he would travel immersed in his poetry. Suddenly, at nine in the night, while sitting in the bus, he was overcome with sadness. It was beyond his understanding. He was absolutely cheerful, happy, songs were flowing. What happened? It was as if sadness had descended all around him. As if a dark cloud had come and settled above him. There was no reason, it was without cause. That is why he became more restless. The flow of poetry was broken and his mind sank into deep worry and sadness. He remained in that state for three hours, until he reached the other village at twelve o'clock. He went and slept, but sleep could not come.
At two o'clock in the night, someone knocked on the door and a voice rang out, "Munna!" He was very surprised, because Munna is what his father calls him. He went outside and opened the door. He couldn't believe it. There was no question of his father's existence. No other living person called him Munna anymore.
I looked inside, and the air filled with a hissing sound. The night was dark, and there was no one around. Everyone in the hotel was asleep, and everything was silent. The street below was empty. They were on the second floor. No one could have suddenly come. Then, closing the door, I thought, it must be some illusion.
He fell asleep again. But only five or seven minutes passed when there was that knock again, and again the sound so clear, and now it was again, and he himself was alert. The sound waves were so familiar that it couldn't have been anyone else's. He opened the door again, but there was no one there. The air hissed and filled inside again. He couldn't sleep. Unease arose. At three in the morning, he went downstairs and called home. He learned that his father had passed away. He breathed his last at exactly two in the morning, and at two in the morning, the first knock and Munna's voice! But he kept deceiving himself. He still keeps deceiving himself. He says, "I don't know, it must be some illusion." Even now—he's an intelligent man, he thinks carefully—he still says, "It happened, but even now I don't believe it must be Father. I made a mistake. Either it must be some play of my mind, some coincidence, some coincidence, that he died at two o'clock, and at two o'clock I must have had some idea."
In this way, the subtle sometimes peeks into all of our lives. We ourselves continue to deny it. But if the awareness of mystery becomes intense, then the subtle doesn't peek; we ourselves jump into the subtle. Then we live in the subtle. Then it starts happening all around us, 24 hours a day.
Lao Tzu says, the door opens to the subtle and to the miraculous. To the miraculous! To that which is wonderful! To that which is astonishing!
It's important to understand a little about what a miracle is. What we commonly call a miracle in this world has something in it, and that's why it's called a miracle, even though we don't know what it is.
When do you call it a miracle? A man died; and Jesus placed his hand on his head and the man became alive. So we say, a miracle happened! The dead man became alive. Why do we call it a miracle? A man is sick and he places his head at someone's feet and becomes healthy. We say, a miracle happened. Why did it become a miracle? Buddha passes by a tree. And the tree is dry and new sprouts come out of it. So we say, a miracle happened. But why do we say a miracle happened? What is the reason for calling it a miracle?
The only reason we generally think of is that wherever an event occurs outside of cause and effect, there is a miracle. Every tree sprouts new leaves, but they do so in due course, according to a rule. They sprout when there's a reason. Now, a tree that's dry, without leaves for years, has no reason to sprout. They sprout because of the Buddha's emergence. And the Buddha's emergence isn't the reason for the tree's sprouts. It's unrelated, there's no connection. What connection is there between the Buddha's emergence and the leaves on the tree?
A man has died. If he is cured by medicine, we will say that perhaps his heart rate has slowed down a bit and is now normal. A man is sick. If he is cured by medicine, we say it is not a miracle. Why? Because medicine is the cause and recovery is the effect. There is causality. But if you place your head at a man's feet and get cured, then there is no causality. Then it is a miracle.
A miracle means where the law of cause and effect is broken; where no connection can be found between the cause and the effect. Now, if Jesus places his hand on someone's head and a dead man comes back to life, there is no connection between this. What connection does Jesus' hand have? But if the man comes back to life, it is a miracle. The secret behind what we usually call a miracle is simply that we cannot understand the cause and effect.
But even there, cause and effect can exist. Cause and effect can exist, and do exist. Therefore, what we call miracles, sooner or later, science will prove that they are not miracles. It's just a matter of finding the cause and effect, that's it! Once found, the miracle will disappear.
If a man comes and places his head at my feet and his illness is cured, it's not a miracle. It's not because it's there...but it appears so. Because you can't connect cause and effect. But it's possible that the man isn't truly suffering from any illness at all. He only thinks of it, he's suffering from a mental illness. And if, with great trust and faith, he comes and places his head at my feet, then with that very faith, the very belief that strengthened the illness melts, shatters. A miracle would occur, but it hasn't. There is no miracle, because cause and effect are at work. The illness was created by his own faith, and it was cured by his own faith. My feet have done nothing. My feet can't do anything. It's nothing. It's not a miracle at all. It's not a miracle.
Even if a dead person comes back to life, it's not a miracle. And sooner or later, we may discover the secret behind his death and his resurrection. If illness is mental, do you think death can't be mental? It certainly is. Death can be mental too. Not everyone dies from physical illness; intelligent people often die from mental illness.
If you become convinced that you are dying, you are dying, you are dead. Your body is perfectly fine; it could still function. Only your consciousness has shrunk within. Jesus' hand can expand that shrunken consciousness. It is not a miracle. Jesus' hand has so much magnetic power that the consciousness buried within you can rise to the surface.
This magnetism, this living magnetic element of the body, is its own science, its own causes and effects. It's also possible that someone places their head on your feet and experiences some benefit, even without faith. Then the living magnetic element of this person's feet can enter. Just as electricity enters through touch, causing a shock and causing the person to fall, similarly the body's electric current and magnetic element also enter, touch, and transform each other. But then the cause and effect are discovered. No, there's no miracle here. We call it a miracle only because we don't know the cause and effect.
The miracle Lao Tzu is talking about is something else entirely. That miracle occurs when our ego is completely destroyed. And when our ego is completely destroyed, a unique phenomenon occurs: the distinction we once saw between cause and effect disappears. The effect itself becomes the cause; the cause itself becomes the effect. The seed itself becomes the tree; the tree itself becomes the seed. And in that state, one can see the seed and the tree simultaneously, simultaneously. But then it is a miracle.
Understand this a little. It's a little profound.
We see the seed once, but we cannot see the tree at that very moment. We will have to wait twenty years to see the tree. After twenty years, we will see the tree. But then the seed will not be visible. We see a child being born, but then we cannot see the old man. We will have to wait seventy years for the old man. But by the time we see the old man, the child will have disappeared. We will not be able to see both together.
Lao Tzu tells him that in that world of mystery, when the mystery deepens and the ego becomes void, then the old man is seen in the child; the child is seen in the old man; death becomes visible in birth; the entire tree is seen in the seed. Flowers that have not yet bloomed appear to have bloomed. What has not yet happened appears to be happening. What has already happened appears to be present. What will happen also appears to be present. The past and the future end. Only a single moment remains. The entire existence stands in the eternity of a single moment, in the eternal.
So what Krishna is saying to Arjuna is, "These people you think you will kill, I see them dead, Arjuna! They are already dead, Arjuna! You only see them standing there because you cannot see the future. This is a miracle."
A miracle means when cause and effect cease to be distinct. They aren't distinct; it's a mistake in our way of seeing. Our way is like making a small hole in the wall and looking into this room through that hole. If I start looking from your side, I first see a person named A. Then, when I turn my gaze forward, A disappears, and I see B. Then, when I move my gaze even further, B also disappears, and I see C. And consider that if I can't turn my neck, what would I understand? I would understand that A has ended, B has ended, and now I can see C. But I can't see D, which is ahead.
But if the wall suddenly disappears and I see the entire room at once—A, B, C, D—that is a miracle. If I can see the creation and the destruction of this universe simultaneously, that is a miracle.
Lao Tzu says that one who delves deeply into this mystery opens the doors to the subtle, and ultimately the door to the miraculous. Then he sees the universe being born and dying simultaneously. Then he sees God simultaneously creating and destroying the universe.
But it would be difficult to understand. And it cannot be understood, hence its name, a miracle. What we call miracles has nothing to do with miracles. They can be understood, they can be discovered. But that is why we say that we cannot find cause and effect. Even in a true miracle, cause and effect cannot be found, because cause and effect are present simultaneously.
A very surprising incident recently occurred in a laboratory at Oxford University. It will make it easier to understand this miracle. Some scientists were taking a picture of a bud. And the image that came out wasn't of a bud, but of a flower. The film being used was the most sensitive film possible today. The camera was only facing the bud; the image that came in was of a flower.
Naturally, it seemed like a mistake had been made. The bud was still a bud, and the image had turned out to be a flower. But it was preserved. It was thought there might have been some mistake. There might have been some prior exposure. Some ray might have entered, something might have gone wrong. Some chemical mistake, something might have gone wrong.
That picture was kept carefully. And when the bud blossomed into a flower, another picture was taken. It was a great surprise, because the picture was the same. The subsequent pictures were the same as the first picture. That experiment could not be repeated.
Until now, however, the possibility has become apparent, and the scientist who witnessed this has become deeply convinced that someday we will create a film so sensitive that when a child is born, we can take a picture of his old age. Because what is about to happen has already happened in the subtle world. The entire process of what is going to happen tomorrow has already begun in the subtle world. It may have happened in a more profound world; the news will take time to reach us. It will take time for our senses to grasp it. If we could grasp it without our senses, perhaps we could do so right now.
Perhaps the time gap between a bud and a flower, when it blossoms into a flower, isn't between the bud and the flower itself, it's between our senses and the flower. If our senses are removed, we can see the flower in the bud. And then a miracle occurs. And entering that world of miracles, that world of miracles, is the goal of the science of religion.
Lao Tzu has said so much in this short sentence. This...but it's all code. If you read it simply, you won't find anything in it. Only when you peel it apart, peeling back the layers of each word, will you find a little touch with Lao Tzu's soul.
Let it be enough for today, we will talk tomorrow.