Astrall
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I must remind you of the last words Socrates spoke on earth: "When I was young, I thought I knew everything. I boasted because I could outargue anyone. When I grew a little older, I realized that I did not know many things; I was simply boasting. And since others could argue with me, they thought that perhaps I knew—because my arguments were more weighty. And as I continued, little by little it became clear to me that I knew nothing. Let this be my last statement on earth: that I do not know."
Socrates became a child again, but he staked his wisdom, his philosophy, his outstanding mind, all his arguments, and the efforts of his entire life to defeat opponents in debates and discussions. He became the smartest man in Greece. And he possessed incredible courage to say: "I know nothing."
No one knows anything.
Existence is a mystery; it cannot be solved. And because existence is a mystery, it reveals itself only to the heart of a child. It does not reveal itself to knowledge, because knowledge is aggression. It reveals itself to innocence, because innocence is simply receptivity, not aggression, but open doors, waiting. If truth enters, you are ready to meet it.
Truth cannot be conquered; it cannot be solved. You must be available for the truth so that the truth can conquer you. That is why simplicity is the most important religious quality. I want you to become innocent, knowing nothing—filled with expectation.
Jesus says: "Seek and ye shall find."
I say: "Wait! Never seek," because seeking is interference; you are poking your nose into the mysteries of existence. It is not beautiful; it is simply ugly. I say: "Wait! And you will find."
Jesus says: "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." Wait. The doors are always open for those who have patience, who can wait indefinitely, but who will not cross boundaries. Even knocking on someone's door is already an invasion of another's territory.
Jesus says: "Ask, and it shall be given own to you."
I say: "Ask and forget about ever receiving it." In the very act of your asking, you have destroyed the possibility of receiving. Do not ask. Do not become a question.
Let me repeat: do not become a question! And a great surprise awaits you, because you are the answer. If you become a question, you will fall into a trap from which it is impossible to escape. You will continue to ask—and the more you ask, the further you will move away from the answer, because you are that answer!
In innocence, in simplicity, you find this—your very being.
In the laboratory, be a scientist, but when you leave there, completely forget about science. Listen to the birds—but not scientifically! Look at the flowers—but not scientifically, because looking at a rose scientifically means looking at a completely different object. It is not the same rose that the poet sees.
Perception does not depend on the object; perception depends on the perceiver, on the quality of the experience. When a scientist looks at a rose, he thinks of botany, chemistry, physics, atoms, electrons, neurons, everything all at once—only not beauty. Beauty does not enter his field of vision, and that is exactly what a rose represents.
For the poet, for the artist, a rose is a completely different experience: it is a manifestation of the unknown, the transcendent, the very secret of life. It embodies something divine; it brings something from heaven into existence, something from distant stars. It grows on earth, it is rooted, but it is not just a part of the earth; it contains much more. A rose is not the sum of its components. The scientist understands it only as the sum of its constituent parts—there is nothing more in it, but the poet begins to feel something beyond that.
The moment you dissect a rose, the beauty disappears. The rose was merely a possibility for beauty to descend. It is the earth perceiving the sky; it is the coarse perceiving the delicate. The poet feels this, but it is a feeling, not a thought.
Therefore, leaving your laboratory, forget everything about atoms, forget everything about space; instead, begin to look with a fresh gaze, through another vision—the vision of a child, the vision of a poet, the vision of a lover. When you look at the woman you love, never think of her in terms of biology, otherwise you will miss the whole essence. She is not biology; her being is much greater than any science can contain. When you kiss a woman, do not think about what chemical exchange is happening between lips, otherwise you will feel disgust! You will see no poetry; it will be unclear to you what all these poets are eternally talking about. It is merely an exchange of bacteria, microbes, millions of microbes—it is even dangerous. It could become a matter of life and death—be on your guard!
When you make love to a woman, do not think about hormones; avoid this nonsense, otherwise the entire act of love will be just a mechanical phenomenon. You will be there, and at the same time, you will not be. You will end up as a mere observer, not a participant. And the whole secret of the poet is in participation.
Looking at a flower, become the flower; dance beside the flower, sing a song. The wind is cool and fresh, the sun gives warmth, the flower dances in the wind, rejoices, sings. Share this with it! Cast aside indifference, objectivity, detachment. Cast aside all your scientific approaches. Become a bit more fluid, more melting, more merging. Let the flower speak to your heart; let the flower enter your being. Invite it—it is a guest! And then you will feel the taste of mystery.
This is the first step toward the mysterious, the ultimate step: if you can for a moment become a participant, it means you have found the key, learned the secret. Then become a participant in everything you do. Walking, do not step mechanically; stop simply observing—become this. Dancing, do not think about technique; technique has nothing to do with it. You can do everything technically correct and yet miss all the joy. Dissolve yourself in the dance, become the dance, forget the dancer.
When such a deep union begins to happen in many spheres of your life, when everywhere you begin to experience such incredible moments of disappearance, of absence of ego; when the flower is there but you are not, when the rainbow is there but you are not; when clouds float across the sky and you are neither outside nor inside, when you become absolutely silent; when inside you there is no one, only a pure virginal silence that nothing distracts, which logic, thoughts, emotions, feelings do not disturb—that is the moment of meditation. The mind has gone, and when the mind goes, the mystery enters.
Osho
Socrates became a child again, but he staked his wisdom, his philosophy, his outstanding mind, all his arguments, and the efforts of his entire life to defeat opponents in debates and discussions. He became the smartest man in Greece. And he possessed incredible courage to say: "I know nothing."
No one knows anything.
Existence is a mystery; it cannot be solved. And because existence is a mystery, it reveals itself only to the heart of a child. It does not reveal itself to knowledge, because knowledge is aggression. It reveals itself to innocence, because innocence is simply receptivity, not aggression, but open doors, waiting. If truth enters, you are ready to meet it.
Truth cannot be conquered; it cannot be solved. You must be available for the truth so that the truth can conquer you. That is why simplicity is the most important religious quality. I want you to become innocent, knowing nothing—filled with expectation.
Jesus says: "Seek and ye shall find."
I say: "Wait! Never seek," because seeking is interference; you are poking your nose into the mysteries of existence. It is not beautiful; it is simply ugly. I say: "Wait! And you will find."
Jesus says: "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." Wait. The doors are always open for those who have patience, who can wait indefinitely, but who will not cross boundaries. Even knocking on someone's door is already an invasion of another's territory.
Jesus says: "Ask, and it shall be given own to you."
I say: "Ask and forget about ever receiving it." In the very act of your asking, you have destroyed the possibility of receiving. Do not ask. Do not become a question.
Let me repeat: do not become a question! And a great surprise awaits you, because you are the answer. If you become a question, you will fall into a trap from which it is impossible to escape. You will continue to ask—and the more you ask, the further you will move away from the answer, because you are that answer!
In innocence, in simplicity, you find this—your very being.
In the laboratory, be a scientist, but when you leave there, completely forget about science. Listen to the birds—but not scientifically! Look at the flowers—but not scientifically, because looking at a rose scientifically means looking at a completely different object. It is not the same rose that the poet sees.
Perception does not depend on the object; perception depends on the perceiver, on the quality of the experience. When a scientist looks at a rose, he thinks of botany, chemistry, physics, atoms, electrons, neurons, everything all at once—only not beauty. Beauty does not enter his field of vision, and that is exactly what a rose represents.
For the poet, for the artist, a rose is a completely different experience: it is a manifestation of the unknown, the transcendent, the very secret of life. It embodies something divine; it brings something from heaven into existence, something from distant stars. It grows on earth, it is rooted, but it is not just a part of the earth; it contains much more. A rose is not the sum of its components. The scientist understands it only as the sum of its constituent parts—there is nothing more in it, but the poet begins to feel something beyond that.
The moment you dissect a rose, the beauty disappears. The rose was merely a possibility for beauty to descend. It is the earth perceiving the sky; it is the coarse perceiving the delicate. The poet feels this, but it is a feeling, not a thought.
Therefore, leaving your laboratory, forget everything about atoms, forget everything about space; instead, begin to look with a fresh gaze, through another vision—the vision of a child, the vision of a poet, the vision of a lover. When you look at the woman you love, never think of her in terms of biology, otherwise you will miss the whole essence. She is not biology; her being is much greater than any science can contain. When you kiss a woman, do not think about what chemical exchange is happening between lips, otherwise you will feel disgust! You will see no poetry; it will be unclear to you what all these poets are eternally talking about. It is merely an exchange of bacteria, microbes, millions of microbes—it is even dangerous. It could become a matter of life and death—be on your guard!
When you make love to a woman, do not think about hormones; avoid this nonsense, otherwise the entire act of love will be just a mechanical phenomenon. You will be there, and at the same time, you will not be. You will end up as a mere observer, not a participant. And the whole secret of the poet is in participation.
Looking at a flower, become the flower; dance beside the flower, sing a song. The wind is cool and fresh, the sun gives warmth, the flower dances in the wind, rejoices, sings. Share this with it! Cast aside indifference, objectivity, detachment. Cast aside all your scientific approaches. Become a bit more fluid, more melting, more merging. Let the flower speak to your heart; let the flower enter your being. Invite it—it is a guest! And then you will feel the taste of mystery.
This is the first step toward the mysterious, the ultimate step: if you can for a moment become a participant, it means you have found the key, learned the secret. Then become a participant in everything you do. Walking, do not step mechanically; stop simply observing—become this. Dancing, do not think about technique; technique has nothing to do with it. You can do everything technically correct and yet miss all the joy. Dissolve yourself in the dance, become the dance, forget the dancer.
When such a deep union begins to happen in many spheres of your life, when everywhere you begin to experience such incredible moments of disappearance, of absence of ego; when the flower is there but you are not, when the rainbow is there but you are not; when clouds float across the sky and you are neither outside nor inside, when you become absolutely silent; when inside you there is no one, only a pure virginal silence that nothing distracts, which logic, thoughts, emotions, feelings do not disturb—that is the moment of meditation. The mind has gone, and when the mind goes, the mystery enters.
Osho