experience of any kind must be superficial or sensory, comforting or pleasurable, for desire, however intense, is the forerunner of thought and thought is the outer. Thought may put together the inner but it is still the outer. Thought will never find the new for it is old, it is never free. Freedom lies beyond thought. All the activity of thought is not love.
To be a light to oneself is the light of all others. To be a light to oneself is for the mind to be free from challenge and response, for the mind then is totally awake, wholly attentive. This attention has no centre, the one who is attentive, and so no border. As long as there's a centre, the «me», there must be challenge and response, adequate or inadequate, pleasurable or sorrowful. The centre can never be a light to itself; its light is the artificial light of thought and it has many shadows. Compassion is not the shadow of thought but it is light, neither yours nor another's.
The path gradually entered the valley and the stream went by the village to join the sea. But the hills remained changeless and the hoot of an owl was the reply to another. And there was space for silence.
Sitting on a rock in an orange orchard the valley spread out and disappeared into the fold of mountains. It was early in the morning and the shadows were long, soft and open. The quails were calling with their sharp demand and the mourning dove was cooing, with soft, gentle lilt, a sad song so early in the morning. The mocking-bird was making swooping curves in the air, turning somersaults, delighted with the world. A big tarantula, hairy and dark, slowly came out from under the rock, stopped, felt
утренний воздух и неторопливо проследовал своей дорогой. Апельсиновые деревья стояли ровными длинными рядами, акр за акром, с яркими плодами и свежими цветами — плоды и цветы были одновременно на одном и том же дереве. Запах этих цветов тихо струился, а на жарком солнце он станет более интенсивным и стойким. Небо было очень голубым и нежным, а все холмы и горы всё ещё спали.
Было чудесное утро, прохладное и свежее, с той удивительной красотой, которую человек не успел ещё погубить. Появились ящерицы, они искали тёплое местечко на солнце; они вытягивались, чтобы согреть свои брюшки, повернув в сторону свои длинные хвосты. Это было счастливое утро, и мягкий свет покрыл на землю и бесконечную красоту жизни. Медитация — суть этой красоты, выраженной или безмолвной. Выраженная, она обретает форму, субстанцию; безмолвная же не должна облекаться в слово, в форму или в цвет. Выражение или действие, вышедшие из безмолвия, обладают красотой и целостностью, а всякая борьба и конфликт исчезают. Ящерицы передвинулись в тень, а колибри и пчёлы летали среди цветов.
Без страсти нет созидания, нет творчества. Полный отказ приносит эту беспредельную страсть. Отказ, исходящий из мотива, — это одно, но отказ без цели, без расчёта — это совсем другое. Тот, что имеет цель, имеет направленность, живёт недолго, становится злым и коммерческим, вульгарным, пошлым. Но отказ, не движимый какой-либо причиной, намерением или выгодой, не имеет ни начала, ни конца. Такой отказ есть освобождение ума от «я», от собственной личности.[13] Это «я» может потерять себя в какой-то деятельности, в какой-то утешающей вере
the morning air and unhurriedly went its way. The orange trees were in long straight lines, acre upon acre, with their bright fruit and fresh blossom flower and fruit on the same tree at the same time. The smell of these blossoms was quietly pervasive and with the heat of the sun the smell would get deeper, more insistent. The sky was very blue and soft and all the hills and mountains were still dreaming.
It was a lovely morning, cool and fresh, with that strange beauty which man had not yet destroyed. The lizards came out and sought a warm spot in the sun; they stretched out to get their bellies warm and their long tails turned sideways. It was a happy morning and the soft light covered the land and the endless beauty of life. Meditation is the essence of this beauty, expressed or silent. Expressed, it takes form, substance; silent it's not to be put into word, form or colour. From silence, expression or action have beauty, are whole, and all struggle, conflict cease. The lizards were moving into the shade and the humming-birds and the bees were among the blossoms.
Without passion there's no creation. Total abandonment brings this unending passion. Abandonment with a motive is one thing, and without a purpose, without calculation, it is another. What which has an end, a direction, is short lived, becomes mischievous and commercial, vulgar. The other, not driven by any cause, intention or gain, has no beginning and no ending. This abandonment is the emptying of the mind of the «me», the self. This «me» can lose itself in some activity, in some comforting belief
