Krishnamurti: Who Am I

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by David E. S. Young

FOREWORD

Though ascetically slender and frail, Jiddu Krishnamurti is intense, extremely alert, and spiritually so awake that what he says potentially illuminates every corner of the human soul. In the presence of this world-famed thinker, lecturer, and writer, my own awareness and understanding have been increased to such an extent that it has changed the course of my existence. This book is an attempt to describe this experiencing as it has taken place. The change basically has been an expansion of awareness. Like the dawn, awareness creeps in imperceptibly and gradually grows and brightens. So we must start at the beginning. As we go through the pages together, may I suggest that you ask yourself the questions put by Krishnamurti and pause long enough to listen to your own responses.

Some of the conversations were published in the pamphlet, Awareness and Meditation. They’ve been integrated with all the other experiences in the book to make my story as complete as possible.

CHAPTER I

OTHERNESS

“Where do you want me to sign?” Krishnamurti said as I handed him a pen and my copy of 'At the Feet of the Master', his first book.

At the moment the pages didn’t seem to belong to me, so I expressed what I felt: “You decide, please. It’s your book.”

And that is how I met Jiddu Krishnamurti. It was in 1921 and I was a sensitive fourteen years old, a student at Saint Christopher, Letchworth Garden City, Hertfordshire, England. The school had been founded by Theosophists. At the time of his visit, Krishnamurti was twenty-six years old, with golden skin, large brown eyes, and almost black hair. He was the adopted son and protégé of Annie Besant, International President of the Theosophical Society. He had been introduced to her by C. W. Leadbeater, a Theosophical leader and clairvoyant, who had discovered Krishnamurti in South India in 1909, and had immediately noticed something very remarkable about the young man. Annie Besant had then persuaded his impoverished father, who had 15 other children, to give her the guardianship of Krishnamurti. During the period of their visit to my school, Annie Besant expected Krishnamurti to come forth soon with teachings of worldwide significance. I looked up to him with awe, and 'At the Feet of the Master' was a treasured possession.

I still have that bright blue book with a silver star on it and his signature carefully written inside, but since that day our relationship has undergone many changes, and I have had many experiences with him.

I became better acquainted with him during other visits to Saint Christopher, where he was on the Board of Directors, and from hearing him talk in London and at his Star Camps in Holland. He seemed to take a personal interest in me, and we carried on a correspondence over a period of many years.

One letter is especially interesting because of the light it sheds on his connection with Saint Christopher and its history. The school, situated in England’s first planned city, was one of the few coeducational boarding schools in existence in those days. It was unusual in many ways: Dr. Armstrong-Smith, the first headmaster, had remarkable confidence in children and a great affection for them. In contrast to almost every other school in England at that time, there was no physical punishment. We were taught by a process of conditioning; however, I was later to free myself from this conditioning by the aid of Krishnamurti’s teachings.

In 1930 the Theosophical Education Trust gave up the school, abandoning all responsibility, including the financial burden, to Mr. and Mrs. Lyn Harris, a Quaker couple. The Harrises had attended one of Krishnamurti’s camps at Ommen, in search of new students. He hadn’t known they were among the 3,000 people there until I mentioned it afterwards. His impulsive reply was, “I wish I had known. I wish I had known.” The Harrises had been critical of Krishnamurti because they held him to some extent responsible for the Trust’s sudden abandonment of the school. I could see that Krishnamurti was aware of this, and wanted to speak to them personally.

Replying to a letter of mine mentioning the school’s financial difficulties, Krishnamurti wrote: “…I am afraid I don’t feel very responsible with regard to Saint Christopher’s, as I was not fully awake then, when I was one of the so-called Directors. But all that is a long time ago, and I hope Mr. Harris will not hold me altogether guilty…” When I received the letter, I felt I must share it with the Harrises. Tension at the mention of Krishnamurti’s name gave way to relaxation when I read aloud his words. I could feel a certain energy flow through me, and I knew I was being used as a channel.

I first sensed this particular kind of energy as a student at Saint Christopher. I felt an atmosphere there, an ‘otherness’ which has dominated my life. Perhaps I may call this ‘spiritual energy’. I’ve always pursued this energy, and I’ve tried to live in such a way and in such surroundings as to be in tune with its vibrations wherever and however I could find them.

At first I looked mostly outside, but over the years I’ve learned to look more and more within. Sometimes I’ve lost track of this energy, but now I flow with it more consistently, and as I write this book, I feel this ‘otherness’ supporting and inspiring me. I hope you will be able somehow to sense what lies behind the words; I wish to convey something much deeper than words, an aura around and through the sentences-something intangible, yet as closely linked to the words of my book, as the tune of a song is to its words.

I found the same source of inspiration in Theosophy, so I joined the Theosophical Society and its Esoteric Section. It was not long, however, before I felt these spiritual vibrations especially in connection with Krishnamurti. After completing my studies at Saint Christopher, I attended Cambridge University. I went every summer to Krishnamurti’s camp at Ommen, and he used to invite me to his pre-camp gatherings. I became exceedingly enthusiastic about his teachings-I ‘hitched my wagon to his star’. Theosophy remained as a part of my background, but I dropped out as a member of the society.

At about this time, in 1929, Krishnamurti dissolved the Order of the Star, of which he was the Head, with its worldwide membership of over 100,000, offices in 47 countries, property in India, Australia, and America, and a castle with 5,000 forested acres in Holland. He maintained “…that Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect… No organisation can lead man to spirituality.” Each of us was-and is-on our own.

I was deeply moved when I made my first trip to America and attended Krishnamurti’s camp at Ojai, California, in 1932. I had been intoxicated by: the power and rush of New York and its night life; the quiet immensity of the Grand Canyon; the majestic stillness and beauty of Yosemite; the fascination of Hollywood and its movie studios; and by the mass education of the University of California, Berkeley, where I was a teaching fellow in the physics department. I particularly loved the view of Ojai Valley’s bright green orange trees nestled amongst its towering mountains: but it was the ‘otherness’ and mystical wonder of Ojai-with-Krishnamurti, which affected me the most.

His talks in Ojai always have an atmosphere not of this earth. People of all ages, races, interests, and positions come with eager expectation, some waiting for hours to secure favoured places near the speaker, and some travelling from distant countries, from Australia, South America, Finland, Spain and India. Punctually at the appointed hour a hush falls over the gathering, and a sensitive-looking, erect, aesthetic figure appears quietly. With an air of an eagle poised for flight, Krishnamurti looks around at his audience before he begins to speak. He never uses notes, and he requests that his listeners make none so that they can listen with the whole of their attention. Photographs are discouraged and he gives no autographs. He speaks slowly and distinctly with a compelling sternness, and he is painfully aware when he isn’t getting his message across. He has said: “I have only one thought and that is to liberate men from their narrow-mindedness and their limitations. I say there is a way of living intelligently, happily and without conflict. I do not propose to give you a system but to place before you certain ideas so you may find out for yourselves how to think truly.”

“I wish I could convey to you,” I wrote to my family in England, “the wonder of Ojai. I may sound ‘up in the air’, but I’m shedding tears at the moment because you can’t enjoy its beauty, if only for a minute. Here, I’m a different being.” And I was different-I was dominated by an intense desire to make Krishnamurti’s teachings part of my life.

Understanding came in flashes. I experimented, and whenever there was an opportunity, I talked things over with Krishnamurti, whom those of us who knew him respectfully and affectionately call ‘Krishnaji’. My life in this period was changing constantly. I fell in love with a girl whom I later married; Krishnamurti’s comment was: “Shall I tell you? Let it all come-jealousy, everything. Spew it all out.” And I did. Sometimes I found I could feel emotion without doing anything about it, except to watch it-an enlightening discovery.

Whatever the facts in my life, Krishnamurti would never say what to do or what not to do, and he never judged whether a thing was good or bad; he would simply throw light on the subject: he was a searchlight on my innermost being. For example, in reference to sex, he simply commented, “Those who experience it want more of it.” And during one of several walks with him I ventured, “Reality seems so near, and yet so far.” Pointing towards the highest mountain peak he responded, “There’s the mountain top. Sometimes you can see it; sometimes it’s hidden by a cloud.”

I saw the mountain top quite often. So, on my return to England in 1933, I wanted to bring Krishnamurti’s teachings into my educational work. What was happening in schools seemed so far removed from what I wanted my life to be: I continually asked myself, what is right education? I found it extremely difficult to live the teachings and at the same time do what I was supposed to do in my job, and I longed for an opportunity to do what I felt was right.

I went to visit Summer Hill. The director, A. S. Neill, has done a tremendous pioneer job and helped many students but I just couldn’t find myself at home in the atmosphere there. One boy proudly showed me, “the only pane of glass in the school which isn’t broken”. Children were ruining living-room furniture by using it as gymnastic equipment. The place was dishevelled and unkempt. “It’s like this because the students want it this way,” a teacher explained.

Neill invited me to his own living-room which he carefully kept locked. He asked me if I would like to be a teacher there, and I had to decline. His definition of freedom is to do whatever you like as long as it doesn’t interfere with the freedom of others. It seems to me this means to be a slave to one’s own desires-smoking, drinking, swearing, whatever one feels like doing. And removal of the teacher’s influence leaves the student at the mercy of other influences-commercial, political, and the influence of other stronger students. I question whether this is truly freedom.

I felt that my best hope was Saint Christopher-perhaps some of the spiritual vibrations were still there. So I talked things over with the Harrises.

I see from the notes I made at the time that I pointed out to them that education then was based on certain ideas about what is good or necessary or needed for the future. Teaching was mostly a process of imparting ideas, beliefs, morals, ideas, information, skills, habits-with bits of creative work somehow finding their way in.

Instead of planning the course of study beforehand, I wanted to be free to offer to my pupils whatever seemed to arouse their interest. I was particularly interested in young adolescents-I felt that education generally failed most with this age group. I wished to allow them to function as much as possible from their own creative centres. They would be encouraged to live in the present, instead of to prepare for the future. I hoped to provide the atmosphere of an art room or research laboratory.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris took me seriously, thought about it, and talked about my wishes with those parents whom they felt were most likely to be open to my approach. But the parents’ response was that they did not want their children ‘experimented’ upon. And that was the end of that.

The next year, in 1934, I attended a New Education Conference at Oxford University. I spoke before everyone there, saying again the things I had said to the Harrises. I pointed out that education based on the child’s interest was taking place in a few progressive schools with very young children, but not with adolescents. Everywhere the subject-examination system was clogging and dampening the development of the individual. I said I would rather wash dishes than force information on unwilling students. I was prepared to wait.

And I have. I did create opportunities for children within the framework of several schools, but I have waited some 36 years for a chance to originate a complete project along the lines I had envisioned.

I was not until 1936 at Ommen that I had the opportunity of talking to Krishnamurti about my problems. He had been in South America and I hadn’t seen him for three years. Meanwhile, I had had to teach ‘subjects’, though at least to students who were interested in them.

Here is our conversation as I wrote it down afterwards. The words are there, but the feelings and the atmosphere are non-verbal. They are in the ‘psychic interview’ which exists as a companion to the dialogue.

Krishnamurti, who speaks in low tones with an Oxford accent, welcomed me into the hut where he had been interviewing people, and we sat down on chairs opposite each other. I had certain longings and anxieties that I wanted to discuss with him: I was still very nervous; I was concerned about my work in education. I looked up to Krishnamurti as my teacher, even though he had said: “I do not want followers. I abhor the very idea of anyone calling himself my disciple. Be rather the disciple of that understanding which is the fruit of ripe thought and great love; be the disciple of your own understanding.”

His time was limited, there were many people who wanted to see him, so I began right away. “Is my strong desire to have a private talk with you at least once a year healthy? I have such intense urges to see a great deal of you-or, should I wait until I’m a little older before expecting to see more of you? I hope to grow out of this need, but at present it makes all the difference.”

Krishnamurti listened very attentively and then said, “You come so that we can think together, don’t you? Therefore it’s healthy.”

“These urges to see you are very strong, and there are many others who feel the same.”

“I know.”

Thus encouraged, I went on to the next question, “Do you know I am very keen on doing something in education? The time hasn’t come yet, but I’m preparing as best I can.”

“Do you keep in touch with what other people are doing?”

“Yes, I’ve done a lot of that in the past. At the moment, I’m successfully preparing students to do well in exams. I hope later something will open up so that I may put into effect my ideas. What about the feeling that I may do something special in education, and that up to now I’ve been preparing for it?”

“Don’t think about it. That’s the old Theosophical idea, that one is something special. Do not think about it. If you do, it won’t happen; if you don’t, it may. Don’t prepare for anything. Go after what interests you. Do not have fantasies about the future.” Krishnamurti became very excited and he used his hands to express his feelings: “Fantasies never come true. I noticed the same thing in your first question. Do not build dreams about the future.”

“My position in education is quite accidental.”

“Yes, let it be that way.”

“In the same way I have ideas that I may go to California again and see more of you there.”

Krishnamurti shook both fists at me and it felt as if he almost jumped out of his chair. “Do not do it, David. Let things happen. Do not think about it. Fantasies never come true. Rather than build dreams, go and sleep with a woman. Do something which interests you.”

Well, I was interested in putting more questions, so I continued, “Are you still interested in Saint Christopher School and its future?” I had vague hopes he would come and visit Saint Christopher again.

“I collect people around me and concentrate on them. If they like to do something in education, politics, or whatever it is, that is their affair. Naturally, I am very interested in education.”

(This was Krishnamurti’s attitude at that time: he left education to others. With the passage of time, however, he has become more and more involved personally. He has certainly done so in India, and his recent sponsorship of Brockwood Park, England, and his intention of starting a school in America, are almost a complete reversal of the stand he took in this interview.)

I had one more question which I quickly put: “I have worked hard on my eyes with eye specialists, but I feel a few words of discussion with you would help. I don’t seem to want to see with both eyes at the same instant, that is, focus on the same point simultaneously - probably fear? My left eye isn’t as awake as my right eye and it oscillates. Or, should I not bother about my eyes, on the assumption that they will get better as interest in my work grows?”

“I have noticed that your left eye oscillates sometimes-but now you are interested and your eyes are still; your left eye isn’t oscillating. Do things in which you are interested. Look at the time!” We had been much longer than the time scheduled for each interview. Quite a number of people were waiting outside for their appointments. As we reached the door he said, “You had better slip out quickly in case one of these people throws a brick at you!”

The oscillations of my left eye were due to nystagmus. This and coordination of the eyes have generally improved as my interest in living and my understanding of life have increased; now both conditions are cured, as tested by optometrists. Ironically, I’ve come to need reading glasses for another reason-my age.

Actually, most of my dreams have more or less come true, though not exactly in the form in which I had imagined them. Somehow I knew some things about my future for which, in a way, I was preparing; but dreaming is an indulgence, and doesn’t of itself cause things to happen. One must act.

Krishnamurti said something somewhat different about fantasies much later in Madras, India, in December of 1959. We were seated in a room by ourselves in Vasanta Vihar, Adyar, and we were discussing the difference between change and adjustment.

Krishnamurti said, “Be aware of what change is and what adjustment is. Notice when you are adjusting.”

Noticing requires alertness, and I had found that dreams were a distraction from this, so I said, “One of my difficulties is that I dream.”

“Why shouldn’t you dream?”

“Perhaps I want to think seriously about something, but after a while-”

“You go to sleep. Probably you are not interested. I am interested in what I am doing-discussing, listening, looking at the birds; so I cannot go to sleep. If you feel like sleeping, why not do so?”

“I do. You mean, don’t have a guilt complex about it?”

“Why have a guilt complex about anything? If you fight something, you give it life.”

“Sometimes I go to sleep because of boredom, but other times it’s because I cannot face something completely.”

“It is a form of defence. The shock of seeing something is too much for one.” Experience has shown me that what he said is true.

During the nineteen thirties my friendship with Krishnamurti grew. Besides reading his books and listening to his talks and having private conversations with him, I also had experiences of him in a variety of situations-at a movie, in an underground train, at a restaurant, playing with a baby-but it was not until I moved to California in 1939, that interest and opportunity opened the way for a deeper understanding of his teachings.

CHAPTER II

SELF-KNOWING

During World War II Krishnamurti didn’t travel, so he stayed in Ojai for seven years. After I came to America I used to go and see him every year. In his presence there was a deep awareness of the world’s sorrow: he was most concerned about the war, which he called ‘dreadful’.

“How difficult it is to live nowadays,” he said over and over again in various ways. And again he would say, “What a crazy world we live in.”

I added, “And it won’t be over when the war is finished.”

“It will be worse!” he exclaimed.

He expressed his feelings about the war by registering as a conscientious objector, though later he found out that the draft didn’t apply to him as an alien visitor.

When I brought my family to visit him, he would often play with our two young sons. The children were very active, always in motion, and I noticed that my mind was even more restless; it never seemed to be still. During a conversation in 1942 I mentioned this to him, “My mind is restless, always thinking.”

“It is important,” Krishnamurti said, “to have a calm, clear mind. Find out why the mind is restless-anxiety about the future, regret of the past, day-dreaming, habit as a result of a busy life.”

“When I try to find out why, I am conscious for only a second.”

“Never mind. That awareness will grow.”

During the years since this conversation, the ‘second’ has lasted much longer. I don’t know how long these moments are because they are timeless. They seem to occur because I listen and look inquiringly. Of course, they don’t continue indefinitely, and it’s the mind which calls one back to thinking. Sooner or later it must, if one is to go on living in the physical world.

A year later, in 1943, vacation time again brought us to Ojai. Usually Krishnamurti was willing to talk to me about almost anything, but he always gave much more of himself when discussing the fundamentals of his teachings. He was particularly willing to share his thinking with those who came to see him at that time, because he didn’t give public talks during most of the war. As soon as I had a chance to talk with him I tried to start our conversation on a basic level: “You know my great interest in thinking. I have no definite question, but could we talk about it?”

Krishnamurti paused to collect his words, then he said: “To find out what is true thinking, we have to examine ourselves. It is absorbingly interesting.”

“Do you mean to look at ourselves from outside as someone else would?”

“I have to explain this thing very carefully. It is very revealing to examine the thought the mind has at any moment, and to find out why the mind has that thought. One who is a nationalist cannot think rightly about nationalism. His thinking would be prejudiced-he will be merely justifying himself.”

This seemed to be very clear, but there were other things which were much more difficult to understand. “Why do you choose nationalism? I feel I am free of that. Why not choose something which is more of a problem to me?”

“I am free of nationalism, but I have to think about it just the same so that I can help other people. What I’m saying can be applied to any problem. If we are jealous, vain, possessive, or quick-tempered, then the first thing we have to do is to be aware of that state. Suppose the mind is thinking of shoes. Why is it thinking of shoes? If I need shoes, then it’s all right. If not, then why is it? Perhaps I’m vain, possessive, or I can think of a half a dozen other reasons. If you are dependent on your environment, then you are thoughtless about that environment-your wife, money, or whatever it is.”

“Do you mean by being dependent, that a certain urge or feeling within is immediately associated with somebody or something outside without any question or deep thought?”

“Yes. Have you ever watched your mind, for example in a train? What is it doing?”

“It’s going over the past.”

“Or the future. It’s important to examine every thought and feeling-continual awareness.

“I get up at 5.30 every morning. Then I sit and think for an hour. After that I do some Hatha Yoga exercises, followed by some more thinking. If I didn’t do mental activity like this and the interviews I give, I would go to seed.”

“What time do you go to bed?”

“I go to sleep at about 9.30 or 9.45. I keep very regular hours.”

This is what he did when he was free from travelling and lecturing. I felt he was telling me all this because he thought I should do well to have a similar schedule, so I said, “I would find it difficult to get up so early, as I must get sufficient sleep.”

“I think one must force things a bit. You should give up some of your social life and go to bed early enough.”

The interview was suddenly over. “The chickens are calling and I must go.” Krishnamurti and the others living with him at Ojai were looking after, not only chickens, but also a cow, bees, a vegetable garden, and orchards. He got up and put his arm around me and said, “Goodbye and good luck. I hope I will see you again soon.”

And I hoped so too. It’s interesting that he refers to his ‘thinking’. Maybe he was wary about the use of the word ‘meditation’ at that time, as he wished to avoid being misunderstood. In later years he used the word often, giving his own meaning to it, and in 1969 he wrote:

“Meditation then is not the pursuit of some vision, however sanctified by tradition. Rather it is the endless space where thought cannot enter… in that space is the benediction that man seeks and cannot find. He seeks it within the frontiers of thought, and thought destroys the ecstasy of this benediction.”

In a little less than a year, I was back with him. Our conversation took place in a small, severely plain sitting room, set aside for such purposes and kept separate from the rest of the rambling house overlooking the Ojai Valley. Just how well did I know myself? Was I fully aware all day and every day of what I was thinking and feeling? As a result of this questioning, I had made some interesting discoveries which I wanted to discuss with him, so I began,

“With regard to thinking, may I say what I do?”

Quickly showing interest Krishnamurti said, “Certainly.”

“When I see myself thinking of something, I look at it. I look at the feeling associated with the thought. I let it grow. The effect is to arrest the stream of thought and cause some illumination, but I don’t seem to be able to go any deeper.”

“Instead of stopping the thought process, watch it like a movie. This is to be distinghuished from letting it flow unconsciously; instead, try to do it consciously. This is a very difficult thing to do.”

Yes, it is difficult. The mind cannot do it. Light dawns, and the more it grows, the more one finds oneself watching. Just as the sun shines from its own energy, not ours, the dawning and the growing are done, not by the mind, but by Light itself. Our job is to dissolve the clouds of illusion.

Krishnamurti continued, “Has anyone told you about any of the things I have been saying in my talks?”

“Some of them, but it’s difficult to understand completely through another. May I describe the thing I think I have understood the best?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“The mind is like an iceberg. The visible one-tenth corresponds to the conscious mind and the other nine-tenths corresponds to the unconscious mind.”

Krishnamurti immediately made a correction, “Project the unconscious into the conscious mind.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t understand that part of it. What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t complete. Take nationalism, for example. When all the avenues have been explored with the conscious mind-it gives a sense of security, satisfaction, pride-then let the unconscious project itself into the conscious. There is a huge inheritance which, if we watch it, will filter through into the conscious-I am a ‘Hindu’, and so on-until the whole of the unconscious mind has also been unravelled.”

This gave me something to experiment with, but I wanted to continue reporting some of my past experiments, so I said,

“In order to know myself better I’ve tried writing down my thoughts and feelings. I wrote about the rushing stream, the majestic mountains, the song of the birds, as if writing a letter to someone…”

Krishnamurti responded quickly. “No, not that. What do you think of the birds? What is your reaction?”

Still tense, I was unable to think what he meant. “Please explain more fully.”

“It is important to think rightly in order to release something creative. To think rightly you must know yourself. To know yourself you must be detached, absolutely honest, free from judgement. It means continual awareness of one’s thoughts and feelings during the day without acceptance or rejection, like watching a movie of oneself.

“In order to watch more closely, it’s necessary to slow down the mental process. Close examination will automatically do this, like slowing down the movie. It will help at first to write down one’s thoughts and feelings. You cannot write all of them, but as many as possible.”

“In a shorthand manner, not necessarily intelligible to anyone else?”

“Yes, two words are enough to remind one of a thought.”

“I would be afraid someone might read it. I suppose one could make sure no one could understand it.”

“Yes, or burn it. Also, during an activity, such as washing dishes, you can’t write, but the process of watching is going on. Afterwards you can write down your thoughts.”

I was less nervous and gaining in confidence. I said, “Most of us are aware only some of the time. Are you aware all the time?”

“Not quite that. Now that I’m talking to you, my attention is on you, but the photographic process is continuing. Suppose I say something false, then afterwards I’ll say, ‘By Jove, I said something false to David!’”

I was beginning to understand more quickly now. “Then when you are talking to someone you are not aware?”

“When I am giving a lecture my whole attention is on the audience, but the recording process continues; afterwards I can look at my inward reactions. If I’m talking to someone about something that occupies merely my superficial attention, or if I’m doing something such as washing dishes, then I’m aware of what’s going on inside of me; but I can’t give my whole attention to think about it until I’m alone.”

The quickening of my interest prompted me to ask, “And when we’ve written down our thoughts, what then?”

“At the end of the day you can read what you have written, honestly and impartially. You begin to see yourself; you can examine all the different samples. At first you will be ashamed, but that will pass. You will become interested in trying to see what lies behind these thoughts and feelings.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Once begun and given the right environment, awareness is like a flame.” Krishnamurti’s face lit up with spiritual vitality. “It will grow immeasurably. The difficult thing is to activate the faculty.”

Then and there, a tiny flame of awareness kindled within me and my inner self became visible. Was this a momentary state? Under what circumstances would it flourish? I said, “What do you mean by the right environment?”

“Not being too tired; having enough time to be aware. ‘Work’ on it and give it enough fuel-the fuel is one’s life.”

Krishnamurti paused to see my response. I could tell how keen he was for me to understand, but I wasn’t used to such concentrated, dynamic thinking and we had to stop.

The intensity of the interview stayed with me for several days and I worked at the process of self-knowing; however, it was far from easy. Habits of condemnation, justification, and anxiety acted as distractions from awareness and prevented objective observation. I felt I needed more help.

A week later I invited Krishnamurti to a picnic at a resort where we were staying during our vacation in Ojai. He and I sat on some large white rocks and watched my family swim in the clear blue river.

After lunch I asked Krishnamurti more questions about awareness. “In watching my reactions I usually find craving in some form or other, for instance, envy. I see it. It comes and goes, but I don’t seem to be able to think any deeper than this.”

He looked at me gently for a moment and then said, “You are the result of the past-your body, your feelings, your thinking. Your body is just a copy. Any feeling, for example, envy or anger, is a result of the past. Whatever you do about that envy, such as repression, trying to make it into something, or some other action, is also the result of the past. So you are merely moving within the circle of experience.” He drew a picture in the sand to show this, a circle with marks inside, one for envy, and another for the action taken. “You must ‘work’ on this; think about it, meditate, try to see it in all its aspects-calmly, detached, as looking at a new and unknown animal. You are interested in its shape, its habits, and so on; you don’t know whether it’s poisonous or not so you have no reaction. That’s meditation, trying to free oneself from the past, transcending the past so as to discover the unknown, the timeless; otherwise it’s merely moving within the circle of the past.

“You must meditate on this until you can feel it throughout all your being, not just one layer, all the layers.” Krishnamurti’s entire body expressed what he was saying. “Then there will be a great calmness, infinite peace.

“Write this down as I have said it. Then look at it and watch your reactions to it. Think about it. Try to find out what you think about it. It will come to you later.”

His words had a quietening effect. There was a long silence during which we sat motionless. Anything one did was useless; yet, there was still an inner movement. I wanted companionship of some kind-personal, impersonal, spiritual, or divine-I just didn’t want to be completely alone. I said, “The desire for affection or the fear of losing it lies at the back of many of my thoughts and actions.”

“What is it you desire? It’s not affection.” He waited for my reply.

“You mean it’s not affection in my own heart, but something from outside?”

“Exactly. You are trying to fill a void within. It’s like attempting to fill an empty, leaky bucket which can never be filled.”

“One has to keep putting something in every day.”

“And still it fills only a thin layer; it satisfies only superficially. It never completely or permanently fills the whole vessel. So why do you go on doing this?” Krishnamurti gave an inquiring look, carefully watching my reaction. “You are not really experiencing this. If you really saw this you would be thrilled. You would have a tremendous sense of relief-‘Thank goodness I don’t have to go on doing this!’”

I could feel his sense of relief, but not mine. “Why do I experience it so superficially?”

“Yes, why?” he asked.

I was determined to be honest with my replies. “Because I am dull, not sensitive enough.”

“Yes. So find out why you are dull. Investigate everything: diet, inheritance, your English background, imperialism and so forth; your activities; perhaps you are surrounded by thoughts about yourself, memories, comparisons, escapes, dreams, and so on-examine everything. Really tackle the whole thing. If you just sit back and say, ‘Well, I am dull,’ and do nothing about it, then you are old.” He sat back with a dramatic, nonchalant attitude; then leaning forward and focussing his luminous dark brown eyes on me, he said, “It should be a matter of life and death.”

“Why am I dull now?”

“I think it’s because you are depressed.”

“Yes, that’s true. I know why I’m depressed.” I was feeling discouraged about my job in a factory, a job which took all my energy. To process food was the most constructive occupation available for me during the war.

“You can easily trace out the cause of it, but the depression doesn’t help, does it? So why are you depressed?” He smiled as he waited for me to put the question to myself. “Directly you ask yourself ‘why?’, really look at it, then it’s gone. You are on the mountain top.”

“One clings on to the depression. Why is that?” I felt the depression going but part of me seemed to hold on to it.

“Because it’s better than nothing. You don’t want to be empty. David, why don’t you really tackle this question of the void within? Why do you continually fill it with sensation-comforts, beliefs, comparisons? If you have a leaky, broken bucket, what do you do with it?”

“Throw it away!”

“Yes, sir. You do not go on using it!”

This dialogue had a tremendous impact on me and even now as I write I find the words still very much alive. This was the beginning of a concentrated series of interviews with Krishnamurti. At the end of that period of my life, I had come to a higher realization of what I am, and the purpose of life.

CHAPTER III

SENSITIVITY, AWARENESS AND LIGHT

It’s interesting to note the sequence of my development. I had begun by asking Krishnamurti for his autograph, and then through Theosophy until I came to the questions: What do I really want? Who am I?

I became aware of my sensitivity to people and to environments, and I realized the importance of this. I sensed the ‘atmosphere’ when I entered a room, a church, or a street, and I discovered that the vibrations of certain places and certain people meant a great deal to me-I seemed to need them for my growth. Of course, I found other places and people that I did not need, places and people to be avoided if possible. I became discriminating in my diet. I watched the whole cycle of eating and digesting and the effects of different foods.

I began to learn how to let my feelings flow, watching without suppressing or condemning them. In this way I got to know and understand myself quite well.

I was eager to continue to learn, to continue the progression. What would be the next step? When I went to see Krishnamurti next, in June, 1945, I told him that I had been writing down my thoughts for a year. His response was to question me: “What did you find? What was the result?”

“At times it has been very interesting and it helps concentration. I know better what the mind does-it rearranges the past, plans for the future, which is also rearranging the past, and sometimes has fantasies which I know will never take place. Now I don’t seem to be getting anything more out of the writing.”

“Why don’t you stop writing for a while? Now that you have the concentration, why don’t you just sit and think things over? Find out what lies behind your thoughts, and then what is behind that, and so on.”

Over the years since then I’ve gone a long way with this particular piece of advice, going deeper and deeper into a world far beyond words.

But at the time of this interview, I was still rather vague. “I have some interest, but there’s no flame of awareness.”

“Why don’t you push that interest?”

“I’m not sure I’ve developed the necessary concentration.”

Now I see this as a lack of confidence in myself. Krishnamurti said, “Perhaps you are not setting about it in the right way. Suppose you are envious and watch it, doesn’t it stop?”

“Yes, but if there are other things besides envy, the reaction continues. Can one always interpret reaction?” I was starting to go beyond words.

“No, you cannot always analyze it.”

“I mean sometimes reaction is just there, and all one can do is watch it. Perhaps later, one can see what it was.”

“Yes.”

“You know, I wrote down last year’s interviews with you. I’ve meditated on them-a sentence or a paragraph at a time-watched my reactions, thought about them, and I’ve asked myself questions. I have found this illuminating. Now, I need something fresh.”

Krishnamurti always seemed to be ready with something fresh. He said, “Perhaps you have squeezed all the juice out of it. Why don’t you lie fallow and stop digging for a while? Just as there are four seasons, and in gardening the ground lies fallow during the winter, so I suggest taking a rest from probing. At the same time keep away rubbish, tin cans, and so on.”

“How long do you suggest I do this, a week, a month, or what?”

“You will know for yourself. When I was learning Spanish, I stuck at it hard every day.”

“You mean just before your South American tour?”

“Yes. Then one day I found myself getting stale; so I gave it a week’s rest. After that, I came back to it with a new freshness.”

“That’s true, of course, of learning anything. For example, after studying one goes and plays tennis or something.”

“Yes, every day I go through the seasons. I get up early, meditate, think things over and so on…”

“Dig deep? Find out why?”

“Yes. Then in the evening, I forget all about it, though I am still watching… I am still aware.” Krishnamurti paused. There was silence for a few moments. “Now you are more interested, more awake than when you came in. Your depression has gone.”

“I have seen something new.”

“Yes. I have shown you something which actually you should have seen for yourself. Also, you have been stimulated by my enthusiasm. Even if you have only scratched the surface so far, lie fallow for a while, enjoy the mountains.”

“But not play a lot of tennis and other activities?”

“No, that would be a distraction. We can see each other again soon. Would you like to go for a walk?”

He took me along one of his favourite paths, one of the hundreds of hiking and riding trails that honeycomb Ojai’s rugged mountains and colourful canyons. Soon we were overlooking the valley, a series of glorious views preceding one after another into the distance; then down over a field, and back through orange and lemon groves. It wasn’t until three days later that we continued our conversation.

“Was the public discussion you led yesterday, stripped of the distractions, a typical process of meditation?”

“Yes. At first it’s like a mountain in the distance. Then, as you approach the mountain, it becomes larger and larger until finally it is so enormous you can see nothing but the mountain. This morning I meditated for an hour. It was tremendous fun.”

“To do that, one has to be willing to give up everything that’s not really needed.” What I meant was, that one must think and inquire and meditate in the present, and not be distracted. If one puts something else first-money, success, sex, whatever it is-and leaves the ‘mountain’ to be attended to later on, then it’s the other which one finds and not the ‘mountain’.

“Of course, one may have whatever things are needed for climbing the mountain, but they must remain secondary, and never become ends in themselves.”

“Of course. Out of Saint Christopher and all the rest of it, you are one of the few who has really stuck to it. So pursue the thing and try to make something out of it.”

“When I am with you it seems just around the corner, but when I’m working in a factory it seems so far away.”

“One has to work tremendously hard at the thing.”

I thought a minute, then added, “It’s a question of experimenting to find out in what way to make an effort or not make an effort, continually trying different things.”

“Read, meditate, write, lie fallow and so on.” (By “read” Krishnamurti meant reading the book of the self, the process of self-knowing, of being aware.)

“One thing I have to do is quit my present job. So many hours in a factory put me to sleep.”

“Yes, it dulls the mind.”

“I should like to come and live in Ojai.”

“Byron and Walter are here.” These are two of our old friends: if they could find a way of living in Ojai, why couldn’t I?

What disturbed me was the atmosphere of the factory where I worked, but it did give me the opportunity to watch the effect of awareness in my life. As I disentangled myself from the past, the first thing I shed was college conditioning, then school influences, and finally some of my childhood fears. As I faced things and began to look at myself honestly, I became less nervous; yet, there remained other layers of conditioning, particularly the inherited, unconscious influences of my English and Scottish background.

We moved to Ojai near the end of 1945. We found ourselves in an expanding group of people interested in Krishnamurti’s teachings. We would discover whether it was possible to live a completely free and enlightened life; it seemed very difficult to support a family and at the same time be fully awake spiritually, but I had experienced enough awareness to be eager for a great deal more.

Soon after our arrival I went to see Krishnamurti. I had been working on what lay behind my thoughts.

“When I watch the mind wandering and find out what emotions lie behind the thoughts, I always find caving. There it is, whenever I look, the same thing underneath, perhaps a different colouring, but the same hunger.”

“What else?”

“That’s as far as I can go at present.”

“Isn’t there also something compelling you to search and find out?”

I looked inward. I was quiet for a moment, then I answered, “Yes. That’s what makes one question things. The trouble is I don’t watch enough, only some of the time. It’s as if I were drugged.”

“Find out when you are awake and when you are not, what circumstances.”

“I am more awake inwardly when I’m alone”

“Then be alone more. Why not sit and think for an hour until you are exhausted?”

“Then I become dull again through activity such as nailing on shingles.”

“But you can go on thinking all the time.”

“I tend to be absorbed until something shocks me-perhaps I become impatient with the children. Then I wake up and ask why, but it’s too late!”

“Then the next time you are not angry.”

“Only if I’m awake and watching.”

“Of course.”

There had to be a way. I was groping. I said, “I feel I should get a better view and really look at craving.”

“That is like being in the valley and wanting to look at things from the mountain top. But you are not there; you are in the valley. Be honest with yourself.

“Now, you are discontented, dissatisfied. That means you are seeking satisfaction, doesn’t it? First one thing fails to give the satisfaction for which you had hoped, and so you try another and then another. But it’s the same process of seeking satisfaction, though the intellect may say that you are not seeking satisfaction. Ask yourself, ‘Is there satisfaction?’” Krishnamurti paused while I thought about what he had asked.

I could not think it all through right away, and in my discomfort, I said as much.

“Yes, you must push and push and push. Now, as always, you are becoming more awake. I am acting as a stimulant. Later on, you will be stimulated by your own thinking.”

This is true. Now, I am inspired by my own thinking and meditations. At that time, however, I still depended on him.

During our first year at Ojai Krishnamurti worked intensely-he held discussions with small and large groups, gave talks and interviews, and encouraged people to meet for discussions without him, which we did seriously and enthusiastically.

Meanwhile, I taught folk dancing in Ojai and nearby cities, taught mathematics in schools, and repaired roofs. As I worked, I felt that to give part of myself to earning money, another part to eating, another to discussing, and so on, was fragmentation and incomplete living. I had the feeling from listening to Krishnamurti that it was possible to live fully all the time without division. I wanted to take full advantage of the remaining time he had in Ojai, so I made arrangements for several interviews.

I began, “Do you think it’s a good idea to concentrate on illumination during the next four months, until you go away?”

He looked at me inquiringly. “What do you mean by concentration?”

“Put other activities in second place. Do only those things which don’t stand in the way of concentration.”

“I think one needs to do other things. One cannot concentrate for more than two or three hours spread out during the day. If you tried to concentrate for twenty-four hours, you would have a breakdown. Concentration has its dangers.”

“Of course, I intended to do other things.”

“These other activities act as a testing ground. Meanwhile, awareness is going on in the background, all the time. You will come back to the concentration much fresher.”

Krishnamurti’s point about our inability to concentrate for more than two or three hours spread out during the day is important. I came to realise it was no good trying to do the impossible. I had to find the right balance-meditation, thinking, feeling, physical activities, being alone, being with others. There’s no formula, each person must find his own balance.

The problem of awareness was still uppermost in my mind, so I opened that subject again: “I’m aware sometimes, but most of the time I’m not really conscious of my feelings and thoughts.”

“Do you notice the times when you are more awake?”

“Yes, but I become completely engrossed when teaching or dancing.”

“Isn’t there part of you which remains aloof and watching?”

“Only at moments.”

“Are those moments increasing in duration?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore you are more awake, however imperceptibly. Do you not find fundamental discussions such as this illuminating?”

“Yes, I find them stimulating.”

Sitting very erect and speaking with great clarity and an affectionate manner, Krishnamurti said, “Do you find them just stimulating or are they illuminating? There is a distinct difference between being stimulated and being awake. Being awake is like a flame illuminating everything within.” He waited patiently, yet alertly. “Do you really see this? First see it verbally. Then feel it out-being stimulated and being awake. Now go into it deeply, seeing its full significance.” His whole being spoke to me.

“I see the difference, but other things come into my mind.”

“Never mind about the other things. Really look at this. Really see the difference between illumination and stimulation.”

There was silence. My nerves were calm. I felt the touch of something vital and tremendous. “I’m afraid there’s much resistance inside me.”

“Yes, but see the enormous importance of illumination, even if it’s for only a second.”

During the silence that followed I became aware of an aliveness which seemed to exist quite apart from either of us. But the expansion of consciousness taking place was too much for me-suddenly I was almost asleep. I asked about this.

“You are not used to this concentration.”

“I do see the importance of illumination, but there are other things coming into my mind I had prepared to ask you. I’m always doing that-preparing for the future.” I realised that this happened because I was anxious, and also that it blocked my openness to something new.

“All right, you see the futility of the mind always preparing. After this you will be less inclined to do so much. The thing that matters is to see the importance of light.”

My mind was still burdened with questions which I thought I had better expose even if they were ‘wrong’.

“Is it better to meditate with the eyes open or closed?”

“It depends. But the thing that matters is to see the importance of light.”

I could see the truth of this, but I was afraid I might not always. “What makes one dull again after being aware?”

“Your mind is already greedy for more. It wants to hold onto the light.”

Once more there was silence. I saw that in worrying about how to keep alert my mind was seeking a continuation of the experience and that this action was itself a cause of going to sleep. In this way the interview was a meditation, a process of self-knowing. I experienced an intensification of hearing, seeing, and feeling, and my questions felt like interruptions during a concert or sunset. “So you mean just watch awareness, watch it grow, and never mind about the other things?”

“Yes. Experiment with it for a while. Be interested in light apart from David Young. You are more awake than you think you are.” Krishnamurti leaned forward and looked straight at me. “When you do something such as teaching, gardening, or dancing, you don’t give all your attention to it-perhaps thirty per cent. What happens to the other seventy per cent? If you don’t know, it must be hidden.”

“One notices one’s reactions and other people’s.”

“Yes. In other words this watching is going on all the time.”

“A continuous meditation?”

“Yes. Listen as if listening to the rain.” It was pouring outside. “Suppose we call this phenomenon concentration: hear what it has to tell you, rather than your speaking to it. It will tell you much more than you can tell it. Of course there must be some tension on your part; there must be interplay. For example, you work on your own and then you come to hear what I have to say. If you didn’t work at it, anything I said would be just a waste of time. When you listen, then do so without trying to get something out of it.”

“We want something, and that hinders us from truly listening and watching.”

“Yes. You are reading a book. Read every page. If you read a book on science, it tells you more than you can tell it; doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then whatever it is-greed, craving, anger-see the whole process. For instance, read the book of sensation; read it all-about the villain as well as the hero, and not just about the hero-so you will know all about it. How else can you know the whole story? Find out the whole story of pain and pleasure. Look and see when you are sensuous.”

“You mean sex?”

“Sex is just one small part of it. Take sensuality in its most general sense-eating, sense of power, achieving, taking sides-in fact craving in all its forms. We have to watch very carefully all the time.”

“In other words, look at craving or whatever it is as if it were not part of me?”

“Yes. It’s absorbingly interesting, isn’t it? Suppose we look at a picture; we judge it, criticize and so on, instead of really seeing what it has to say.”

As result of this interview, I came to a much better understanding of how awareness operates. It became more of an actuality to me-to gather information about oneself is merely to accumulate memories, but to observe the movement of action is a living process.

By listening very quietly when alone and unoccupied, not only to outside sounds but also to my inner being, and by watching very carefully any feeling, any scrap of light, however small and apparently insignificant, I discovered a luminous intensity existing quite apart from the busy mind. At the same time I continued to feel as if I were groping in a fog, so as soon as I was alone with Krishnamurti again I plunged into the heart of my problem. “After watching my mind and feelings, I seem to reach a fog or veil.”

He understood instantly and said, “Doesn’t the veil recede a little bit each time?”

“Sometimes.” There were circumstances when it was much harder to be aware. “Doesn’t alertness depend on one’s physical condition? If one is ill one isn’t so awake.”

“Of course it does. If there’s pain naturally one cannot think of anything else.”

“Or no energy…”

“Yes, that’s it; one lacks energy. So one has to watch one’s physical condition, being careful about diet, not getting too tired, and so on.”

“You mean try out the effect of each food?”

“Yes, experiment with foods and watch the body’s reactions to different kinds.”

“If one is tired?”

“Then push the alertness.”

“You mean in spite of one’s condition?”

“Yes, but one can only go just so far and then the body cracks up.”

Going back to my original thoughts I said, “How can I make meditation more intense?”

“What do you do?”

“I watch my feelings and thoughts and listen to every inner movement.”

“So one watches the emotions and the mind with all its wanderings. To do that one has to be very alert, doesn’t one?”

“Is one aware of everything at once, or does one’s attention wander quickly from one thing to another-thoughts, emotions, actions, sounds?”

“This thing is difficult enough as it is. Do not make it any harder. One has to be alert, physically, emotionally, verbally, mentally, everything all the time. It’s like a house with different rooms, different activities going on; yet all are one unit.” Krishnamurti’s face expressed affectionate concern for me. “I think you need time to yourself in the morning, and then again in the evening, perhaps a walk. When I say alone, I mean alone. If you haven’t a room to yourself, go out under a tree somewhere.”

“The difficulty is to use the time properly.”

“Expose all your problems. Spew out everything, jealousy, everything. Play with it. Then you will no longer be nervous or angry; you will be awake, alert, quiet inside.”

As always I was deeply affected and I left feeling I had a lot to work on, for a long time.

CHAPTER IV

STOPPING THE MIND

Soon after the last interview, about fifteen of us at Ojai held a series of weekly discussions with Krishnamurti. We sat in chairs arranged in a circle. We would think together, and everyone took part, though some had a lot to say and others very little. Krishnamurti would listen to all that was said and then share his thoughts.

We were a very interesting group, all friends: Felix Greene, who later became famous for his work on China and Vietnam; Elena Greene, who was to become a teacher at Brockwood Park England; Byron Casselberry, life-long worker for Krishnamurti Writings; Mignon Casselberry, with whom I worked later when she was Registrar at Happy Valley School in Ojai; D. Rajagopal, for forty years editor of Krishnamurti’s writings and organizer of his talks; Rosalind Rajagopal, to become the Director of Happy Valley School, and their daughter, Radha, one of Happy Valley’s first students; Dr. Hugh Keller, who very soon after this cared for Krishnamurti during a long and serious illness; Marjorie Keller, who was to help me create the New Education Foundation; Louis Zalk, President of Happy Valley Foundation; our hosts, James and Annie Vigeveno, long-time workers for Krishnamurti Writings, and their daughter, Gabrielle, another of Happy Valley’s first students; my wife, Betty, and her mother, Ethelyn Kennedy, and myself. Enrique and Isabel Biascoechea, from Puerto Rico, joined us for the later discussions, and Aldous Huxley took part on at least one occasion.

We talked about reading the book of the self, all the pages, the ugly as well as the beautiful, the painful as well as the pleasurable. Reading meant observing, listening, finding out, reading ‘what is’, looking at whatever is there. And if we strive after enlightenment, awareness, light, or liberation, however subtly, then we’re not reading-we’re concerned with the next page, instead of the one in front of us.

We seemed to progress with some topics-for instance, with discipline-but somehow we didn’t change radically. Light came now and then, but there was no fire or explosion. Here’s a summary of a discussion which took place after we had been talking for several weeks.

Krishnamurti: “I think it’s important to examine anew as to what our intentions are, just as if we were meeting for the first time. This discussion group doesn’t seem to be doing what I hoped it would, so that unless our intentions are clear, I do not think there is any point in continuing to discuss.”

M (Member of Group): “Suppose we experiment by being more frank with each other and thereby help each other wake up in that way.”

K: Your intentions may be serious, but perhaps mine are not. Unless our intentions are the same, we do not meet.”

M: “I know what my intentions are, but it may be difficult to verbalize them”

K: “I think we can find out our intentions.”

M: “By watching ourselves during the week, our reactions to events, we can observe our intentions.”

K: “I may want to go through that door, but you may want to go through another; so that we may be wasting our time. Do I want to dissolve the ego or go on expanding it? Is this a burning question that must be answered?”

The ego was looked upon as a kind of fortress full of ‘I’ activity-craving, striving, trying to stop craving, attempting to end sorrow, making an effort to still the mind, crystallizing truth.

M: “I may say what my intentions are, but the only way I can really test it is by my actions.”

As usual Krishnamurti had a way of getting to the heart of things. He said, “In other words, am I truly serious?”

M: “Can’t we easily deceive ourselves and think we are headed north, but actually we are going south?”

K: “Surely we can discover the truth as to which path we are treading, through moment by moment observation.”

M: “If one has been expending the ego all one’s life, what makes one stop doing this and start the other?”

K: “Let us examine that question. I have been going north; I am soaked in the inheritance of centuries, habit and so on; suddenly, I change and start gong south. What is it that causes such an internal revolution?”

M: “Surely we have had experiences that have changed our lives; there has been some revolution.”

K: “I am not talking about the past. Let us start afresh and see if we can experience now at 4:45 p.m., April 6, 1946, an answer to this question.”

M: “Suffering will bring the necessary experience.”

K: “Millions of people are suffering, but that doesn’t make them change. What is the experience that will cause this internal revolution? Or rather, what is the state of mind and heart that will lead to that experience?”

M: “How can I answer that question as long as I’m continuing in the old path of ego expansion and contraction?”

K: “Surely one must stop, even if only for a few seconds.”

M: “Then the question is how can I stop striving?”

K: “I don’t think so. It is not a question of how to stop. The original question, if put seriously, will itself cause the stopping.”

I had found out that whenever I asked myself what makes one stop ego-expanding and start the liberating process, or any fundamental question causing inquiry within, my mind would maybe slow down and stop for a few seconds. By causing me to question myself in this manner, the discussions did have a deep effect on me.

A week later we continued. One member of the group said, “It is a profound shock to realize that only by the grace of God will Truth appear. In other words, there is nothing I can do to bring Truth. At the same time, is there anything I can do, or not do, in preparation so there’s more chance of Truth dawning?”

K: “Have we reached that stage? Does the group realize that everything the ego does is still part of the ego activity? I mean, do we experience that now? If so, what happens?”

Krishnamurti was right-we had not yet reached that stage. Now, I know that when I bring my own world to a standstill, there’s another world waiting for me, one of light, however dim or bright it may be. And I can slow down my world of feelings and thoughts by inquiring, relaxing, observing, listening. The experience of knowing this isn’t a shock, but a relief and a great joy-I do not have to strive after light.

M: “When we see the ego performing, insofar that it is conscious and we see the truth of it, that part stops. It is the unconscious part that remains. We know it’s there by inference, by circumstantial evidence, but we don’t experience it.”

K: “So, the question is how to be aware?”

M: “Yes.”

K: “If I am in the ego fortress and say I need some awareness, isn’t that still wanting something, namely awareness?”

At this point, four members of the group spoke in turn.

M: “What is this awareness we are speaking about? Do we think it is something magic that cures all?”

M: “There are two kinds of awareness: one is superficial and merely recognizes that I am a liar and is therefore not effective; the other sees and knows all the truth about lying and consequently frees one from lying.”

M: “If the ego is all the time ‘going north’, what makes it completely change and stop doing so?”

M: “Surely we have already made up our minds about that and decided to go South.”

K: “If the mind decides to go South, then it is still part of the mind and therefore part of the ego.”

M: “In other words, every movement of the mind is self-centred and therefore ‘phony’. Even the part that observes itself is still part of the mind.”

M: “I think there’s something which observes which is not the ego. There are thoughts and feelings, and then besides that, something which can observe and be aware of these thoughts and feelings. This observer is not part of the ego’s fortress.”

K: “Surely it is. Any part of the self, thoughts, feelings, lower mind, higher mind, higher-self, observer, or whatever you call it, is still of the self. Therefore, it is important to know all about the self. We are back to the original question of how to be more aware.”

M: “Is it the ego that inquires about itself, knows all about its fortress and so brings an end to its striving, in other words commits suicide?”

K: “It’s not a question of committing suicide.”

M: “If I know I’m dreaming, I stop dreaming; or if I know all about smoking and understand all my motives for smoking, the truth will set me free.”

K: “In other words, we are back where we started ten weeks ago, namely the importance of reading the book of the self. It is just as well to start at the beginning of the book again-perhaps we missed some of the pages when we read before.”

M: “I am glad this question has been raised because I haven’t felt anything vital taking place. There is too much activity merely on the ideas level, and we are all too polite, like a tea-party without being sufficiently frank with each other. I have been present at much more alive discussions on other subjects; for example, a group of radio technicians trying to solve a problem. There was silence for fifteen minutes, and then when someone spoke, all attention was given to what was said. There is something dying inside of me. We seem to be afraid of exposing ourselves.”

M: “Perhaps these discussions aren’t alive because nothing serious is happening now while we discuss, but perhaps we might try exposing vital experiences we have had during the week, and bring the awareness of those experiences into the discussions now.”

K: “How can we bring awareness of another time into the present? Surely that’s impossible.”

M: “If anything happened during the week, that would show itself in the discussion. The memory of the experience isn’t important.”

K: “The question is, are we speaking directly from experience or are we merely playing with ideas?”

M: “When we say we don’t wish to continue expanding the ego, that may be a verbal assertion. A tree that grows doesn’t stop growing just because we say it has stopped or make up our mind that it has stopped.”

K: “What is the relation between what we say and what is happening inside of us? Are we or are we not continuing to expand the ego? What’s wrong with expanding the ego?”

At this point I said, “May I answer that question in a way which is neither yes nor no. There is a disturbance going on inside of me which I feel is futile-”

K: “Stop right there. Why do you say it is futile?”

D.Y.: “I have to call it something. I was describing what was happening inside. There’s something uncomfortable, a whirl which one feels shouldn’t be there or should be different.”

I had a feeling which I didn’t completely accept and I wanted to change it. My response now would be, why try to change it? Why not just observe it as it is?

K: “Do you feel it is futile because the teachings say so, or do you do so independently?”

D.Y.: “One of our inhibitions is that instead of exposing ourselves, we are trying to say the right thing or afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

K: “Is that our difficulty?”

D.Y.: “It’s one difficulty, but not the major one.”

K: “There are two rails inside of us. One, the ego expanding, and the other, the teachings of the Buddha, the Christ, the Saints, and so on, which say do not expand. Are we aware of these two rails?”

M: “What do you mean, are we aware? Couldn’t that be something to pursue, ‘I must be aware’, and so on?”

K: “Of course it could be. It’s not that I should be aware, am I aware of these two rails?”

M; “What happens when we are aware? What do we mean by awareness?”

M: “Sometimes I find myself carrying on a conversation inside and when I notice it, it stops.”

K: “All right. When we are aware of something, conversation, jealousy, for one split second at least it stops.”

M: “If I’m day-dreaming, and then suddenly realize that I’m doing so, I stop, but only for a few seconds; then the mind is active again. So, should one then dig further?”

K: “If the mind is still active, if you feel you have to dig further, you haven’t stopped. One is aware, that’s all. Let us watch during the week and notice these moments. When one is aware of something going on, it stops.”

M: “That means for one second at least one is nothing. Can we entertain the idea of being nothing?”

K: “Let us try that now. We said we would experiment. Can we be nothing, if only for two seconds?”

D.Y.: “How can I be nothing when there’s a whirl going on inside of me?”

K: “Isn’t there an opening somewhere into which the notion of nothing can appear? Don’t try to become nothing, just be nothing now…”

There was silence for about a minute during which we all tried-in vain-to be nothing. To be nothing for a few seconds is for the mind to come to a standstill for a few seconds, and we weren’t ready for that yet.

K: “I’m afraid you are all merely making pictures of nothing. But it was an interesting experiment wasn’t it? We found out something, didn’t we?”

M: “We found out how full we are.”

K: “And also that we cannot entertain the idea of being nothing.”

As we all went home, I realized we were stuck with being something because we just couldn’t face being nothing.

Our next discussion was the last time this particular group was all together. Krishnamurti said, “We said at the beginning of these discussions that we would be serious and experiment. I wonder how far we feel we have done things and whether any revolution has taken place.”

M: “There’s a general feeling, I think, that we have not been successful. There has been little change, even seeds sown, but no fire has been lit. Why don’t we work at this self-knowing process harder all day? I feel every evening that I haven’t done a full day’s work at this. Could we take the point where we finished last week and see how far we have experimented with it during the week? We said that when we suddenly notice something taking place inside-an imaginary conversation, jealousy, or whatever it is-that at least for one split second it stops. Personally, I have found that by watching this process, there has been an overall effect, namely, these moments have increased in frequency. It’s like a train journey with many tunnels; suddenly one finds oneself out of a tunnel and then again one is in another tunnel. What is the state of the mind and heart that brings an end to the tunnel, and what causes the beginning of the next tunnel?”

K: “Your question is then, how to keep out of the tunnel?”

M: “Isn’t that a desire and therefore still part of the tunnel?”

M: “Why must we always brush aside the desire for God? Can’t that flame help us get out of the tunnel? Why is ninety-nine per cent of our discussion about the mind and its activities? Can’t we talk more about God?”

K: “We didn’t brush aside the desire for God. That is assumed; but having once said it, there is no point in just repeating it. We saw, didn’t we, that Love, Enlightenment, Stillness, or whatever you call it, is something completely outside the mind, which is incapable of experiencing it. So that in order to find Truth, one has to stop the thought process altogether. How can we find God as long as there is