Krishnamurti & the Art of Awakening
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Thu, 18 Apr 2019 #181
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( Continuing the selected excerpts from K's Journals)

( Sept 1961, Paris and...how true is his description after 50 + years )

To have such a beautiful day in town seems such a waste; there isn't a cloud in the sky, the sun is warm and the pigeons are warming themselves on the roof but the roar of the town goes without pity. The trees feel the autumnal air and their leaves are turning, slowly and languidly, without care. The streets are crowded with ( tourists & young ) people, always looking at shops, very few at the sky ( as ) they are ( constantly) concerned with themselves, and with what impression they give (although ) envy and fear is always there in spite of their ( intellectual ?) make-up and their polished appearance. The labourers ( & the 'yellow vests' ?) are looking tired, heavy and grumbling. And the ( Seine) river held in by cement and stone seems so utterly indifferent. The ( local ?) pigeons are plentiful, with a strutting dignity of their own. And so... another day passed by on the street, or in the office. It's a world of monotony and despair, with laughter that soon passes away. In the evening the monuments, the streets, are lit up but there's a vast ( existential ?) emptiness and unbearable pain.

Early in the morning, when the sun was just showing itself in a clear sky, there was a flash of 'Otherness', with its benediction and the beauty of it remains. It's not that thought has captured it and holds it but it has left its imprint on consciousness.
Thought will always fail in its attempt to experience
that which is beyond time and space. The brain, the machinery of
thought can be quiet; the very active brain can be quiet; its
machinery can run very slowly. The quietness of the brain, though
intensely sensitive, is essential; then only can thought disentangle
itself and come to an end,
Then only can there be innocency, freshness; a new quality (of holistic ?) thinking -and it's this quality that puts an end to sorrow and ( existential ?) despair.

It is peaceful except for the roar of traffic, even though it is Sunday. There's peace beyond thought and feeling. ( This inner ?) Peace is not for sale, a commodity of exchange. Conflict, in every form, must cease and then perhaps it is there. There must be a total negation, the cessation of demand and need; then only does conflict come to an end. In emptiness there is birth. All the inward structure of resistance and security must (spontaneously ?) "die away"; then only is there ( the meditative ?) emptiness. Only in this emptiness is there ( an inner ?) peace whose virtue has no value nor profit.

It (the Otherness ?) was there early in the morning, it came with the sun in a clear, opaque sky; it was a marvellous thing full of beauty, a benediction that asked nothing (from you ?) , no sacrifice, no (self-) discipline, no midnight hour. It was there in abundance and only an abundant mind and heart could receive it. It was beyond all measure. It was a good hour to be quiet, to be meditative. To be (inwardly)
quiet, there must be intensity and meditation, then it is not a
meandering but very active and forceful. Meditation is not a
pursuit of ( a thread of) thought or idea; it is a movement into the unknown.

Intelligence is the sensitive awareness of the totality of life; life with its problems, contradictions, miseries, joys. This (timeless ?) intelligence is not the result of influence and environment; it is not the prisoner of either of them and so can understand them and thus be free of them. ( The self-centred ?) consciousness is limited, open or hidden, and its activity, however alert, is confined within the borders of time;(while) intelligence is not. Sensitive awareness, without choice, of the totality of life is intelligence. This intelligence cannot be used for gain and profit, personal or collective. This intelligence is the psychological destruction of all that has been, that is the essence of intelligence. Without this intelligence every action leads to misery and confusion. Sorrow is the denial of this intelligence.

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Fri, 19 Apr 2019 #182
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( ...) Every ( time-binding thread of ?) 'thought' and/or 'feeling' must ( be allowed to) flower for them to live and die; flowering of everything in you, the ambition, the greed, the hate, the joy, the passion; in the flowering there is their death and freedom. It is only in ( the space of inward) freedom that anything can flourish. To allow envy to flower is not easy; it is condemned or cherished but never given freedom (to reveal itself ?) .

It is only in freedom the fact of envy reveals its ( true) colours, its depth & peculiarities; if suppressed it will not reveal itself fully and freely. When it has shown itself completely, there is an ending of it only to reveal another (still deeper) fact, emptiness, loneliness, fear, and as each fact is allowed to flower, in freedom, in its entirety, the ( moral ?) conflict between the observer and the observed ceases; there is no longer the ( self-righteous ?) 'censor' but only seeing.
Freedom can only be in completion (and) there is completion only in ( allowing thought to ?) flower and die; there is no flowering if there is no ending.
What has continuity is ( the self-projection of ) thought in time. The flowering of thought is the ending of thought; for only in death is there the new. The new cannot be if there is no freedom from the known. Thought, the old, cannot bring into being the new; it must 'die' for the new to be. What(is allowed to) flower must (eventually ?) come to an end.

(...) The earth was the colour of the sky; the hills, the green, ripening rice fields, the trees and the dry, sandy riverbed were the colour of the sky; every rock on the hills, the big boulders, were the clouds and they were the rocks. Heaven was the earth and the earth heaven; the setting sun had transformed everything. The sky
was blazing fire, bursting in every streak of cloud, in every stone, in every blade of grass, in every grain of sand. The sky was ablaze with green, purple, violet, indigo, with the fury of flame. Over that hill it was a vast sweep of purple and gold; over the southern hills a
burning delicate green and fading blues; to the east there was a 'counter sunset' as splendid in cardinal red and burnt ochre, magenta and fading violet. The 'counter sunset' was exploding in splendour as in the west; a few clouds had gathered themselves around the setting sun and they were pure, smokeless fire which would never die. The vastness of this fire and its intensity penetrated everything
and entered the earth. The earth was the heavens and the heavens the earth. Everything was alive and bursting with colour and colour was God ( not the 'god' of man). The hills became transparent, every rock and boulder was without weight, floating in colour and the distant hills were blue, the blue of all the seas and the sky of every clime. The ripening rice fields were intense pink and green, a
stretch of immediate attention. And the road that crossed the valley was purple and white, so alive that it was one of the rays that raced across the sky. You were ( part ) of that light, burning, furious, exploding, without shadow, without root and word. And as the sun went further down, every colour became more intense and 'you' were completely lost, past all recalling. It was an evening that had no memory.

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 20 Apr 2019.

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Sat, 20 Apr 2019 #183
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) They were small clouds, mere brush strokes with wings,
hundreds of them, filling the western sky. And as you watched them 'you' were lost; they existed and nothing else; not even space and time. There was no thought, no feeling and so no experiencing. The
essence of immaturity is ( the desire for) experiencing. Every form of ( 'psychological' ?) experience is in the net of the past and in the bondage of time.

Seeing is a marvellous thing; you 'see' only when
there is ( inward) emptiness; from emptiness, seeing dissolves space and time is consumed. The horizon, the dancing waters, the ever
flying clouds and the abiding earth were in timeless movement
and the glory of heaven was in that rock, on which a seagull
was sitting.

Now the flying clouds were fading and the moon was casting
transparent shadows. It was a dusty, crowded road, people everywhere; only the poor, it seemed, walked or waited in a long queue for the buses. You walked seeing, observing, listening without a thought and feeling and so you saw everything, leaving no mark, no scratch.

(...) The moon was full and from the long, enclosed
balcony, she was just over the large tree, serene, clear and very
close. There were a thousand shadows, soft and breathless; the
city was silent so early in the morning. A large rat was quietly
crossing the window-sill, pretending that it wasn’t seen. Not a
bird was stirring and the dusty leaves were motionless but the
shadows were whispering. Meditation is a movement in which everything is (contained) for it is nothing (no-thing ?) ; it has no centre and so no beginning and no ending. 'You' cannot enter into that movement; the ( temporal) 'you' must be left in your office, or in your church and temple. You may not enter into that movement with ( your personal) experience and knowledge. There must be no 'you'.

The moon was now behind a house across the way and the shadows were thickening to disappear with the coming dawn. Then the birds began, a chorus of all the birds, shouting, singing, chattering. You listened but you were not there . Strangely you were aware of
everything but 'you'( the self-consciousness ?) were nowhere, you were not (just) 'lost', you had ceased to be, and it was going to
be extremely difficult to 'find yourself' again; you wouldn’t even seek it because it wasn’t worth it. You lived but it wasn’t 'you'
who lived. Living is entirely a different thing, a movement
without measure, an ecstasy that no thought or feeling could
ever capture.
A mother came out, carrying a freshly bathed,
combed little girl in her arms and by her side walked an older
girl. This little girl was talking to the braided girl, carried
around the hips of the mother; she talked in a soft voice, with
such pleasure and boundless affection; you felt it, moving you
to tears for it was an affection that had in it the earth, the
heavens and tears. Those three were all life and the immensity of it. They just went by, in the dirty alley and time ceased.

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Sun, 21 Apr 2019 #184
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(1961)

( ...) All ( temporal ?) existence is ( involving thought & desire's ?) choice; only in aloneness (all-oneness ?) there is no choice.
Contradiction is inevitable in choice; this contradiction,between the inner (desires ) and outer (reality ?) breeds confusion and
misery. To escape from this misery the commitment to various patterns of activities becomes a compulsive necessity. Having ( successfully) escaped, those (activities) become all important and escape is the way of illusion; then fear and anxiety set in.
Choice must always exist as long as there is the 'chooser', the
accumulated memory of pain and pleasure, and every experience of choice only strengthens this ( identitary) memory whose response becomes (self-centred) "thought & feeling".

There were a few clouds gathering around the sun; they were far
down on the horizon and were afire. The palm trees were dark
against the flaming sky; they stood in golden-green rice fields
stretching far into the horizon. There was one all by itself, in a
yellowing green of rice; it was not alone, though it looked rather
forlorn and far away. A gentle breeze from the sea was blowing
and a few clouds were chasing each other, faster than the breeze.

Everywhere there were shadows, quietly whispering to each other.
The moon was just overhead and across the road the shadows deep
and deceptive. A water snake was crossing the road; quietly
slithering across, pursuing a frog; there was water in the rice fields and the frogs were croaking, almost rhythmically; in the long stretch of water beside the road, with their heads up, out of the water, they were chasing each other; they would 'go under' and come up to disappear again. The water was bright silver, sparkling and warm to the touch and full of mysterious noises. Bullock carts went by, carrying firewood to the town; a cycle bell rang, a lorry with bright glaring lights screeched for room and the shadows remained
motionless.

It was a beautiful evening and there on that road so
close to town, there was a deep Silence and not a sound disturbed it, not even the moon and the lorry. It was a silence that no thought, no word could touch, a silence that went with the frogs and the cycles, a silence that followed you; you walked in it, you breathed
it, you saw it.
It went beyond you into vast immensities and you could follow it if your thoughts & feelings were utterly quiet, forgetting themselves and losing themselves with the frogs in the water; they had no (self-) importance and could so easily lose themselves, to be picked up when they were wanted. It was an enchanting evening, full of clarity and fast-fading smile.

( The psychologically motivated ?) 'choice' is always breeding misery. Watch it and you will see it, lurking, demanding, insisting and begging, and before you know i, you are caught in its net of inescapable duties, responsibilities ( desillusions & ) and despairs. Watch it and you will become aware of the 'fact' (of its actuality ?) Be aware of the (ongoing inner ?) fact; you cannot change the fact; you may cover it up, run away from it, but you cannot change it. It is there.

If you will let it alone, not interfering with it with your calculated and cunning judgements, it will flower and show all its intricacies, its subtle ways and there are many - its seeming importance and ethics, its hidden motives and fancies. If you will leave the ( unfolding of the inner) 'fact' alone, it will show you all these and more. But you must be choicelessly aware of it, walking softly. Then you will see that ( desire's ?) 'choice', having flowered, dies and there is freedom

'You' are the maker of choice; but when you have ceased (inwardly) to make "choices", out of this 'choiceless' (desire-free ?) state there flowers aloneness (all-oneness ?) . It is always flowering and it is always new. Dying to the 'known' is to be alone. All ( thought & desire's ?) choices are within the field of the known; ( the self-enclosing ?) action in this field always breeds sorrow. There is the ending of sorrow in aloneness (all-oneness).

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Wed, 24 Apr 2019 #185
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( From the K Notebook, 1961)

(...) Woke up this morning with a flash of (inward) seeing that was revealing : Our brain register (countless?) memories of outward things, trees, mountains, swift running streams; accumulate knowledge, technique and so on. With the same (accumulative attitude of the ) brain, trained to observe ( and transform the outward reality ? ) we try to look inwardly, trying to recognize (mental) objects or build up ideas which are organized into reason. This (outward look turned inwardly) does not (really) go very far, for it's still within the (limitations of its own (knowledge assisted?) observation and reason. This (self-centred?) inward gaze is still ( on the same qualitative level as ) the outward ( self-centred) look - not much difference between the two. What may appear (in the dualistic perceptive mode ) to be different may be ( holistically-wise?) similar.

However, ( in meditation?) there's an inward observation which is not the outward observation turned inward. The brain and the eye which observe must be completely ( awake & ) alive, but still; they must cease to choose ( to make personal choices ?) and judge ( that which is being observed inwardly ) but be passively aware. Then the inward seeing (aka : 'insight'?) is without the borders ( without the perceptive limitations?) of 'time & space'. In this flash a new perception is born.

(…) All night ( the Process?) was fairly quiet, though the pressure and strain were there, like the sun behind the clouds; but early this morning it began again. It appears that one is awakened merely to register a certain ( transcendental  ?) experience; this morning . One was awakened this morning with a living feeling of joy; it was
taking place as one woke up; this ecstasy was coming from "outside" (oneself?) - not 'self-induced'; it was being 'pushed through the system', flowing through the (physical) organism, with great energy and volume. The ( physical) brain was not taking part in it but only registering it as an actual (ongoing) fact which was taking place. There was, it seemed, immense strength and vitality behind this ecstasy; it was as solid and realas that stream crashing down the mountain-side or that solitary pine on the green mountain slope.

Early this morning there was a benediction that seemed to cover
the earth and fill the room. With it comes an all consuming
quietness, a stillness that seems to have within it all movement.
The "process" was particularly intense yesterday afternoon.
The room became full with that benediction. Now what
followed is almost impossible to put down in words - it was the centre of all creation; a purifying seriousness that cleansed the brain of
every thought and feeling; its seriousness was as lightning which
destroys and burns up; the profundity of it was not measurable, it
was there immovable, impenetrable, a solidity that was as light as
the heavens.
It was in the eyes and the eyes could see. The (mind's ?) eyes that saw, were wholly different from the physical eyes and yet they were the same eyes. There was only "seeing", the eyes that saw beyond time-space.

There was an impenetrable dignity and an (inner) peace that was the essence of all movement, action. There was ( that quality of ?) Love that was utterly perishable and so it had the delicacy of all new things, vulnerable, destructible and yet it was beyond all this. It was there imperishable, unnameable, the Unknowing. It was "pure", untouched and so ever dyingly beautiful.
All this seemed to affect the brain - as a terrific storm, or a destructive earthquake gives a new course to the rivers, changes
the landscape, digs deep into the earth, so It has levelled the
contours of thought, changed the shape of the heart.

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Fri, 26 Apr 2019 #186
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

Here are a few selected excerpts from Sidney Fields memoirs of his long frienship with K

( ...) My brother, John, died early in January, 1972. His death was totally unexpected and a great shock to me. John had been a photographer, a lover of adventure, women and wine, a man of great Latin charm. He had known Krishnaji as long as I had, and had many times delighted him with his stories and personal adventures. Krishnaji had just arrived from Europe and was staying in Malibu at the home of Mrs. Zimbalist. I called him to give him the sad news, saying I wanted to see him, and he asked me to come the following day for lunch.

He greeted me most affectionately. At the dining table I came right to the point: “Has John survived his bodily death in a subtler form? Yes or no?” There was a moment’s silence. “My gut feeling,” I went on, “is that he is here beside me, right now.”
“Of course he is, right here beside you,” said Krishnaji. “He’s very close to you, and will continue being close for some time.”

Two hours later we were still deep into the subject of 'death and the hereafter'. He referred to that part of the 'personality' that survives the bodily death as an 'echo' ( instead of an 'astral body', as the Theosophists call it), the 'echo of the person' who lived on earth, the duration of its life on the other side depending on the strength of the individual’s earthly personality. “Dr. Besant’s echo, for instance, will go on for a long time, for she had a very strong personality.”

“Your viewpoint here is very similar to that of the Theosophists,” I said. “With one important difference,” he replied. “There is no permanent substance that survives the death of the body. Whether the ego lasts one year, ten thousand, or a million years, it must finally come to an end.”

Krishnaji’s remarks during this conversation were among the most revealing and enlightening I had ever heard him make on the subject of death and survival beyond it. At the end of our talk Mrs. Zimbalist remarked that it was a great pity we had not recorded it, for, prodded by insistent questioning and probing on my part, and aided by a sympathetic Mrs. Zimbalist, Krishnaji had explored what to us was a new dimension on this fascinating subject.

Krishnaji has an extraordinary capacity for recall, when he wants to use that gift, and a few days later, he, Alain Naude and Mrs. Zimbalist recreated the entire conversation, this time recording it, with Naude asking Krishnaji essentially the same questions I had asked. It was staged in a much quieter atmosphere, naturally, but Naude’s questions were cool and intellectual. They did not have the urgency and strong feeling of my approach, for I was hurting at the time. Nevertheless, I was fascinated when I heard the recording. It has not been published yet, but those few who heard it have remarked on its great impact. Krishnaji gave me permission to publish it in connection with this memoir (...)

And here is its 'reader friendly' edited version:

The ('day after'?) K CONVERSATION ( following Sidney Fields' personal interview after the death of his brother John Field (1972)

KRISHNAMURTI: The other day Sidney Field came to see me. His brother John died recently and he was very concerned whether his brother was living in a different level (plane ?) of consciousness; whether there was John as an entity born [in the] next life. And did I believe in reincarnation, and what did it mean. And so he had lots of questions and out of that conversation two things came up. First, 'Is there a permanent ego'? Obviously not. But Sidney said, “Then what is it that I feel, that John is with me? When I enter the room, I know he is there. I’m not fooling myself, I’m not imagining; I feel him there as I feel my sister who was in that room yesterday. It’s as clear, as definite as that.”
I said ''Of course he is there, because when John lived he was associated with you. His presence is with you. When he was living, you might not have seen him all day, but his presence was in that room.

MARY ZIMBALIST: When you say "he was in that room", whether alive or dead, was there something external to his brother that was there, or was it in their consciousness?

K: It is both in his ( personal) consciousness and outside his consciousness. John, who died ten days ago—his atmosphere, his thoughts, his way of behaving still remaining there, even though physically he might have gone.

MZ: Are you saying there is a sort of (psychic) energy which human beings give off?

K: There was a photograph of a parking lot taken where there had been many cars, and the photo showed, although there were no cars there, the form of the cars that had been there. That is, the heat that the car had left came on the ( infrared?) negative.

A: And also one day when we were all living in Gstaad and you left for America your 'presence' was there, extremely strong.

K: That’s it.

A: Your presence was so strong, one felt one could touch you.

K: So ( to make a long story short?) John’s thought or John’s ( mental?) 'existence' is still there.

Z: What do you mean by that, John’s 'existence'?

K:If I live in a room for a number of years, the 'presence' ( the psychical atmosphere?) of that room contained my energy, my thoughts, my feelings. And because John clings to life. John’s desires are there 'in the air' (in the ether?) , not ( just) in the room.

A: Immaterially ?

K: Yes, they are there just like a thought (wave?) .

A: But doesn't this mean that there is a ( spiritual?) being who is self-conscious ( still) calling himself John, who is thinking those thoughts?

K: I doubt it.

A: But this is exactly what the people who believe in reincarnation would postulate.

K: The possibility that John whose physical body is gone, exists in thought.

A: Exists as a thinking entity?

K: As a thinking entity. This is rather interesting—John continues because he 'is' ( impersonating?) the world of vulgarity, of greed, of envy, of drinking, and of competition. That is the common pattern of man. It continues and John may be identified with that, or 'is' that.

A: John is ( incarnating?) the desires, the thoughts, the beliefs, the associations... ?

K: ... of the world.

A: It would be nice if you could explain it a little better. John 'continues' because there is the continuation of the (collective?) 'vulgarity ' in him—the worldly, material associations ?

K: That’s right: fear, wanting power, position. So because that is a common thing of the ( temporal consciousness of the?) world, he 'is' of the world and the world does incarnate.

A: The ( collective consciousness of the ) world does incarnate ?

K: Take the mass of the people. They are ( subiminally?) caught in this stream and that stream goes on. I may have a son who is part of that stream and in that stream there is John also, as a human being who is caught in it. And my son may remember some of John’s attitudes.

A: So, in that sense we see that he can perhaps live forever.

K: Unless he breaks away from it—breaks away from the stream. Unless I am free from it, I will continue representing ( manifesting ?) the whole vulgarity of man.

A: That’s not very clear.

K: Look, sir, the 'me', who is (the manifestation) that current, is bound to continue in that stream, which is the stream of 'me'.

A: Therefore even dead I continue because the 'things' (the collective tendencies?) which were 'me' are continuing  ?

K: In the 'human being'.

A: But is there a conscious 'thinking entity' who immaterially says, “Good gracious, they’ve put that body in the ground but I have consciousness of being alive.” ?

K: Sidney was asking that question. Does John, whose body is cremated, does that ( mental) 'entity' continue to live?

A: Does that entity continue to have the consciousness of its own existence?

K: When you ask whether he is living in a separate consciousness, I question whether he was ever separate from the Stream (of self-interest ?) When John was alive, was he different from this Stream?
The ( Consciousness?) Stream of humanity is ( greed?) jealousy, seeking power, position, cheating, corrupt, polluted. That is the Stream. Of that stream is my brother John. When he existed physically, he had a ( personal) physical body, but psychologically he was of this. Therefore was he ever different (inwardly?) from the Stream?
Therefore what is dead is the (physical) body. But the ( mental ?) continuation of John is part of that Stream. I may like to think of him as a separate ( entity?) because he lived with me as a separate being physically. But my point is, as long as I swim in that stream, am I different? Is the real John different from the ( collective ) Stream (of self-interest ) ?

A: Now, does that ( self-identified?) thought still call itself John?

K : There is only a (spiritually individualised?) 'John' when he is out of the stream.
I can 'incarnate' (spiritually?) if I step out of it. 'Incarnate' in the sense that the ( authentic inward ) change can take place away from the stream. In the stream there is no ( possibility for such?) change.

A: Therefore, if there is an ( timeless ) entity, then it must be out of the stream.

K: When Alain Naudé dies, as long as he belongs to the stream, that ( collective) stream (of self-interest?) and its flow is 'semipermanent'.

A: Yes. It goes on. It’s a ( history in the making?)

K: But if Mr Naudé would say, I will incarnate (spiritually?) now, not tomorrow, which means he will 'step out' of the Stream, he is no longer belonging to the stream; therefore there is nothing permanent.

A: There is nothing to reincarnate. Therefore, that which reincarnates, if reincarnation is possible, is not permanent anyway.

.
K: There is no separate entity. I 'am' the world. When I step out of the ( time-bound consciousness of the ) world, is there a 'me' to continue? So, sir, then what happens? If there is no permanent John or K or Naude or Zimbalist, what happens? You remember, sir, I think I read it in the Tibetan tradition or some other tradition, that when a person dies, is dying, the priest or the monk comes in and sends all the family away, locks the door and says to the dying man, “Look you’re dying—let go—let all of your antagonisms, all your
worldliness, all your ambition, let go, because you are going to meet a light in which you will be absorbed, if you let go. If not, you’ll come back to the stream. So what happens to you if you step out of the stream? The 'stepping out' is the ( spiritual) incarnation. There is a new dimension ( of consciousness) coming into being.
A: Yes.
K: Now, what happens? You follow? Naude has stepped out of the stream. What happens? You are not an artist. Not a businessman. You are not a politician, not a musician, all that identification is part of the stream. Suppose that you, living now, step out of the stream. What happens?

A: Nothing can be said about 'what happens'.

K: You see, sir, none of us step out of the river, and we are always from the river, trying to reach the other shore.

A: It’s like people talking about 'deep sleep' from awakeness.

K: That’s it, sir. We belong to this stream, all of us. Man does belong to the stream and from the stream he wants to experience what is on the (Other?) shore, without leaving the river. Now the (spiritually earnest?) man says, all right, I see the fallacy of this, the absurdity of my position. So the mind says, “Out!” He steps out and what takes place (inwardly ) ? Don’t (try to glibly?) verbalize it.

A: The only thing that one can say about it in terms of the stream is 'silence'. Because it is the silence of the stream, and one can also say it is the death of the stream. Therefore, in terms of the stream it is sometimes called 'oblivion'.

K: To 'step out' of the stream is to step out of this whole (self-centred mentality ) structure. So, the Creation as we know it, is in the stream, but what happens (inwardly) to the man who really steps out of the stream ? When he steps out of it, there is no ( inner or outer) conflict, there is no ( inward sense of ) division. So what is the quality of that mind that has no sense of division? It is pure ( spiritual?) energy, isn’t it? So our concern is ( with understanding) this stream and stepping out of it.

A: That is real meditation, because the stream is not life. The stream is totally mechanical.

K: I must 'die' to the stream, and as I move away from the stream my mind is open. I think that is ( the intelligence of?) Compassion. When the man of the stream steps out and looks, then he has compassion.

A: And love ?

K: So, you see, sir, ( the actual opportunity of the 'self'?) incarnating over and over again, is within the Stream. If I come to you and tell you that my (beloved?) brother died yesterday, and you tell me this. I call you a terribly cruel man. But you are weeping for yourself, you are weeping for the (temporal manifestation of the ) Stream. That’s what ( most) people don’t want to know. I want to know 'where' my brother is ( going after his physical death?) , not whether he 'is' (now a spiritually integrated entity ?) .

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 27 Apr 2019.

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Sun, 28 Apr 2019 #187
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( Continuing the selected excerpts from K's Notebook ( 1961)

( ...) The road was muddy, deep rutted and full of people; it was outside the town, where slowly a new suburb was being built, but now it was incredibly dirty, full of holes, dogs, goats, wandering cattle, buses, cycles, cars and more people; shops were selling coloured drinks in bottles, shops that had cloth to sell, food, wood for fire, a bank, a cycle-repair shop, and more goats and people. There was still (open) country on either side of the road, palm trees, rice fields, and great puddles of water. The sun was behind the palm trees bursting with colour and
vast shadows and every bush and tree was amazed by the vastness of the sky. Everywhere there was man's activity and nobody bothered to
look at the sky or at those clouds, bearing colour; it was a (magic?) evening that would soon disappear never to appear again and nobody
seemed to care.

The immediate ( needs ) were all important, the immediate that may extend into the future beyond sight. At heart everyone is a 'politician', concerned with the immediate and trying to force all life into the immediate. Round the corner there would be sorrow, but you could end it all if you believed in something ardently or drowned yourself in work or committed yourself to some pattern of thought. But you have tried them all and your mind was as barren as your heart and you crossed to the other side of the road and got lost in the 'immediate'. But, as ever unexpectedly, that 'otherness' came with that purity and strength which no thought could possibly ever formulate and your heart seemed to explode into the empty heavens, with ecstasy. The brain was utterly still, motionless, but sensitive, watching. It could not follow (that otherness?) into emptiness, nor it could 'experience' it , as what it recognized would be ( the memory of ? ) time. So it was motionless, merely quiescent, without asking, seeking. And this 'Totality of Love' entered into everything and was lost. Everything had its own space, its own place, but this (Otherness?) had none and so, do what you will you will not find it. It is not (to be found) on the market nor in any temple; everything has to be 'inwardly) destroyed , not a stone left unturned, no foundation to stand on, and the (state of inner) 'emptiness' must be without a tear, and then perhaps, the Unknowable might pass by. It was there and beauty.

All deliberate (self-projected) pattern of (inner) change is non-change; such 'change' has a (personal) motive, purpose, direction and so it is merely a modified continuity of what has been. Such change is like changing clothes on a doll but it remains, mechanical, lifeless,
brittle, to be broken and thrown away. Death is the inevitable end
of such change. (A holistic inner ) mutation, the total revolution, takes place only when the change within the pattern of (thought & ) time, is seen as 'false' and in its total abandonment (the authentic inner ?) mutation takes place.

Walking on that road in the dark with the light of the city in the clouds, that inviolable Strength comes with such abundance and
with such clarity that it took literally your breath away. All life was
that strength. It wasn't the strength of carefully built-up will, nor
the strength of many defences and resistances; it had
no quality, no description could contain it and yet it was there as
those dark distant hills and those trees beside the road. It was too
immense for thought to bring it about or speculate upon. It was a
strength that had no cause and so nothing could be added to or
taken away from it. It cannot be 'known'; it has no shape, form, and
cannot be approached. Knowing is recognition but (this Inner Strength?) is always new, something that cannot be measured in time. It had been there all day, uncertainly, without insistence like a whisper but now it was there with an urgency and with such abundance that there was
nothing but that. The word 'Love' had a totally different
meaning, walking on that empty road. It came with that
impenetrable strength; the two were inseparable, like the colour of
a petal. The brain, the heart and the mind were totally consumed by
it and there was nothing left but that. It continued, walking alone or walking with others, and it went on during the night until the morning came among the palm trees. But it is there like a whisper among the leaves.

Only in the flowering of thought and so, in the ending thought does Meditation have significance; thought can only flower in (an inner space of) freedom, not in everwidening patterns of knowledge. Knowledge may give newer experiences of greater sensation but a mind that is seeking experiences of any kind is
immature. Maturity is the freedom from all (personal desire for) experience; it is no longer under any influence to be or not to be. Maturity in meditation is the freeing of the mind from (its psychological) knowledge for it shapes and controls all experience. A mind which is a light to itself needs no experience. Immaturity is the craving for greater and widerexperience. Meditation is the wandering through the world of knowledge and being free of it, to enter into the Unknown.

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Mon, 29 Apr 2019 #188
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) The flowering of meditation is (generating its own ?) goodness. It is the beauty of meditation that gives perfume to its flowering. How can there be (any creative ?) joy in meditation if it is the coaxing of desire and pain; how can it flower if you are seeking it through (thought) control, suppression and sacrifice; how can it blossom in the darkness of fear or in the corrupting ambition
and smell of success; how can it bloom in the shadow of hope and despair? You will have to leave all these far behind, without regret, easily, naturally. Meditation flowers only in the freedom from the known and withers away in the known.

There is a palm tree, all by itself, in the middle of a rice
field; it is no longer young, there are only a few palms. It is very
tall and very straight; it has the quality of righteousness without the
fuss and noise of respectability. It is there and it is alone. It has
never known anything else and it would continue to be that way
until it died or is destroyed. You suddenly came upon it at the turn
of the road and you are startled to see it among the rich rice fields
and flowing water; the water and the green fields were murmuring
to each other which they always have been doing from ancient
days and these gentle mutterings never reached the palm; it was
alone with the high heaven and flashing clouds. It was by itself,
complete and aloof and it would be nothing else.

In that evening light, along that narrow road, the intensity of
delight increased and there was no cause for it. It had begun while
watching a small jumping spider which jumped with astonishing
rapidity on flies and held them fiercely; it had begun while
watching a single leaf fluttering while the other leaves were still; it
had begun while watching the small striped squirrel, scolding
something or other, its long tail bobbing up and down. The delight
had no cause, and joy that is a result is so trivial anyway and
changes with the change. This strange, unexpected delight
increased in its intensity and what is intense is never brutal; it has
the quality of yielding but still it remains intense. It increased without something being done about it; it was, as something outside of you, over which you had no control; you had no say in the matter. In the very increasing of intensity, there
was gentleness. You couldn't cultivate it, even if you wished; it didn't belong to the category of the strong and the
weak. It was vulnerable as love is. The delight with its gentleness
increased in intensity. There was nothing else but that. The coming
and the going of people, the drive in the car and the talk, the deer
and the palm tree, the stars and the rice fields were there, in their
beauty and freshness, but they were all inside and outside this
intensity. A flame has a form, a line, but inside the flame there is
only intense heat without form and line.

The garden had so many flowers, so many colours and each flower
was doing a dance, a skip and a jump and every leaf was astir; even
the little blades of grass on the little lawn were being shaken. And
two old, thin women were weeding it; two old women, old before
their age, thin and worn out; they were squatting upon the lawn,
chatting and weeding, leisurely; they weren't all there, they were
somewhere else, carried away by their thoughts, though they were
weeding and talking. They looked intelligent, their eyes sparkling,
but perhaps too many children and lack of good food had made
them old and weary. You became them, they were you and the
grass and the clouds; it wasn't a verbal bridge over which you
crossed out of pity or out of some vague, unfamiliar sentiment; you
were not thinking at all, nor were your emotions stirred. They were
you and you were they; distance and time had ceased.

It was like a flame that burned its way through everything leaving no mark, no ashes; it wasn't anexperience, with its memories, to be repeated. They were you and you were they and it died with the mind.

It is strange, the desire to show off or to be somebody. You can always pretend, put on a mask, but to be what you are is an extremely complex affair; because you are always changing; you are never the same and each moment reveals a new facet, a new depth, a new surface. You can't be all this at one moment for each moment brings its own change. So if you are at all intelligent, you give up being anything.

You may like to think you are very sensitive and an incident, a fleeting thought, shows that you are not; you may think you are clever, well-read, artistic, moral, but turn round the corner, you find that you are deeply ambitious, envious, insufficient and anxious.
(In fact) You are all these things, turn by turn, but you want to be something continuous, permanent, profitable, pleasurable. So you run after that, while the many other "you"'s are demanding their fulfilment. So your (consciousness ?) became a battlefield and generally ambition is gaining, with its envy and fear. The word 'love' is thrown in to hold the family together but you are
caught in your own commitments and activities.

So to be (inwardly true to ?) 'what you are' is an extremely arduous affair; if you are at all awake, you know all these things and the sorrow of it all. So you drown yourself in your work, in your belief, in your fantastic ideals and meditations. By then you have become old and ready for the grave, if you are not already dead inwardly. To put away all these things, with their contradictions and increasing sorrow, and be (inwardly ?) nothing is the most natural and intelligent thing to do. But before you can be (as ?) nothing, you must have unearthed all these hidden things, exposing them and so understanding them. To understand these hidden urges and compulsions, you will have to become aware of them, without choice, as with death; then in the pure act of seeing, they will wither away and you will be without sorrow and so, be 'as nothing'. To be 'as nothing' is not a 'negative' state; the very denial of everything you have been (identified with ?) is the most positive action. This denial is (an act of inner) freedom. This positive action gives energy, while the mere ideas dissipate energy. Idea is ( thought's projection in ?) time and living in time is disintegration, sorrow.

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Tue, 30 Apr 2019 #189
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) There was a large opening in the thick closely-planted
casuarina grove beside a quiet road; towards the evening it was
dark, deserted and the opening invited the heavens. Further down
the road there was a thin-walled hut, with palm leaves woven
together for its roof; in the hut was a dim light, a wick burning in a saucer of oil, and a man and a woman sitting on
the floor eating their evening meal & chatting loudly, with
occasional laughter.

A few days' old calf was being led by a woman, followed by the mother softly assuring the baby. A flock of white birds with long legs were flying north, their wings beating the air slowly and rhythmically. The sun had set in a clear sky and a rose-coloured ray shot across the sky, almost from horizon to horizon. It was a very quiet evening and the lights of the city were far away. It was that little opening in the casuarina grove that held the evening, and as one walked past it, one was aware of its extraordinary stillness; all the lights and glare of the day had been forgotten and the bustle of men coming and going. Now it was quiet, enclosed by dark trees and fast-fading light. It was not
only quiet but there was a joy in it, the joy of immense solitude and
as one went by it, that ever-strange ( visitation of the) 'Otherness' came, like a wave, covering the heart and the mind in its beauty and its clarity. All (sense of?) time ceased, the next moment had no beginning. Out of emptiness only is there love.

Meditation is not a play of imagination. Every (self-projected?) image,
word or symbol must come to ( its natural?) end for the flowering of meditation. Thought is ( the creator of its own ?) time, and (the mental) symbols, however ancient and/or (intellectually?) significant, must lose their grip on thought. Then, thought has no (time-binding?) continuity; it is then only from moment to moment and so loses its mechanical insistency; thought then does not shape the mind and enclose it within the frame of ideas and condition it to the culture & the society, in which it lives. The whole of (the time-bound ) consciousness is residual, ( opportunistically?) changing, modifying or conforming, and (a profound qualitative) mutation is only possible when (thought's projected ?) 'time' and 'ideas' have come to an end.

This 'ending' is not ( the result of) a (deliberate) conclusion, nor is it an idea to be denied or accepted. It is to be understood through a self-knowing (in real time ?) for the (temporal ?) 'self' is ever changing, never constant. This 'self-knowing' ( done properly???) liberates the mind from the 'known'; for to live one's entire life in the activities of the known (ultimately ?) breeds endless conflict and misery. Meditation is not a 'personal' quest for Reality. Meditation frees the mind from the narrow, limited (self-centred) existence to the ever-expanding, timeless Life.

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Wed, 01 May 2019 #190
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) They were small clouds, mere brush strokes with wings,
hundreds of them, filling the western sky; the sea was covered
with small, dancing ripples and the sun was setting, a gigantic
red globe, splendid. But it was those little clouds, with wings,
that gave enchantment to the evening; they were just a whisper
of clouds, breathlessly flying north, all going north; each was
enclosed in its own space, in its own beauty and they
conquered space in their flight. As the sun went
down into the sea, they took on its colour; some deep rose,
some light pink and others white. And they were flying; they
had the beauty of all the earth and heavens; they were delicate,
newly born but with that energy that destroys space (distance ?) . And as you watched them and the rippling waters 'you' were not there;
they existed and nothing else; not even space and time.

They were flying in the light of colour and there was
emptiness. Seeing is a marvellous thing; you 'see' only when
there is emptiness; from emptiness, seeing dissolves space (distance ?) and time is consumed. The horizon, the dancing waters, the ever
flying clouds and the abiding earth were in timeless movement
and the glory of heaven was in that rock, on which a sea gull
was sitting. It was a dusty, crowded road, people everywhere; only the poor, it seemed, walked or waited in a long queue for the buses. You
walked seeing, observing, listening without a thought and
feeling and so you saw everything, leaving no mark, no scratch.

Meditation is a movement in which everything 'is' (contained) for it is nothing; 'you' cannot enter into that movement; the (temporal?) 'you' must be left in your office, in your church, or in the temple. You may not enter into that (universally open ?) movement with (your past ?) experience and knowledge. There must be no 'you'. The moon was now behind a house across the way and the shadows were thickening to disappear with the coming dawn. Then the birds began, a chorus of all
the birds, shouting, singing, chattering. You listened but you
were not there; you saw the palm tree awakening but you were
not there and with the setting moon the light from the east
began to cover the earth. Strangely you were aware of
everything but 'you' (the particular consciousness ?) were nowhere, you were not 'lost', you had ceased to be, and it was going to
be extremely difficult to find yourself again; you wouldn’t seek
to find it because it wasn’t worth it. You lived but it wasn’t 'you'
who lived. Living is entirely a different thing, a movement
without measure, an ecstasy that no thought or feeling could
ever capture.
A mother came out, carrying a freshly bathed,
combed little girl in her arms and by her side walked an older
girl. This little girl was talking to the braided girl, carried
around the hips of the mother; she talked in a soft voice, with
such pleasure and boundless affection; you felt it, moving you
to tears for it was an affection that had in it the earth, the
heavens and tears. Those three were all life, neither east nor
west, and the immensity of it. They just went by, in the dirty
alley and time ceased. The sun was touching the tree tops, so faintly, so delicately that the leaves were trembling. The scent of flowers in the next garden became stronger and the colours vivid, brilliant but you could never come back...

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Sat, 04 May 2019 #191
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( More selected excerpts from K's Notebook (1961)

Why is it that there is deterioration- inwardly as well as
outwardly. Time brings destruction to all mechanical
organizations; it 'wears out' by use and disease every form of
organism, but why should there be deterioration inwardly,
'psychologically' (within the human psyche?) ? Seeing (the inward ) fact that we deteriorate is all important and not the 'why and wherefore' of it. The (inward truth behind this ) fact is that human beings are (still ?) violent; conflict, inside and outside the skin, is part of our daily life – ambition (competition & ) and success. Seeing this 'fact' and not the cunning explanation and the subtle words, puts an end to deterioration.

( Inwardly speaking ?) choice is one of the major causes of decline, and it must wholly cease if (the deterioration is?) to come to an end. The desire to fulfil (oneself) and the satisfaction and sorrow that exist in its shadow, is also one of the factors of deterioration.

Woke up early this morning, to experience that benediction.
One was (almost?) "forced" to sit up to be in that clarity and beauty. It gave shelter, protection like the tree overhead whose leaves gave shelter against the strong mountain sun and yet allowed light to come through. All (authentic) relationship is (offering ) such protection in which there's freedom, and because there's freedom, there is shelter.

Woke up early this morning with an enormous sense
of power, beauty and incorruptibility. It was not an experience that was past, but something that was actually taking place. One was aware of something utterly incorruptible, in which nothing (no-thing?) could possibly exist that could become corrupt, deteriorate.
It was too immense for the brain to grasp, to remember; it could
only register, mechanically, that there is such a "state" of
''incorruption''. Experiencing such a state is vastly important; it was there, limitless, untouchable, impenetrable. Because of its incorruptibility, there was in it beauty. It was a life in which nothing could perish. Death is incorruptible but man makes of it a 'corruption' - as, for him, life is.With it all, there was that sense of power, strength as solid as that mountain which nothing could shatter, which no prayer, virtue could ever touch. It was there, immense, and the eyes, the breath were of it. It must have gone on for a certain period. Why should all this (Presence of the Sacred ?) happen to us? No (verbal?) explanation is good enough, but certain (contributing ?) things are fairly clear:
1. One must be wholly "indifferent" to It coming and going.
2. There must be no desire to continue the 'experience' or to
store it away in memory.
3. There must be a certain physical sensitivity, and a certain indifference to (the personal) comfort.
4. There must be a self-critical & humourous approach.

But even if one had all these (already figured out ?) they are not enough. Something totally different is necessary or nothing (not-a- -thing) is necessary. 'It' must come and you can never go after It, do what you will. You can also add (5) (the selfless?) Love to the list but 'It' is beyond Love. One thing is certain, the brain can never comprehend it nor can it contain it. Blessed is he to whom it is given. And you can also add ( to the short list above ?)
(6) a still, (& naturally) quiet brain.

(...) Yesterday, driving (slowly ?) through the narrow (Saanen) valley, with a mountain stream noisily making its way beside the wet road, there was this benediction. It was very strong and everything was bathed in it. The noise of the stream was part of it and the high waterfall which became the stream were in it. It was like the gentle rain that was coming down and one became utterly vulnerable; the body seemed to have become light as a leaf, exposed and trembling. This went
on through the long, cool drive; all talk became monosyllabic; the
beauty of it seemed incredible. All the evening it remained and
though there was (some casual ?) laughter, the solid, the impenetrable seriousness remained.

On waking this morning, early when the sun was still below the
horizon, there was the ecstasy of this seriousness. It filled the heart
and the brain and there was a sense of immovability.
To look is important. We ( generally) look out of our
immediate necessities (or we look forward?) to a 'future', coloured by the past. This (self-centred ?) look is as bound by time-space as is our brain. We never never see beyond this limitation; ( in fact ?) we do not know how to look through and beyond these fragmentary frontiers. But the (mind's?) eyes have to see beyond them, penetrating deeply and widely, without choosing, without shelter; they have to wander beyond man-made frontiers of ideas and values and to feel beyond love. Then there is a benediction which no 'god' can give.

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Mon, 06 May 2019 #192
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

( More selected excerpts from the K Notebook (1961)

( ...) Woke up this morning, rather early, with a sense of a mind that had penetrated into unknown depths. It was as though the mind
itself was going into itself, deeply and widely and the journey
seemed to have been without movement. And there was this
experience of immensity in abundance and a richness that was
incorruptible. It's strange that though every (such) 'experience' is utterly different, it is still the same movement; though it seems to change, it is still the changeless.

Walking in the deep shadow of a mountain, beside a
chattering stream, in the intensity of the process, one felt utterly
vulnerable, naked and very open; one hardly seemed to exist. And
the beauty of the snowcovered mountain, held in the cup of two
dark pine slopes of curving hills, was greatly moving.
Early in the morning when the sun was not yet up and the dew
on the grass, still in bed, lying quietly, without any thought or
movement, there was a 'seeing' - not the superficial seeing with the (physical) eyes but seeing through the 'eyes from behind the head'. The (physical) eyes and ( the 'eyes'?) from 'behind the head' were only the instrument through which the immeasurable past was seeing into the immeasurable space that had no time. And later, still in bed, there was a seeing in which all life seemed to be contained.

(...) Woke up very early in the morning; That which is a Benediction
and That which is Strength were there and the brain was aware of them as it is aware of a perfume but it was not a sensation, an emotion; they were simply there. Do what one will, they will
always be there; there was nothing one could do about it.
There was a talk this morning and during the talk, the brain
which reacts, thinks, constructs was absent. The brain was not
working, except, probably, for the memory of words.

(...) Yesterday we were walking along the favourite road beside
the noisy stream, in the narrow valley of dark pine trees, fields with
flowers and in the distance the massive snowcovered mountain and
a waterfall. It was enchanting, peaceful and cool. There, walking,
that Sacred Blessing came, a thing that one could almost touch, and
deep within one there were movements of change. It was an
evening of enchantment and of beauty that was not of this world.
The Immeasurable was there and then there was stillness.

This morning woke up early to register that the 'Process' was
intense, and through the back of the head, rushing forward as an
arrow with that peculiar sound as it flies through the air, was a
'force', a 'movement' that came from nowhere and was going
nowhere. And there was a sense of vast stability and a "dignity"
that could not be approached. And an austerity that no thought
could formulate but with it a purity of infinite gentleness. All these
are merely words and so they can never represent the 'real'; the
symbol is never the real and the symbol is without value.
All the morning the process was on and a cup that had no height
and no depth seemed to be full to the overflowing.

(...) We were talking and a little bit of the stream between the trees
was pointed out. It was an ordinary sight, an everyday incident, but
as one looked, several things took place, not any outward incidents
but a clear perception of what is absolutely necessary for (spiritual?) maturity :


  1. A complete (inward) simplicity which goes with humility in the quality of being


  2. Passion - with that intensity which is not merely physical.


  3. (the sense of inner?) Beauty -being sensitive to that
    beauty which is beyond and above thought and feeling.


  4. (Selfless?) Love - the totality of it, not the (sensuous?) thing that knows jealousy, attachment, dependence; not as divided into carnal and divine, but the whole immensity of it.


  5. And (not in the least ?) a ( meditating?) mind that can penetrate without (personal?) motive into its own immeasurable depths; that has no barrier, that is free to wander without time & space.


Suddenly one was aware of all this and all the implications
involved in it; just in the mere sight of a stream between decaying
branches and leaves, on a rainy, dismal day.

(…) As we were talking about something that was not too serious, out of some unapproachable depths suddenly one felt this immense flame of power, destructive in its creation. It was the power that existed before all things came into being; it was unapproachable and by its very strength one could not come near it. Nothing (else seemed to) exists but that one thing. Immensity and awe.
Part of this experience must have "continued" while asleep for
on waking early this morning it was there and the intensity of the
process had awakened one. It is beyond all thought and words to
describe what's going on, the 'strangeness' of it and the 'love' & the
beauty of it. The strength and the purity of It is beyond and above all (mental ?) faculties of man.

(…) It was a cloudy day, heavy with dark clouds; it had rained
in the morning and it had turned cold. After a walk we were talking (casually?) but more looking at the beauty of the earth, the houses and the dark trees.
Unexpectedly, there was a flash of that unapproachable power
and strength that was physically shattering. The body became
frozen into immobility and one had to shut one's eyes not to go off
into a faint. It was completely shattering and everything that was
didn't seem to exist. The immobility of that strength and the
destructive energy that came with it, burned out the limitations of
sight and sound. It was something indescribably great whose height
and depth are unknowable.

Early this morning, just as dawn was breaking, with not a cloud
in the sky and the snowcovered mountains just visible, woke up
with that feeling of impenetrable strength in one's eyes and throat;
it seemed to be a palpable state, something that could never not be
there. For nearly an hour it was there and the brain remained
empty. It was not a 'thing' (an experience?) to be caught by thought and stored up in memory to be recalled. It was ( present?) there and all thought was dead.

Thought is only useful in the (physical?) realm; but thought could
not 'think about it' for thought is (of) time and That was beyond all time and measure.

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Wed, 08 May 2019 #193
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) Meditation, in the still hours of early morning was the unfolding of beauty. It was total negation of everything 'known', not as a reaction but a 'denial' that had no cause; it was a movement in complete freedom, a movement that had no direction and dimension; in that 'movement' there was boundless energy whose very essence was stillness. Its 'action' was a total (mental ?) inaction and the essence of that inaction is freedom. There was great bliss, a great ecstasy that perished at the touch of thought.

(...) To look with (the background of) thought and to look without thought are two different things. To 'look with thought' at those trees by the roadside and the buildings across the dry fields keeps the brain tied to its own moorings of time, experience, memory; the machinery of thought is working endlessly, without rest, without freshness; the brain is made dull, insensitive, without the power of recuperation. It is everlastingly responding to (life's) challenges but its response is (often ?) inadequate and not fresh. To 'look with thought' keeps the brain in the (mental) grooves of habit and recognition; ( eventually ?) it becomes tired and sluggish living within the narrow limitations of its own making. It is never
free. This (inner) 'freedom' takes place when thought is not looking. When ( the thinker & its ?) thought does not look, then there is only pure observation, without the mechanical process of recognition and
comparison, justification and condemnation; this 'seeing' does not
fatigue the brain for all mechanical processes of time have stopped.

Through complete rest the brain is made fresh, to respond without
reaction, to live without deterioration, to die (to its past ?) without the torture of problems. To look without ( 'thinker's ?) thought is to see without the interference of time, knowledge and conflict. To see without the mechanism of thought is total seeing, without particularization and division; seeing without thought does not put the brain to sleep; on the contrary, it is fully awake, attentive, without friction and pain. Attention without the borders of time is the flowering of meditation.

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Fri, 10 May 2019 #194
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) The sun was going down, a great big orange balloon, in great splendour and alone. It is strange to be alone (all-one) - not cut off (of everything &) lonely, but to be (inwardly) alone without thought, without (mental) associations, without the relationship of memory. Every influence, known and hidden, is understood and so put aside and thus be alone. This is really (the nature of selfless ?) love. The hermit and the monk are never alone (inwardly) in their retreat; they are still (carrying along ) the (reassuring ?) burden of the (knowledge of the ) past, their traditions, their experiences and knowledge; they are never alone (all-one ?) They (may ? ) have changed their names and their clothes but the 'all-oneness' is not near them. And yet you must be (inwardly) alone, not influenced, not seeking, not resisting (what is ?) .

You can build a (convenient ideogical) 'wall' around yourself, of beliefs, of knowledge, of incessant activities but that 'wall' makes of you a ('conscience' ?) prisoner, everlastingly enlarging and decorating the prison. You can’t invite the Immeasurable into the prison (of the known ?); what you invite will be your own ideas, projections, images; you can battle with them or embrace them but you are still within the walls. ( The perception of the truth of) this fact alone brings that (intelligent & compassionate ?) energy which will break down the walls.

There is a bliss in this 'aloneness'; it is not an (empty) void, a dry aridness of 'no thought'; to be alone (inwardly all-one ?) without ( one's self-centred ) thinking is not a desert of nothingness. It (the Bliss ?) is there, but you will come upon it only when (the self-centred) thought comes to an end and with it (the self-centred ?) feeling. You cannot buy it at any (Swiss ?) chemist nor at any altar, and without it there is no Love.

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 10 May 2019.

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Sun, 12 May 2019 #195
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) We are taken up with the immediate challenges of life and with the immediate reply to them. This immediate answer to the immediate call is (the very essence of) worldliness, with all its indissoluble problems and agonies; the intellectual answers with (a plan of) action born of ideas which have their roots in time and the thoughtless, amazed, follow him, while the rest follow the (ages old) pattern of 'like and dislike', of prejudice and malice. And every argument and gesture is the continuity of despair, sorrow and confusion. There is no end to it.

To turn your back on it all, calling this activity by different names, is not to 'end' it. It is these immediate (mechanistic?) answers to a series of immediate calls that have to come to an end. Then you will answer from the (inward ) emptiness of 'no time' to the immediate demand of time or you may not answer at all which may be the true response. The final answer is beyond the immediate.
In the 'immediate' is all your hope, vanity and ambition, whether
that immediacy is projected into the future of many tomorrows or
in the now. This is the way of sorrow. The ending of sorrow is
never in the immediate response to the many challenges (of everyday life). Its ending lies in seeing (the inward truth of) this 'fact'.

The palms were swaying with great dignity, bending with
pleasure in the westerly breeze from the sea; they seemed so far
away from the noisy crowded street. Against the evening sky, they
were dark, their tall trunks were shapely, made slender with many
years of patient work; they dominated the evening of stars and the
warm sea. They almost stretched their palms to receive you, to
snatch you away from the sordid street but the evening breeze took
them away to fill the sky with their movement. The street was
crowded; it would never be clean and its walls were made filthy with the announcements of the latest films or plastered with the names to whom you must give your vote, or with the party symbols; it was a sordid street though it was one of the main thoroughfares.

A little further on was the sea and the setting sun. It was a round red ball of fire and it made the sea and the few clouds red. The sea was without a ripple but it was restless and dreamy. Along that sordid street, with people pushing into you, meditation was the very essence of life. The brain so delicate and observant was completely still, watching the stars, aware of the people, the smells, the barking of the dogs.

As one walked along the street of few palms, the 'Otherness'
came like a wave that purified and strengthened; it was there like a
perfume, a breath of Immensity. It was there, sharp
and clear, without any vague possibility, unhesitating, definite. It
was there, a holy thing and nothing could touch it, nothing could
break its finality. The brain was aware of all these things and of the sea, but the brain had no (personal?) relation to any of these things; it was completely empty, watching, observing out of this emptiness. The 'otherness' was pressing in with sharp urgency. It was there with the finality of death which no reason could dissuade. As it had no roots and relation, nothing could contaminate it; it was indestructible.

The complete stillness of the brain is an extraordinary thing; it is highly sensitive, vigorous, fully alive, aware of every outward movement but utterly still. It is still as it is completely open, without any hindrance, without any secret wants and pursuits; it is still as there is no conflict which is essentially a state of contradiction. It is utterly still in emptiness;
this 'emptiness' is not a state of vacuum, a blankness; it is energy without a centre, without a border. Walking down the crowded
street, smelly and sordid, with the buses roaring by, the brain was
aware of the things about it and the body was walking along,
sensitive, alive to the smells, to the dirt, to the sweating labourers but there was no centre from which watching, directing, censoring took place. During the whole of that mile and back the brain was without a movement, as 'thought and feeling'.

The crowded plane [to Madras] was hot and even at that height,
about eight thousand feet up, it never seemed to get cool. In that
morning plane, suddenly and most unexpectedly the 'Otherness'
came. It is never the same, always new, always unexpected; the
odd thing about it is that thought cannot go back over it, reconsider
it, examine it leisurely. Memory has no part in it, for every time it
happens it is so totally new and unexpected that it does not leave
any memory behind it. For it is a total and complete happening, an
event that leaves no record, as memory. So it is always new,
young, unexpected. It came with extraordinary beauty, not because
of the fantastic shape of clouds and the light in them nor of the blue
sky, so infinitely blue and tender; there was no reason, no cause for
its incredible beauty and that is why it was beautiful. It was the
essence of all life that has been and that 'is' and that will be, life without time. It was there and it was the fury of beauty.

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Mon, 13 May 2019 #196
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(Continuing with the selected excerpts from K's Notebook 1961-62. Incidently, here's an authentic anecdote mentioned by Mrs Zimbalist in her 'Memoirs': when in the mid 70's she asked K whether he remembers anything about this remarkable Journal, he answered 'I did not write that book' (sic!)

(...) In the midst of the evening light as the hills becoming more
blue and the red earth richer, the 'Otherness' came silently with a
benediction. It is marvellously new each time but yet it is the same.
It was immense with strength, the strength of destruction and
vulnerability. It came with such fullness and was gone in a flash;
the moment was beyond all time. It was a tiring day but the brain
was strangely alert, seeing without the 'watcher', a seeing out of emptiness.

(…) Walking and talking, meditation was going on below the
words and the beauty of the night. It was going on at a great depth,
flowing outwardly and inwardly; it was exploding and expanding.
One was aware of it; it was happening; one wasn't 'experiencing' it,
experiencing is limiting; it was taking place. There was no (personal?)
participation in it; thought could not share it for thought is such a
futile and mechanical thing anyhow, nor could emotion get
entangled with it; it was too disturbingly active for either. It was
happening at such an unknown depth for which there was no
measurement. But there was great stillness. It was quite surprising
and not at all ordinary.

The Otherness was there, with clarity and precision; and the waking up was deliberate, to be aware with full consciousness of what was taking place. Asleep, it might have been (translated as?) a dream, but being fully awake, this strange and unknowable Otherness was a palpable reality, a fact and not an illusion. It had a quality of weightlessness and impenetrable strength. Again these words
lose all their meaning when the Otherness has to be
conveyed in words; words are (mental?) symbols but no symbol can ever convey the (living?) reality. It was there with such incorruptible strength that nothing could destroy it for it was unapproachable. You can approach something with which you are familiar, you must have
the same language to commune, some kind of thought process,
verbal or non-verbal; above all there must be mutual recognition.
There was none. On your side you may say it has this or
that quality, but at the moment of the happening there was no
verbalization for the brain was utterly still, without any movement
of thought. As the Otherness is without relationship to anything (temporal?) and all thought and being is a cause-effect process, there was no 'understanding' or (mental?) relationship with it. It was an unapproachable flame and you could only look at it and keep your distance. And on waking suddenly, it was there. And with it came an unexpected ecstasy, an unreasonable joy; there was no cause for it for it has never been sought or pursued. This ecstasy was there on waking again at the usual hour and continued for a
lengthy period of time.

(…) There is a long-stemmed weed, grass of some kind, which
grows wildly in the garden and it has a feathery flowering, burnt
gold, flashing in the breeze, swaying till it almost breaks but never
breaking, except in a strong wind. There is a clump of these weeds
of golden beige and when the breeze blows it sets them dancing;
each stem has its own rhythm, its own splendour and they are like a
wave when they all move together; the colour then, with the
evening light, is indescribable; it is the colour of the sunset, of the earth and of the golden hills and clouds. The flowers beside them
were too definite, too crude, demanding that you look at them.
These weeds had a strange delicacy; they had a faint smell of
wheat and of ancient times; they were sturdy and pure, full of
abundant life. An evening cloud was passing by, full of light as the
sun went down behind the dark hill. The rain had given to the earth
a goodly smell and the air was pleasantly cool. The rains were
coming and there was hope in the land.

(…) Of a sudden it happened, coming back to the room; it was there
with an embracing welcome, so unexpected. One had come in only
to go out again; we had been talking about several things, nothing
too serious. It was a shock and a surprise to find this welcoming (Presence of?) 'Otherness' in the room; it was waiting there with such open invitation that an apology seemed futile. Several times, on the (Wimbledon) Common , far away from here under some trees, along a path that was used by so many, 'It' would be waiting just as the path turned; with astonishment one stood there, near those trees, completely open, vulnerable, speechless, without a movement. It was not a fancy, a self-projected delusion; the other (person) , who happened to be there, felt it too; on several occasions it was there, with an all-embracing welcome of love and it was quite incredible; every time, it had a new quality, a new beauty, a new austerity. And it was like that in this room, something totally new and wholly unexpected. It was ( of a spiritual ?) Beauty that made the entire mind still and the body without a movement; it made the mind, the brain and the body intensely alert and sensitive; it made the body tremble and in a few minutes that welcoming Otherness was gone, as swiftly as it must have come.
Neither thought or feeling, in their wildest endeavour could build up these ( strange?) 'happenings'. They are too immeasurably great,
too immense in their strength and purity for thought or feeling;
these have roots and they have none. They are not to be invited or
held; the 'thought & feeling' cannot invent or contain the Otherness. It 'is' by itself and nothing can touch it.

Sensitivity is wholly different from refinement; sensitivity is an
integral state (of being?) , refinement is always partial. There is no partial sensitivity, either it is the state of one's whole being, a total consciousness or it is not there at all. It has the quality of (perceptive?) precision, no overtones of romanticism and fancy. Only the sensitive (mind?) can face the actual, without escaping into all kinds of conclusions, opinions and evaluations. Only the sensitive (mind) can be alone and this 'all-oneness' is destructive. This sensitivity is stripped of all pleasure and so it has the (gentle?) austerity of seeing and understanding. The way of refinement is endless; it is the outcome of choice, conflict and pain and there is always (in the background?) the (refined?) 'chooser', the ( knowledgeable ?) censor. And so there is always ( a dualistic) conflict and contradiction and pain. Refinement leads to isolation, self-enclosing aloofness, the separation which intellect
and knowledge breed. Refinement is ( still a ) self-centred activity, however 'enlightened' aesthetically and morally. There is great satisfaction in the refining process but no joy of depth; it is superficial and petty, without great significance. Sensitivity and refinement are two different things; one leads to isolating death and the other to life that has no end.

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Thu, 16 May 2019 #197
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) The village men were walking behind along the narrow path beside the river, strung out one by one, and somehow they were part of the ( consciousness of the?) man walking in front; there were eight of them and the old man walking directly behind was coughing all the time while the others were more or less walking silently. The man that was in front was aware of them, of their silence, their coughs, their weariness after a long day; they were not (mentally ?) agitated but quiet and if anything cheerful. He was aware of them as he was aware of the glowing river, of the gentle fire of the sky and the birds coming back to their home; there was no 'centre' from which he was seeing, feeling, observing; there was no thought but only these things. They were all walking fast and time had ceased to be; those villagers were going back home to their hovels
and they were part of the man who was going with them - not that
he was aware of them as being a part. They were flowing with the
river, flying with the birds and were as open and wide as the sky. It
was a 'fact'( of life ?) and not imagination; imagination is a shoddy thing and the 'facts' (of life?) are a burning reality. All those nine were walking endlessly, going nowhere and coming from nowhere; it was an endless procession of Life. Time and all (personal?) identity had ceased, strangely.
When the man in front turned to walk back, all the villagers,
especially the old man who was so close, just behind him, saluted
as though they were age long friends. It was getting dark, the
swallows had gone; there were lights on the long bridge and the
trees were withdrawing into themselves. Far away a temple bell
was ringing.

(…) There is a little canal, about a foot wide, that goes between
the green fields of wheat. There is a path along it and you can walk
along it for quite a while, without meeting a soul. That evening it
was particularly quiet; there was a fat jay with startlingly bright
blue wings that was having a drink in that canal; it was fawn
coloured, with those sparkling blue wings; it wasn't one of those
scolding jays; you could approach it fairly close without being
called names. It looked at you in wonderment and you looked at it
with exploding affection; it was fat and comfortable and very
beautiful. It waited to see what you would do and when you did
nothing, it grew calmer and presently flew away without a cry.
You had met in that bird all the birds ever brought into being; it
was that explosion (of Love ?) that did it.
It just happened with an intensity and fury whose very shock stopped all time. You went along that narrow path, past a tree which had become the symbol of a temple, for there were flowers and a crudely painted image ; the tree was splendid, full of leaves, sheltering many birds; the earth around was swept and kept clean; they had built a mud platform around the tree and on it was the stone image, leaning against the thick trunk. The leaf was perishable and the image was not; it would endure, destroying minds.

(...) The early morning sun was on the water, shimmering,
almost blinding the eyes; a fisherman's boat was crossing that
brilliant path and there was a slight fog among the trees, on the
opposite bank. The river is never still, there is always a movement,
a dance of countless steps and this morning it was very alive,
making the trees & the bushes to look heavy and dull, except the birds which were calling, singing, and the parrots as they screeched by. It was early but all the birds had been out long before the sun was on the water. Even at that hour the river was awake with the light of the heavens and meditation was a sharpening of the immensity
of the mind; the ( totality of the ?) mind is never asleep, never completely unaware, (although) patches of it are sharpened by conflict and pain, ar made dull by habit and passing satisfaction. But all these darkened (mental) passages left no (free inner) space for the totality of the mind. These became enormously important and always breeding more immediate significance and the Immensity is put aside for the little, the (needs & problems of the?) immediate.

Meditation is not the way of the machine; it can never be put together to get you somewhere; it is not the boat to cross to the other side. It is an endless movement whose action is not of time. All action of the 'immediate', of (thinking inwardly in terms of) 'time' is the ground of sorrow; nothing can grow on it except conflict and pain. But meditation is the awareness of this (psychological) 'ground' and never letting a seed take root, however pleasant and however painful.
Meditation is the 'passing away' of ( the worldly ?) experience. And then only is there (the inner ) clarity whose freedom is (expressed) in 'seeing'. Meditation is a strange delight not to be bought on the (New Age?) Market; no guru or disciple can ever be of it; all ( desire of?) following and/or leading have to cease as easily and naturally as a leaf drops to the ground.
The Immeasurable was there, filling the little space (of the room?) and all Space; it came as gently as the breeze comes over the water but
thought could not hold it and the ( active memory of the?) past -(aka ?) 'time', was not capable of measuring it.

(…) Across the river, the smoke was going up in a straight column;
it was a simple movement bursting into the sky. There wasn't a
breath of air; there wasn't a ripple on the river and every leaf was
still; the parrots were the only noisy movement as they flashed by.
Even the little fisherman's boat did not disturb the ( tranquility of the ) water; everything seemed to have frozen in stillness, except the smoke. Even though it was going so straight up in the sky there was a
certain gaiety in it and the freedom of total action. And beyond the
village and the smoke was the glowing sky of the evening. It had
been a cool day and the sky had been open and there was the 'light'
of a thousand winters; it was penetrating and expansive; it
went with you everywhere, it wouldn't leave you. Like perfume, it
was in the most unexpected places; it seemed to have entered into
the most secret corners of one's being. It was a light that left no
shadow and every shadow lost its depth; because of it, all
substance lost its density; it was as though you looked through
everything, through the trees on the other side of the wall, through
your own 'self'. Your (inner?) 'self' was as opaque as the sky and as open. It was intense and to be with it was to be passionate, not the passion of feeling or desire, but a passion that would never wither or die. It was a strange light, it exposed everything and made vulnerable,
and what had no protection was Love. You couldn't be what you
were ( before?) , 'you' were burnt out, without leaving any ashes and
unexpectedly there was nothing (not-a-thing) but that Light.

Love is (inwardly ?) 'dangerous' for it destroys everything that man has built around himself except bricks. It cannot build temples nor reform the rotting society; it can do nothing, but without it nothing can be done, do what you will. The modern computers and automatization can alter the shape of things and give man (lots of ?) leisure which will become another (psychological ) problem when there are already so many problems. Love has no (temporal ?) problems and that is why it is so 'dangerous'. Man lives by (creating & solving) problems ; without them, he wouldn't know what to do; he would feel lost and in the losing gain nothing. So his (self-created) problems multiply endlessly; in the resolving of the one there is another, but death, old age & disease are (the real ) problems which no computer can solve. This is not the 'death' that Love brings. Love, Death & Creation are (inwardly speaking ?) inseparable; you cannot have one and deny the others. But if if you have no problems, not even one, then perhaps 'it' might come when you are looking the other way.

It (the Love that goes together with Death & Creation?) is the Unknown, and everything you 'know' must burn itself
away, without leaving ashes; the past, rich or sordid, must be left (behind?) as casually, without any motive as that girl throwing a stick over the river bank. The burning of the known is the action of the Unknown.

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 16 May 2019.

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Sun, 19 May 2019 #198
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) All existence (in the field of the known ?) is (inevitably involving personal ) choice; only in aloneness (all-oneness ?) there is no choice. Choice, in every form, is (breeding ?) conflict. Contradiction is inevitable in (any personal ?) choice; this contradiction ( conflict of interests?) in the inner and outer existence breeds confusion and misery. To escape from this (resulting ?) misery, the commitment to various patterns of activities becomes a compulsive necessity.

Choice must always exist as long as there is the 'chooser' , the accumulated (psychologically active ?) memory of (the past ?) pains and pleasures, and every new experience of choice only strengthens (this ) memory whose response becomes thought and feeling. Memory has only a partial significance, to respond mechanically; this response is choice. There is no (authentic) freedom in choice. You choose according to the (cultural?) background you have been brought up in, according to your social, economic, religious conditioning. Choice invariably strengthens this (inherited) conditioning; there is no escape from this conditioning, it only breeds more suffering.

There were a few clouds gathering around the sun; they were far
down on the horizon and were afire. The palm trees were dark
against the flaming sky; they stood in golden-green rice fields
stretching far into the horizon. There was one all by itself, in a
yellowing green of rice; it was not alone, though it looked rather
forlorn and far away. A gentle breeze from the sea was blowing
and a few clouds were chasing each other, faster than the breeze.
The flames were dying and the moon strengthened the shadows.
Everywhere there were shadows, quietly whispering to each other.
The moon was just overhead and across the road the shadows deep
and deceptive. A water snake might be crossing the road; quietly
slithering across, pursuing a frog; there was water in the rice fields and frogs were croaking, almost rhythmically; in the long stretch of
water beside the road, with their heads up, out of the water, they
were chasing each other; they would go under and come up to
disappear again. The water was bright silver, sparkling and warm
to the touch and full of mysterious noises. Bullock carts went by,
carrying firewood to the town; a cycle bell rang, a lorry with bright
glaring lights screeched for room and the shadows remained
motionless. It was a beautiful evening and there on that road so
close to town, there was deep silence and not a sound disturbed it,
not even the moon and the lorry. It was a silence that no thought,
no word could touch, a silence that went with the frogs and the
cycles, a silence that followed you; you walked in it, you breathed
it, you saw it. It was not shy, it was there insisting and welcoming.
It went beyond you into vast immensities and you could follow it if
your thought and feeling were utterly quiet, forgetting themselves
and losing themselves with the frogs in the water;
they had no
importance and could so easily lose themselves, to be picked up
when they were wanted. It was an enchanting evening, full of
clarity and fast-fading smile.

( The chooser's personal identification with its ?) choice(s) is always breeding misery. Watch it and you will see it lurking, demanding, insisting and begging, and before you know it you are caught in its net of inescapable duties, responsibilities and ( collateral regrets &
?) despairs. Watch it and you will be aware of the 'fact'. Be aware of the fact; you cannot change the fact; you may try to cover it up, or run away from it, but you cannot change it. ( However?) if you will let it alone, not interfering with it with your opinions and hopes, fears and despairs, with your calculated and cunning judgements, it will flower and show all its intricacies, its subtle ways, its seeming importance and ethics, its hidden motives and fancies. If you will leave the 'fact' alone, it will show you all these and more. But you must be choicelessly aware of it, walking softly. Then you will see that ( the inner 'fact' of ) choice, having flowered, dies and there is freedom. You, the (savvy ?) 'chooser' have ceased (inwardly) to make choices. ( Psychologically speaking ?) there is nothing to choose. Out of this choiceless state there flowers an aloneness (all-oneness?) which is always flowering and it is always new. Dying to the known is to be (inwardly) alone. All (psychological ) choice is in the field of the known; and any action in this field always ( ultimately?) breeds sorrow. There is the ending of sorrow in all-oneness

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 21 May 2019.

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Mon, 20 May 2019 #199
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) The flowering of meditation is Goodness and it is
the beauty of meditation that gives perfume to its flowering. How
can there be joy in meditation if it is the (conscious or subliminal ?) coaxing of desire and pain; how can it blossom in the corrupting ambition and in the smell of (public recognition & ?) success; how can it bloom in the shadow of hope and despair? You will have to leave all these far behind, without regret, easily & naturally. You see, meditation has not the strain of building ( mental self-) defences, to resist and to wither; it is not fashioned out of a sustained practice of any system. All systems (of meditation ) will inevitably shape thought to a pattern and ( the meditator's ?) conformity destroys the flowering of meditation. It (Meditation) blossoms only in ( the inward ) freedom (from the known ?) and the withering of 'that which is'. Without (this inner ?) freedom there is no self-knowing and without self-knowing there is no Meditation. Thought ( The self-centred thinking ?) is always petty and shallow however far it may wander in search of ( superior ?) knowledge; acquiring (or) expanding knowledge is not meditation. It flowers only in the freedom from the 'known' and withers away in the ( self-enclosed field of the ?) 'known'.

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Tue, 21 May 2019 #200
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(Excerpts from "The Only Revolution")

(...) Meditation is not ( supposed to be ?) an escape from the (real ?) world, but rather the comprehension of the world and its ways. The world has little to offer apart from food, clothes and shelter, and (momentary ?) pleasure with its great sorrows.

Meditation is wandering away from this world; one has to be (inwardly) a total outsider. Then the world has a meaning, and the beauty of the heavens and the earth is constant. Then love is not pleasure. From this all action begins that is not the outcome of tension, contradiction, the search for self-fulfilment or the conceit of power.

The room overlooked a garden, and thirty or forty feet below was the wide, expansive river, sacred to some, but to others a beautiful stretch of water open to the skies and to the glory of the morning. You could always see the other bank with its village and spreading trees, and the newly planted winter wheat. From this room you could see the morning star, and the sun rising gently over the trees; and the river became the golden path for the sun.
At night the room was very dark and the wide window showed the whole southern sky, and into this room one night came - with a great deal of fluttering - a bird. Turning on the light and getting out of bed one saw it under the bed. It was an owl. It was about a foot-and-a-half high with extremely wide big eyes and a fearsome beak. We gazed at each other quite close, a few feet apart. It was frightened by the light and the closeness of a human being. We looked at each other without blinking for quite a while, and it never lost its height and its fierce dignity. You could see the cruel claws the light feathers and the wings tightly held against the body. One would have liked to touch it, stroke it, but it would not have allowed that. So presently the light was turned out and for some time there was quietness in the room. Soon there was a fluttering of the wings - you could feel the air against your face - and the owl had gone out of the window. It never came again.

(...)
Truth is never ( to be found ?) in the past. The 'truth' of the past is the ashes of memory; memory is of time, and in the dead ashes of yesterday there is no truth. Truth is a living thing, not within the field of time.

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 21 May 2019.

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2 days ago #201
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 373 posts in this forum Offline

(...) Two crows were fighting, they were viciously angry with
each other; there was fury in their voices, both were on the ground
but one had the advantage driving its hard, black beak into the
other. Shouting at them from the window did no good and one was
(probably?) going to be killed. (Fortunately enough ?) a passing crow dived in, suddenly breaking its flight, cawing more loudly than the two on the ground; it landed beside them, beating its black, shiny wings against them. In a second, half a dozen more crows came, all cawing away furiously and several of them with their wings and beaks separated the two who were intent on killing each other.
They might kill other things, but there was going to be no (fratricide?) murder amongst their own kind and that would be the end of it. The two still wanted to fight it out but the others were telling them off and presently they all flew away and there was quietness in the little open space among the trees by the river.

Parrots were flying in crazily for the night; it was a bit early but they were coming in; the large tamarind tree could hold quite a lot of them; their colour was almost the colour of the leaves but their green was more intense, more alive; if you watched carefully you would see the difference and also you would see their brilliant curving beaks which they used to bite and to climb; they were rather clumsy among the branches, going from one to the other but they were the light of heavens in movement; their voices were harsh and sharp, and their flight never straight, but their colour was the spring of the earth.

Earlier, in the morning, on a branch of that tree, two small owls were sunning themselves, facing the rising sun; they were so still you would not have noticed them, they were the colour of the branch, mottled
grey, unless by chance, you saw them coming out of their hole in
the tamarind tree. It had been bitterly cold, most unusual (for this places ) , and two golden green flycatchers dropped dead that morning from the cold; one was the male and the other female, they must have been mates; they died on the game instant and they were still soft to the touch. They were really golden green, with long, curving bills; they were so delicate, so extraordinarily alive still. Colour is very strange; colour is God and those two were the glory of light; the colour would remain, though the machinery of (their) life had come to an end. Colour was more enduring than the(ir own ) heart; it was there beyond time and sorrow.

Thought can never solve the ache of (man's existential) sorrow. You can (try to) reason it out but it would be still there even after the long & complicated journey of thought. Thought can never resolve (the profound ?) human problems; thought is mechanical and sorrow is not, Sorrow is (a human feeling ?) as strange as love, but sorrow keeps away love. Sorrow is (the sublimated result of ?) self-pity with all its anxieties, fears & guilt, but all this cannot be washed away by ( the earnest efforts of) thought. Thought breeds the (identification with the) 'thinker' and (in the time gap ?) between them sorrow is begotten.
(Experiential Hint:) The ending of sorrow is (to be found only in ?) the freedom from the 'known'.

This post was last updated by John Raica 2 days ago.

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