Krishnamurti & the Art of Awakening
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Pages from the Book of Life

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Tue, 10 Nov 2015 #31
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Madras Meditations (from the K Notebook, 1961)

It was a cool morning and the sun was coming up slowly behind the thick trees; there were long shadows and the soft dew was still on the grass, and in the little pond there were two blue lilies with heart of gold; it was light golden in colour and the blue was the blue of spring skies and the pads were round, very green and a small frog was sitting on one of them, motionless, eyes staring. The two lilies were the delight of the whole garden, even the large trees looked down upon them without shadow; they were delicate, soft and quiet in their pond. When you looked at them, all ( mental ?) reactions ceased, your thoughts and feelings faded away and only they remained, in their beauty and their quietness; they were intense, like every living thing is, (except man who is so everlastingly occupied with himself). As you watched these two, the ( whole perception of the ?) world was changed, not into some better social order, with less tyranny and more freedom or ( with all) poverty eliminated, but there was no pain, no sorrow, the coming and going of anxiety and there was no toil of boredom; it was changed because those two ( lilies) were there, blue with golden hearts. It was the miracle of beauty.

On that ( country) road, meditation yielded to that 'otherness', utterly silencing the already quiet brain; the brain was merely a passage for that Immeasurable; as a deep wide river between two steep banks, this strange otherness moved, without direction, without time.

Out of the window you could see a young palm tree and a tree full of large, pink-petalled flowers among the green leaves. The palm leaves were waving in every direction, heavily and clumsily and the flowers were motionless. Far away was the sea and you heard it all night, deep and penetrating; it never varied its heavy sound which kept rolling in; in it there was threat, restlessness and brutal force. With the dawn the roar of the sea faded and other noises took over, the birds, cars and the (distant) drum. Meditation was the (inner) fire that burned away all time and distance, achievement and experience. There was ( left ?) only a vast, boundless 'emptiness' but in it there was the movement (of ) Creation.
Thought cannot be (truly ?) creative; it can put things together, on a canvas, in words, in stone or building in a marvellous rocket, but however polished, however subtle thought is ( functioning ?) within the boundaries of time; it can only cover space (the spatio-temporal reality ?) ; it cannot go beyond itself. (But in the free space of meditation ?) it can only 'flower', if it does not block (self-lock ?) itself, and 'die'.

(Seen from a distance ?) the sea looked as though it was calm, dreaming, but the waves were never gentle, their high curves were magnificent, splendid to watch from a distance but there was brute force and cruelty. The waves that evening were particularly furious, high in their impatience and their crash on the shore was deafening; the shore stretched north and south, clean washed sand, yellowish, burnt by the sun. And the sun was not gentle either; it was always hot, burning and only in the early morning or when setting among the gathering clouds, was it mild, pleasant. The furious sea and the burning sun were torturing the land and the people were poor, thin, ever hungry; misery ever present and death was so easy, easier than birth, breeding indifference and decay. The 'well-to-do' were indifferent and dull, except in making money, more power, or in building a bridge; they were very clever at getting more and more - more knowledge, more capacity - but always 'losing' (something inwardly ?) and there is always death. It is so final, it cannot be deceived, no argument, however subtle and cunning, can ward it off; it is always there. You can do anything with ( your) life, you can ( even ?) hide from sorrow but not from death.

Every kind of motive drives us, every action has a ( thought out ?) motive and so we have no love. We think that we cannot act, be, live without a motive and so ( this mentality ?) makes our existence a dull trivial thing. We use ( our skills or social ?) function to acquire status; function is only a means to something else. Love for the thing itself doesn't exist and so everything becomes shoddy and attachment is only a means to cover up our own (inner) shallowness, loneliness, insufficiency.
(Recap: ) Love has no 'motive', but because there is no love (within ourselves ?) , every kind of ( mental ?) motive creeps in. To live without 'motive' is not difficult; (but ?) it requires integrity, not conformity to ideas, beliefs. To have this integrity is to be self-critically aware of 'what one is' from moment to moment

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 10 Nov 2015.

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Thu, 12 Nov 2015 #32
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Insights into Meditation (from the K Notebook, 1961)

The road was crowded for a while and became almost deserted as you went further on and as it got darker. Just as the sun sets, quietly there comes over the land a strange sense of peace, a gentleness, a cleansing. It is there in the town with all its noises, it is there in that empty street, across the temple; it is everywhere, only one has to be empty of the (residues of ?) day. And that evening, along that road, it was there, softly wooing you away from everything and everybody, and as it got darker, it became more intense and beautiful. And as the evening advanced that 'Otherness' descended with exploding bliss and the brain was as motionless as those trees, without a single leaf stirring. Everything became more intense, every colour, every shape and in that pale moonlight all the wayside puddles were the waters of life. Everything must go, be wiped away, not to receive it but the brain must be utterly still, sensitive, to watch, to see. Like a flood that covers the dry parched land it came full of delight and clarity and it stayed.

It was a strange stillness, terribly potent, destructively alive. It was so alive and still that you were afraid to move; so your body froze into immobility and the brain had become still, with heightened sensitivity. Meditation is never ( a process ?) in time; time cannot bring about mutation; the meditation that springs out of time is always binding, there is no freedom in it and without freedom there is always choice and conflict.

Meditation was like that ( Ganges) river, only it had no beginning and no ending; it began and its ending was its (new ?) beginning. There was no cause and its movement was ( bringing ?) its ( own ?) renewal. It was always new, it never gathered to become old; it never got sullied for it had no roots in time. It is good to meditate, not forcing it, not making any effort, beginning with a trickle and going beyond time and space, where thought and feeling cannot enter, where ( the desire to ?) 'experience' is not.

Beauty is not man-made; the things of man arouse feelings, sentiment, but these have nothing to do with beauty. Beauty can never be put together, neither the thing built, nor in the museum. One must go beyond all this, all personal taste and choice, be cleansed of all emotion for love is beauty.

Looking at the river now, you would be enchanted by its mellow age and tranquillity. And in that quiet silence that strange Otherness came and meditation lost its meaning. It was like a wave, coming from afar, gathering momentum as it came, crashing on the shore, sweeping everything before it. Only there was no time and distance; it was there with impenetrable strength, with a destructive vitality and so ( it was ?) the essence of beauty which is love. No imagination could possibly conjure up all this, no deep hidden impulse can ever project this ( sense of ?) immensity. Every thought and every feeling, every desire and compulsion was totally absent. It was not an 'experience'; experience implies recognition and a continuity ( of the 'experiencer' ?) . It was not an 'experience'; it was simply an event, a happening, a 'fact', like a sunset, like death and the curving river. Time and memory could not hold it, nor thought pursue it. It was a 'flash' (of insight ?) in which all time and eternity were consumed, without leaving any ashes, memory. Meditation is the complete and total emptying of the mind of the 'known', conscious and unconscious, of every (memory of past ?) experience, thought and feeling. Negation is the very essence of freedom; assertion and positive pursuit is bondage.

It had been bitterly cold, most unusual, 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 same 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 life had come to an end. Colour was more enduring than the heart; it was beyond time and sorrow. But thought can never solve the ache of sorrow. You can reason in and out but it would be there still after the long, complicated journey of thought. Thought can never resolve human problems; thought is mechanical and sorrow is not. Sorrow is as strange as love, but sorrow keeps away love. You can resolve sorrow completely but you cannot invite love. Sorrow is ( the result of ?) self-pity with all its anxieties, fears, guilt but all this cannot be washed away by thought. Thought breeds the 'thinker' and between them sorrow is begotten. The ending of sorrow is (in ?) the freedom from the known.

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Fri, 13 Nov 2015 #33
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Meditating by the Ganges( from the K Notebook, 1961)

It was a lovely evening, cool, silent and the sky was immense, there was no horizon, the trees and the endless flat earth melted into the expanding sky. It was pale, delicate blue and the sunset had left a golden haze where the horizon should have been. Birds were calling from their sheltering trees, a goat was bleating and far away a train was whistling; some village folk, all women, were huddled around a fire and strangely they too had fallen silent. The mustard was in flower, a spreading yellow and from a village across the fields a column of smoke went straight up into the air.

The silence was strangely penetrating; it went through you and beyond you; it was without a movement, without a wave; you walked in it, you felt it, you breathed it, you were of it. It was not 'you' who brought this silence into being, by the usual tricks of the brain. It was there and you were of it; you were not 'experiencing' it; there was no thought that could experience, that could recollect, gather. You were not separate from it, to observe, to analyse. Only 'that' was there and nothing else. By the watch this 'miracle of silence' lasted nearly half an hour but there was no ( sense of ?) duration, no time. You were walking back ( immersed ?) in it, past the ancient well, the village, across the narrow bridge, into the room that was dark. It was there and with it was the 'otherness', overwhelming and welcoming. ( This 'presence' of ?) Love was there with its impenetrable strength and the tenderness of a new leaf, so easily destroyed. Pleiades was just overhead and Orion was over the treetops and the brightest star was (reflected ) in the waters.

The village boys were flying kites on the bank along the river; they were yelling , laughing, chasing each other and wading into the river to get the fallen kites; their excitement was contagious, for the old people, higher up the bank, were watching them, shouting to them, encouraging them. It seemed to be the evening entertainment of the whole village; even the starved, mangy dogs were barking; everyone was taking part in the excitement. They were all half-starved, the older they were the thinner they were; even the children were all so thin but they seemed to have plenty of energy. All of them had torn, dirty rags on, patched with different cloths of many colours. But they were all cheerful, even the old and ailing ones; they seemed to be unaware of their own misery, of their physical weakness; they had amazing patience and death was there, very close and so also the agony of life; everything was there at the same time, death, birth, sex, poverty, starvation, excitement, tears. But the river was there all the time, quiet, placid with swallows flying so low, almost touching the water, which was the colour of gentle fire. The river was everything, they occasionally bathed in it, they washed their clothes in it and their thin bodies, and they worshipped it and put flowers in it to show their respect; they fished in it and died beside it. The river was so indifferent to their joy and sorrow; it was so deep, there was such weight and power behind it; it was terribly alive and so dangerous. But now it was quiet, not a ripple on it and every swallow had a shadow on it.

The flashing river by day was now ( reflecting) the light of the (evening) sky, enchanted, dreaming and lost in its beauty and love. In this light, all things cease to exist, pleasure and pain went away leaving only light, transparent, gentle and caressing, It was Light; thought and feeling had no part in it, they could never give light; they were not there, only this light when the sun is well behind the walls of the city and not a cloud in the sky. You cannot 'see' this Light unless you know the timeless movement of meditation; the ending of thought is ( part of ?) this movement. ( This light of ? ) Love is not the way of thought or feeling. The brain was completely still but very alive and watching without a 'watcher', without a ( controlling ?) 'centre' from which it was watching; nor was there any sensation. The 'otherness' was there, deeply within; it was ( pure ?) action, wiping away everything without leaving a mark of what has been or what is. There was no 'space' nor 'time' in which thought could ( re-?) shape itself.

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Sat, 14 Nov 2015 #34
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Walking along the shores of the Ganges (from the K Notebook)

It was a path (trodden by many pilgrims ) for many thousand years. As you walked on it, 'you' were lost, walking without a single thought and there was the incredible sky and the trees with heavy foliage and birds. As you walk on, there is no ( personal ?) 'feeling' at all; 'thought' too has gone but there is Beauty. It fills the earth and the sky, every leaf and blade of withering grass. It is there covering everything because 'you' are not, 'It' is (present) there, without a word, without a movement. You walk back in silence and fading light.

Every ( dualistic ?) "experience" leaves a mark and every mark distorts (the future ?) experiences; so there is no experience which has not been. But this is not (necessarily ?) so (if) all the marks of all ( previous) experiences are wiped away and the brain becomes completely quiet and motionless, without reaction, but alive, sensitive. Then it loses the ( burden of its own ?) past and is made new again. It was there, that ( sense of ?) Immensity, having no past, no future; it was there, without ever knowing the present. It filled the room, expanding beyond all measure.

The sun comes out of the trees and sets over the town and between the trees and the town is all life, is all time. The river passes between them, deep, alive and tranquil; many small boats go up and down it; some with large, square sails, carrying wood, sand, cut stone and sometimes men and women going back to their villages but mostly there are small fishing boats, with lean dark men. They appear to be very happy, voluble people, calling and shouting to each other though they are all clad in rags, with not much to eat, inevitably with many children. They cannot read and write; they have no entertainment, but they amuse themselves singing devotional songs or telling religious stories. They are all very poor and their life is very hard, disease and death are always there, like the earth and the river. That evening there were more swallows than ever, flying low, almost touching the water and the water was the colour of dying fire. Everything was so alive, so intense; four or five fat puppies were playing around their thin hungry mother; crows, many groups of them, were flying back to the other bank; parrots were flying back to their trees, in their flashing, screeching manner; a train was crossing the bridge and a woman was washing herself in the cold river. Everything was struggling for its life and there is always death; to struggle every moment of one's life and then to die.... Time consumed all ( human ?) life, time past and present ate man's heart away; he existed in time and so knew sorrow.

Some village men were walking behind along the narrow path beside the river, strung out one by one, and somehow the man that was in front was aware of them, of their silence, their coughs, their weariness after a long day; they were not 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 back home to their hovels and the man was going with them; they were flowing with the river, flying with the birds and were as open and wide as the sky. It was a 'fact', a burning reality. All those nine were walking endlessly, going nowhere and coming from nowhere; an endless procession of life. Time and all ( sense of ?) identity had ceased, strangely. And 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 (of water) in that canal; it wasn't one of those (b&w ?) 'scolding' jays; you could approach it fairly close and 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 ( the essence of ?) all the birds ever brought into being; it was that explosion (of affection ? ) that did it. It was planned, it just happened with an intensity and fury whose very shock stopped all time. But 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. Words, ( mental images and ?) symbols, have become so important; ashes which fed the barren mind and ( our self-centred ?) thought is born out of this waste - clever, inventive, as all things are which come out of arid nothingness. But 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 image, leaning against the thick trunk. The leaf was perishable, but the stone painted image was not; it would endure, 'destroying' (or 'deluding' ?) 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 and the bushes look heavy and dull, except the birds which were calling, singing, and the parrots as they screeched by. These parrots lived in the tamarind tree beside the house and they would be coming and going all day, restless in their flight. Their light green bodies shone in the sun and their red curving beaks were brighter as they flashed by. It was early but all the birds had been out long before the sun was on the water.

Even at that ( early) hour the river was awake with the light of the heavens and meditation was a sharpening of the immensity of the Mind. ( The 'personal' ?) mind is never asleep, never completely unaware; patches of it were, here and there sharpened by conflict and pain, made dull by habit and passing satisfaction, and every pleasure left a mark of longing. But all these darkened 'passages' (corridors ?) left no ( free inner ?) space for the totality of the Mind. Its immensity is put aside for the (needs of the ?) immediate. This ( self-limiting consciousness of the ?) 'immediate' is the 'time '( streaming ?) of thought, but this thought can never resolve any issue except the mechanical (aspects of physical survival). But 'meditation' is not the way of this ( thinking ?) machine; it is not the boat to cross to the 'other side' (since there is no shore and no arriving) and like love, it has no motive. It is an endless movement whose action is in (the field of ?) time but not of time. All action of the immediate, of time, is (in the 'psychological' field ?) the ground of sorrow; nothing can grow on it except conflict and pain. But ( part of ?) meditation is the awareness of this 'ground', never letting a 'seed' (of time ?) take root, however pleasant and however painful. Meditation is the 'passing away' of ( the desire for ?) experience. Then only is there ( an inner ?) clarity whose freedom is in 'seeing'.
Meditation is a strange delight not to be bought on the market; no 'guru' or 'disciple' can ever be of it; all ( inner sense of ?) 'following' and 'leading' have to cease as easily and naturally as a leaf drops to the ground. The Immeasurable was there, filling all space; it came as gently as the breeze comes over the water but thought could not hold it and the 'past', ( the consciousness of ?) time, was not capable of measuring it.

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Mon, 16 Nov 2015 #35
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

K Notebook- excerpts from the 'lost and found' pages

It was long before dawn, a clear starlit sky; there was a slight mist over the river and the bank on the other side was just visible; the goods train, in that vast silence but nothing seemed to disturb that ( inner ?) silence in which all movements were lost. It was a clear, strong, penetrating silence ; there was an urgency which no ( inner process of ?) 'time' could gather. The pale star was clear and the trees were dark in their sleep. Meditation was the awareness of all these things and the going beyond all these and time. The (inner ) movement in time is ( generated by ?) thought and thought cannot go beyond its own bondage to ( matter and ?) time and is never free. Dawn was coming over the trees as the stars were losing their brilliancy and already there was a 'call of the morning', a bird in a tree quite close by. But that immense silence still persisted ( inwardly) and it would always be there, though the noise of man would continue.

It was an exceptionally cold winter, but the red rose and the yellow pansy were intensely alive, burning with colour; you couldn't take your eyes off them and those two colours seemed to expand and fill the empty garden. Colour was ( the local ?) 'god', but death was beyond the gods. It was everywhere and so was colour. You could not separate the two and if you did then there was no ( creative ?) living. Neither could you separate love from death and if you did it was no longer beauty. Every colour is ( commonly seen as ?) separated, but when you ( non-verbally ?) see every different colour as only 'colour', then only is there splendour in colour. The red rose and the yellow pansy were not different colours but 'colour' that filled the bare garden with glory. The sky was pale blue, the blue of a cold, rainless winter but it was the blue of all colours. You saw it and you were of it; the noises of the city faded but colour, imperishable, endured.

( Personal ?) sorrow has been made 'respectable', a way to ( spiritual) enlightenment, it has been enshrined in churches and everywhere there is sympathy for it, with tears and blessings ( but ?) sorrow continues; every heart knows it, abiding with it or 'escaping' from it, which only gives to it greater strength to darken the heart. But ( the personal ?) sorrow is the way of self-pity, with its immeasurable memories (of hurts and failures ?) . Sorrow has its root in in the dead memories of yesterday. But (thinking of ?) yesterday is always (considered) very important; it is the ( inner) machinery that gives significance to life; it is ( consolidating ?) the richness of the known and of the things possessed. The source of (our self-centred ?) thought is in the ( souvenirs of ?) yesterday, of the 'yesterdays' that give meaning to a life of sorrow. It is ( the psychological memory of ?) yesterday that is ( gathering ?) sorrow and without cleansing the mind of 'yesterday' there will always be sorrow. You cannot clean ( or delete ?) it by using thought for thought is ( based on ?) the continuation of yesterday and so also are its many ideas and ideals. The loss of ( what one had ?) 'yesterday' is the beginning of self-pity and of the dullness of sorrow. Sorrow sharpens thought but thought also breeds sorrow.

( Recap: The self-centred process of ?) Thought is ( the response of our past ?) memory. The choiceless awareness of this whole process frees the mind from ( the root causation of ?) sorrow. Seeing ( the truth about ?) this complex fact of sorrow, without judgment, is (leading to ?) the ending of sorrow. The 'known'( with its colateral sorrow ?) must come to an end, without effort, for the 'Unknown' to be.

The surface ( of her being ?) was highly polished; every line, every curl of the hair was studied, every gesture and smile was contained and all movement was examined before the glass. She had several children and the hair was turning grey; she must have had ( a lot of ?) money and there was a certain elegance and aloofness. The car was highly polished too; the chromium was bright and sparkling in the morning sun; the white-walled tyres were clean, without any mark and the seats spotless. It was a good car and could go fast, taking the corners very well. The expanding ( economical ) progress was bringing security and superficiality, (while inwardly ?) sorrow and love could so easily be explained away and contained (as) new 'gods' and new 'myths' were replacing the old.

It was a bright, cold morning; the slight fog was gone with the rising sun and the air was still. Some fat birds, with yellowish legs and beak, were out on the little lawn, very pleased, inclined to be talkative; they had black and white wings with dark fawncoloured bodies. They were extraordinarily cheerful, hopping about chasing each other. Then the grey-throated crows came and the fat ones flew off scolding noisily. Their long, heavy beaks shone and their black bodies sparkled; they were watching every movement you were making, nothing was going to escape them and they knew the big dog was coming through the hedge before he was aware of them; they were off cawing and the little lawn was empty.

The mind is always occupied with something or other, however silly or supposedly important. It is like that monkey always restless, always chattering, moving from one thing to another and desperately trying to be quiet. To be ( inwardly ) empty, completely empty is absolutely essential for then only it can (the mind) move (enter ?) into unknown depths. Every occupation is really quite superficial, with that (rich ?) lady or with the so-called 'saint'. A (self- ?) 'occupied' mind can never penetrate into its own depths, into its own untrodden spaces. It is this emptiness that gives 'space' to the mind and into this ( free inner ?) space ( the process of 'thought &) time' cannot enter. Out of this emptiness there is a Creation whose love is death.

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Sat, 21 Nov 2015 #36
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Winter in New Delhi (from the K Notebook, 1962)

It had been a splendid day, full of light and deep shadows; it was a light that entered into deep corners, into concealed places; it exposed your heart and mind, if you allowed it; even if you were indifferent, careless, it lighted the fringes of thought and gave a passing delight. If you were willing, it entered into the unexplored regions of your mind where you had never been and now you saw the whole of it, without a shadow where something could hide. There was no secret corner. You were surprised, open, vulnerable. And there was innocency. Every leaf was bright with light and all the birds were in the little garden, the little and the big, the many coloured and the plain ones, chattering away, unafraid and unwilling to leave. And towards the evening there were huge clouds on the horizon; there was one of fantastic shape, without colour, white, and against it four vultures were circling, without a flutter of the wing; there was such ease, effortless movement and freedom. You were (sitting ?) there in that garden but ( inwardly ?) you 'were' that thing flying effortless against that massive cloud; it was [not] in thought you were up there; you were actually 'up there', watching the earth and flying on the wind. And when that bird left the cloud, you 'were' (one with ?) everything, that man in rags on the road, that black and white bird with its bobbing tail and the man who was talking to you about his difficulties. You were everything and yet nothing; because you were ( inwardly as ?) 'nothing', you were everything. But this 'no-thingness' is not a thing of the ( thinking ?) mind. Thought can 'expand' itself through knowledge or 'belittle' itself in self-pity, but thought cannot make itself into nothing; it can only (re?) form itself with ideas, with words but it can never be the ( actual inner ?) fact, the 'no-thing'. The ( thinking ?) brain, the product of time and experience - experience 'is' (the result of ?) time - was utterly still, not experiencing, sensitive, for that ( sacredness ?) which is beyond time was there filling the room and beyond without measure.

She was a woman on the road, poor, dirty, unwashed for days, dark burnt by the sun and ill-nourished, with bangles around her ankles and completely oblivious of what was going on around her. She had on a bright dress torn and patched up; she was like so many others on that road, worn out with labour and with bearing children, but she was a 'cut above' the others and walked by herself. She held herself very straight and there was an odd dignity about her with that peculiar indifference which misery (or joy ?) brings. She looked straight ahead, her eyes far away; she must have lost everything, not recently but ages ago and now she was lost in it; nothing would ever bring her out of it, employment or another man. She held something on her head, wrapped in a rag not too clean, with one hand, and the other moved with ease and grace; now both hands were free and the thing on her head remained in place; she walked along that path, unconscious that there were others. She was not thinking, she was simply 'lost' (oblivious ?) ; when there is some thought, there is some kind of animation in the face, she had none. She had good, regular features, but all (joy of ?) life had gone out of them. She didn’t want pity, comfort nor a word; she was by herself and would remain so. There was a flower, hanging over the wall, along that path, full of colour and beauty. The wall was white, recently whitewashed and the flower, in the evening light, was the reality of life, perishable, vulnerable and fragrant. The woman never noticed it, went by, without a glance but the ( timeless beauty of the ?) flower remained, alone and destructible.

Love is not (in) the acceptance of ( a conventional) relationship, with its jealousies, anxieties and guilt; it is not ( in) the nurturing kindliness of rich experience nor is it (in) the help that you give to another. It is ( in) none of these things. If you 'knew' ( were conscious of ?) it; it would not be love.

It was an old tomb in the middle of a wide enclosure with thick brick walls, well proportioned, high and there were towers at the four corners; there were green lawns, trees, flowers and in the old days, fountains and water channels. It was a pleasant afternoon, with sun on the trees. The dome was of marble, onion shaped and though there were people, there was the quiet solitude of a garden that was not used much. If you went there on weekdays there was hardly anyone, except a few tourists with their cameras but you would be surprised by the solitude that was there. There were parrots about, green with sharp red curving beaks; they had nests in the walls around the marble tomb; they were coming in from the surrounding country, screeching, zigzagging in their flight. Perched on the walls, they were motionless light; their long tails were the green of early spring and their wings were late spring and their red beaks shone, made more red by the evening sun; high up there, they were startlingly beautiful and frail.

Clouds were gathering around the sun and there was solitude; it surrounded you, it held you. It maintained its purity even though you were in it; nothing could soil it, the noises, the laughing children and the passing tourists. You had come upon it, unexpectedly, just as, turning round a corner, you met an old friend. You were still separate from it, isolated in your own world; but soon you were of it, without a barrier, without thought. The whole of your consciousness, every little movement of feeling was taken over by it. All the 'yesterdays' were gone and it was not a (personal ?) experience. There is experience only when the dead (memory ?) revives only to die again. Experience is ( implying ?) recognition and recognition is part of the known. The continuity of the known brings sorrow and the ache of time. But here there was no 'experience', something to be 'added on' to the past. It (the sense of all-oneness ?) was there and every leaf, every bird and the blade of grass were not something different from it. Love 'is' that solitude; it is always alone (all-one ?). The sun was setting in fire; every cloud was aflame and all the clouds had gathered around the sun; there was not one left, all were there burning. All light was there and the birds were silent for the night. Again that incredible ( sense of ?) immensity was there filling the heavens and the earth.

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Sun, 22 Nov 2015 #37
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

New Delhi Winter Meditations ( from the K Notebook, 1962)

So early in the morning, there was a silence that was strangely alive, full of movement and you were part of it. It was a movement that had no origin, it was there without an end and your body lay still, without thought and feeling. ( The self-centred ?) thought is never free, no reaction can ever be, and every action of that reaction (response ?) is inaction, though it appears to be very active. Out of this ( hyper-active ?) 'inaction', which is called action, confusion and misery grows; it is the ground in which mischief and mediocrity are bred. But that ( early morning) silence persisted, widening with greater depth. The 'active present' had no borders of time.

There were four parrots on that old tree; they had their nests in the dying trunk; they flew in screeching and became quiet as they settled on the branches; they were endlessly fidgeting, hanging on by their red beaks, to go to a higher branch or to lower themselves. They were intense, ready to fly on the instant, gravely playful; from this distance their eyes couldn’t be seen but their curving red beaks shone in the morning sun. From that window, you couldn’t take your eyes off them and there was joy in their very existence. They were the flowers of the sky and it seemed so incredible that these green birds could exist. Everywhere there was sorrow and pain, decay and corruption, but that light among the leaves, (was a ) moving, restless beauty that knew no pain; they would die, killed or put in a cage but there was no time for them; they just lived, the green delight of heaven.

( Inwardly ?) death is ( implicit in the process of becoming in ?) time; every ( self-centred ) thought intensifies ( this) time, but love has no tomorrow nor has it a yesterday. It is the only thing that had no time and it was there, green among the wintry leaves. Sorrow and love cannot live together. Sorrow has a motive: self-pity and memory; every tear is of time, a remembrance and sorrow grows in the soil of time. You cannot be free of sorrow if you are not free of ( thinking of yourself in terms of ?) time; they are inseparable as the shadow of that electric pole. The actual 'fact' has no time but ( thinking?) about the 'fact' has. As you were aware of those parrots, the traffic, the pain, in that expanding attention, only the 'fact' (the 'actuality' of life ?) remained and time was not. And when even the 'fact' was gone, [there was] only this ( timeless ?) attention in which everything was (included ?) , for it was beyond time and measure. But there is no 'way' to it. Neither tears nor time will open the Door to the Eternal. You must 'die' (let go everything ?) without effort and then perhaps as you turn along the road It will be there (or... not ?) .

It is a lovely morning, clear and full of perfume; the sky has been very blue and this morning, it is bluer still and it is so close to the earth, so close to the little garden with its few flowers and the dew soaked lawn. Every flower was open to the sky, to the sun that was just coming over the trees. There were hardly any shadows and the flowers were waiting for the sun to touch them. A jet was streaking across the sky with a roar and the blue sky contained all the beauty and the mischief of man; the earth was swallowed up in that blue, in that immensity. A stray dog walked in; it was brushed, clean, fur shining, tail wagging. It was very friendly and it looked straight at you and you were the dog, the flowers and the heavens. Two mynahs (birds) were strutting on the lawn and a vendor passed calling out his goods. It was part of the ( magic of this ?) morning, so utterly far away and everything was aware of this fragrance; nothing could be hurt, there would be no sorrow, no guilt or the fear of tomorrow for that delicate perfume was everywhere. It wasn’t some fanciful mysticism, some mischief of the mind but a very real thing, as real as those two birds and that friendly dog. You would ( perhaps ?) be aware of it, had you been there, but it wasn’t a (personal) experience adding more to the already known. Every ( recognisable ?) 'experience' is a reaction of the known, which darkens the immediacy of life and floods the memory. It wasn’t an experience that could be repeated for there was no ( accumulating ?) centre, the 'known' which is always gathering, experiencing, asking, seeking. That perfume was there and 'you' couldn’t capture it and keep it in the decaying corners of (your ?) memory. It was there and your heart and mind were of it; it wouldn’t leave you, for 'you' were not there. The Immense was there, unknowable and unexperiencable, and time had come to an end. The brain, the thing of time, was utterly quiet, without its familiar movement (daily activities ?) and the whole of the mind was completely still. It was there unapproachable in its strength and beauty.

It had been a lovely day, there was the touch of the spring and there were a few clouds making the sky (look) more blue. The ancient and modern domes faded into the sky and the trees were still bare, open to the sky; that evening every thing was open to it and the mind had no secrets. Every corner of it was exposed and every region of the mind was the beginning of the new. Thirty or forty crows were sitting on a bare tree of many branches, their black bills caught in the evening sun; others were taking their bath in a puddle, cawing, calling, complaining and shouting their delight. There were mynahs fluttering around the puddle, trying to have their bath if the crows allowed them. There was a great delight among the trees and among the birds and the few men that passed by were not too wrapped up in their own affairs. There was the slip of the new, young moon, just a line, just a suggestion and there was the beauty of a day that was over. A woman in a green sari was carrying a big bundle on her head, her arms swinging freely by her side. You have to 'die' to all things to be aware of this beauty that had no resting place; you would never find it if you set out to capture it. You have to die to ( the memory of ?) all things that you have pursued.

'You' have to die (inwardly) without a motive, maturing in a day and dying in a day, without a past. You ( thought you ?) 'lived for' something, you 'worked for' something and your life was 'intended for' something. Everything had its use and 'you' of course were of the highest use—for the government, for the revolutionary. ( But...) what was the 'use' of that leaf, that flower and those birds taking their evening bath? That beauty cannot be used; it had no ( social ?) 'value', there was no 'market' for it and so, all life is travail and sorrow. Without that ( inner sense of ?) beauty there is no love. Innocency and youth are always (there) with the ending of (the self-centred ) thought. And with this ( 'psychological' ?) death comes that ( sense of ?) Immensity, unapproachable and measureless. And it was there.

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Tue, 24 Nov 2015 #38
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Bombay Meditations ( the 'lost and found' pages from the K Notebook 1962)

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. And yet they were motionless; there was not a breath of air except just over the sea and over the land close to it. The curving bay, with its many houses held the breeze, and those enchanted clouds never moved and, 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 ( the limitations of psychological ?) 'space'. And as you watched them and the rippling waters, 'you' (the 'observer' ?) were lost; they were there, only 'you' were not there; they existed and nothing else; not even 'space' and 'time'.

There was no ( self-centred ?) thought or feeling and so no ( 'experiencer' ?) experiencing. The essence of ( spiritual ?) immaturity is ( the desire for ever new ?) experiencing. Every form of (desire for more ?) experience is in the ( drag-?) net of the past and in the bondage of time. They were flying in the light of colour and there was (an inner sense of ?) emptiness. Seeing is a marvellous thing when there is this ( sense of inward ?) 'emptiness'; this seeing from emptiness dissolves ( the limitations of ?) 'space' (the distance observer/observed ?) and (illusion of ?) '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 ( the seeing of ?) that rock, on which a sea gull was sitting. Now the ( contours of the ?) flying clouds were fading and the moon was casting transparent shadows. It was a dusty, crowded road, people everywhere; only the poor 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 full moon seen from the long, enclosed balcony, was just over the large tree, serene, clear and very close. There were a thousand shadows, soft and breathless; the big city was silent so early in the morning. Meditation is a delight and there was no distraction for there was no "concentration"; it is a movement in which everything is ( included ?) for it is ( being as ?) 'nothing'; it has no centre and so no beginning and no ending. 'You' ( the hopeful 'meditator' ?) cannot enter into that movement; the 'you' ( the 'self'-consciousness ?) must be left back in your office, church and temple. 'You' may not enter into that ( living ?) movement (of meditation) with ( your life -) '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 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' (there was an awarenness ?) of everything but 'you' were nowhere ; you were not lost, but '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 (going back to ?) it. You (One ?) lived but it wasn’t 'you' who lived. Such ( liberated ?) living is a movement without measure, an ecstasy that no thought or feeling could ever capture.

A mother came out, carrying a little girl in her arms and by her side walked an older girl who was talking to the litle 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 (contained ?) in it the earth, the heavens and tears. Those three were all life, the immensity of it. They just went by, in the dirty alley and 'time' ceased. And then began the day, with its noises; ( the local ?) people loved noise. The children going to school were laughing, shouting and a boy was beating a tin can, just for the noise of it and a car going up the hills crashed its gears. 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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Wed, 25 Nov 2015 #39
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Selected Bombay Meditations ( from the K Notebook 1962)

Two sparrows, male and female, came into the room and began to chatter; they came in whenever they could, full of chatter and curious; they would talk to you if you talked to them and they had become quite friendly. There’s a long mirror on the wall and the male would do a battle with itself in the mirror; it was an endless and futile battle; the female would sit on the little table and encourage him on with little chirps. They had to be pushed out, literally but they would come back; the female would be at the mirror first and then the male and the battle was on. The sun was now behind the trees and on the road it was dusty, dirty and crowded; there were people everywhere, endlessly talking, poor, ill-clothed, hungry looking and worn out. And there was the sea, restless and the water would be alight with the setting sun. Everywhere there was movement, every colour was alive and the black rocks were intense.

Action is not something separate from (our daily ?) living, but the 'idea of action' (the 'thought-out' action?) and 'action' are two different things; a life based on ideas is ( inwardly a form of ?) inaction, which breeds endless conflict and misery. Ideas (and/or concepts ?) is the invention of a ( conflicting ?) thought and such action based on ideation can only lead to contradiction. Living is action; living is not ( based on ?) memory; the ashes of memory is not the 'fire' of life. Ideation is of these ashes. Living and dying, every moment without ( inwardly thinking in terms of ?) 'time' is ( total ?) action. ( Inwardly thinking in terms self- ?) continuity, permanency is (resulting in a ?) mechanical ( repetitive form of ?) inaction which needs ( creates an environment of ?) conflict to keep it going. Conflict and sorrow, self-pity and ( living in the field of ?) memory are the fuel of inaction. Complete living is total action.

The sun was now a fading line in the water and there was a beauty which no thought or feeling could ever capture. It cannot be put in a museum or hung up on a wall; it is not ( with ?) those two couples nor that family with so many children. Love, beauty and death are inseparable for ( the light of ?) life is ever dancing on the water.

He was a poor boy, in a dirty, torn shirt, too long for him; he was running across the road, with an eye on the traffic; he was very thin, very dark with regular, clear features. He stopped on the other side of the road for a while and then went on aimlessly in front of us; he was about seven or eight, his eyes sparkling, ready to smile, barefooted, large of head and infinitely sad. There was no one to talk to him, other boys along the street must have quarrelled with him or left him alone. He was lonely but he wouldn’t know what that meant; his father and mother must be labouring somewhere, probably helping to build those endless ( blocks of ?) flats, in which they will never live. He turned sharply and ran into us; there was a moment of apprehension and pain for he must have been beaten often. He stood there, so surprised and smiling; his hands were rough, small, dirty, eager to hold (someone's hand ?) . We walked together and everything was forgotten except those two, walking hand in hand ( and all of a sudden ?) there was no traffic, no people, no dirt and the sea was there, quiet ( stretching to ?) to the horizon. He wanted to say something and words came pouring out, though they were not understood; he stopped, freeing his hands, we looked at the sea, the palm trees, the little dog on a leash and the bus thundering by. It was a cloudless evening, clear, warm and those brown eagles were circling in the empty sky.

Meditation is the emptying of the mind of (the psychological residues of ?) time and thought. When 'time' is not, there is no ( personal ?) experiencing - the very essence of immaturity. Total negation is ( a state if inward ?) emptiness and in it alone there is creation—not ( the creation ?) of the picture and the book, but ( an inner state of ?) complete no-thingness. It is love. The brain was without a movement, sensitive, seeing not recording, listening without gathering. In those flats lights came on and a man with a long pole was turning the gaslights on. Night was coming in and the dust-covered trees were silent for the night. A car passed by with a lot of children laughing and shouting; a woman with a garland of jasmine in her hair went by and that scent was the earth, the people and that little boy. ( One's ?) mind was without space and time. The Immensity was there.

Two parrots were streaking across the sky, screeching as usual in their flight; they were green light full of that strange beauty and grace that only birds seem to have; they seemed to be without weight, a flash in the evening sky; they had tireless energy; they were going home to roost for the night, hidden among the dark leaves. They liked the town with all the noise, the glare of lights and probably it was safer here than the country; these two disappeared behind a house into a mango tree but they had left a light in the sky. And the evening sun touching the sparkling waters made a path of burnt gold, and a sail was against the sun. It was an evening when meditation was the complete stillness of the brain; it was empty and wholly aware of the activities around itself but sensitive in its stillness. There was no thought, no reaction for there was an (inward ?) 'movement' which was without a cause, without a motive; there was no end, no beginning. There was no 'observer' to experience it. It was a ( timeless ?) 'movement' that had no continuity; it is the only 'active present'. The sun was below the water now and the circling birds were over the town, endlessly wheeling till the stars came out. They were chanting, four voices, deep throated but light and filling the air; they might have been in an ancient cathedral and temple but the voices came from a room. And suddenly everything became quiet and the voices went on; there was an eagerness and depth and a heightened penetration into 'Nothingness'. You were riding on it, it was carrying you; actually, 'you' were not there, only that Nothingness. It was not the 'nothingness' of being or not being. It was empty without the borders of time; there was no measure for (that inner ?) space. It was immeasurably empty, as the mind was. There was not ( your) mind separate from that Nothingness; there was only That. It was there beyond all asking and seeking and recalling. It was incorruptible for thought cannot touch it.

The road goes past flats, houses, empty lots, rich houses with gatekeepers and well kept gardens, with green fresh lawns; the houses and flats may be clean inside but the road is filthy, only the centre of the road is comparatively clean, (as ) so many cars and buses pass by. Where one walks, there’s no pavement and it’s really dirty; banana and orange peels, bits of paper, spit, the dropping of dogs and everything imaginable. People walk there every day, 'unmindful'; they are mostly poor people; the rich go by in cars; they have their golfcourses or take a car and walk along the beach; but here it’s noise and dirt; everyone has got used to it, as they got used to sorrow, privation, insults and death. Here they sell coffee with all the dust of the road in it, the little shops sell bananas and grain and there are plenty of flies. There are a few old mango trees and they are in bloom. There’s a faint fragrance, mixed with monoxide gas but you can smell it; nobody looks at these flowers but the fruit they will eat. They are rather nice pinkish flowers; they are high up and open to the hot sun and this evening the setting sun was upon them, gently afire and the sea breeze was stirring them. A man went by selling small garlands of jasmine which the ladies wore round their knotted hair. On that dirty road the smell of jasmine, so unexpected, opened the door to an enchanted garden, to a fleeting immensity, to a paradise of emptiness. A poor old man, almost blind, pushed his way and nobody seemed to notice him. Everyone was busy talking, waiting for the bus or rushing home.

Meditation is the destruction of habit; ( living in ?) 'habit' is a continuity, a mechanical momentum that prevents the ( insightful ?) flash of an eternal moment. It will ever be a flash, a 'spark of no time' and thought cannot make of it a ( mental ?) continuity, a series of related thoughts (and ?) habits. ( Such habitual ?) thought builds ( the network of daily ?) relationship, the 'getting used' to things, to people, to ideas. This relationship is ( bound to ?) 'time' and through time, do what you will, that flash ( of spiritual insight ?) can be never seen. Meditation is the ending of ( the dissipative temporal process of ?) thought and the beginning of ( living in ?) 'emptiness'. There is no resting place in that ( state of inner ?) emptiness, no thought as ( the desire to ?) 'experience' can take root - which is the ( very) beginning of 'time'. From this ( state of inner ?) 'emptiness' there is 'love' whose death ('time ending' action ?) is Creation.

A little girl, freshly washed, with long, plaited hair, with a clean blouse and frock and a flower in her hair, passed by, following her fat mother, so occupied with her own thought. A juggler with three little brown monkeys, went by beating a tiny little drum and the sun was setting in a clear horizon; it was close and it seemed to have no end. A big man in a big car got out and walked ( along the shore ?) as though he owned the little earth he was walking on; he was an important man, at least he thought he was and that little stretch of earth along the sea was meant to be used for his daily ( 'power' ?) walk. The evening light was gone and swiftly came darkness. Thought was still and the night 'was' (one with ?) that (inner state of ?) emptiness.

A little girl, about four or five, was sitting by the side of the dirty road and she had beside her another little girl, two or less; probably her sister; both were small, in dirty clothes, uncombed hair but full of smiles and tenderness. The older girl was forcing the little one to sit in her lap, but the little one preferred to sit, cross-legged on the hard, dirty road, with cars, buses, lorries rushing by; to the people, it was a common sight and an everyday event. They were very nice looking children; as yet the sun had not burnt their skin too much. They weren’t too thin, their hair wasn’t combed but they were happy and smiling, especially the older one. They had clear eyes and there was beauty in them, unspoiled and new. The older girl was holding the other’s hand and telling her something; they were utterly oblivious of the traffic, the people and the agony of life. The older girl was stroking the little girl’s hair to make it look neat; she was mothering the little one and there was no sorrow. And a policeman came along with a gesture and a word to get closer to the wall; they did as they were told and now the baby was in the lap of the other and there was peace with the abundance of love. Over the wall was a mango tree full of bloom and fragrance and there were also small, pebble-sized mangoes.

It was an evening full of charm and space, everything seemed so close, so near; you could almost touch the horizon and there was that 'light' that showed the beauty of everything. It was a 'light' that revealed and in its revelation, there was neither 'beauty' nor 'ugliness'. Thought has continuity, thought has relationship, but not love; love is not in time. "Time" and "thought" ( thinking in terms of time ?) are interrelated; one does not exist without the other. These two destroy love. For ( the spirit of ?) Love is not a feeling nor can it be shaped by thought- the 'love' that thought breeds is (eventually bringing ?) sorrow. Love has no sorrow and love is not the response of memory which has continuity. The ( perceptive ?) 'flash' of beauty and ugliness is not of two different things; that 'light' ( of insight ?) reveals without ( mental associations or ?) relationship but thought joins them together. It was Clarity- not of the beautiful and the ugly. It was a (quality of ?) light as the quivering sea in which everything seemed to live . Meditation is the emptying of the mind of the (process of ?) 'time' which is (generated by ?) "thought and feeling" and ( in) that emptiness ( there is ?) Light. The two little girls had gone for it was dark now, the street lamps were lit and there weren’t so many cars; but where they had been there was a perfume of the mango blossom.

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Thu, 26 Nov 2015 #40
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More Bombay Meditations ( From the K Notebook, 1962)

The sea was empty, there was not a sail on it; it was restless, agitated, wide and open; it was so alive, every ripple was whispering; the tide was coming in, gently with an insistence that the black rocks knew. In that little bay, with palm trees at one end of the curve and the dust and noise of a new building going up at the other end, there were black rocks on which were spread newly washed saris of many colours, bright and luminous; they caught the light of the setting sun and you forgot the (real ?) world. There was only colour and light was upon them. It was the light which only the 'god of colour' can give and the black rocks were heavy with age and countless storms. On this ancient blackness was colour, every colour that eyes could see; and the (noisy) traffic ceased and the man standing next to you, smoking a cheap cigarette, disappeared. You were alone with colour; you 'were' colour; nothing else existed and the dark sea was of it. Colour was 'god' and that 'god' was everywhere.

And as you watched, Meditation came upon you, not forced, without
thought. It was the Meditation of an expanding, open 'emptiness' which had no horizon and no time; it was that immeasurable Space of the Mind meeting the vast (physical ?) space of 'time and distance' and in their meeting there was emptiness. It was the death of everything known, every movement of pleasure, joy and sorrow; thought could not travel in that emptiness of timeless space and it became silent; it could not ( recognise and ?) 'experience' (it ) and so all ( attempt of ?) recognition ceased. ( The dualistic ?) 'experience' is the continuity of the known. Meditation is the uprooting of the known. Words, recognition, the known had come to an end and the immeasurable space of the mind moved with its own swiftness that left no mark. It was ( Mind ?) energy without frontiers.

( Meanwhile in Bombay...) the road was crowded with cars; there was hardly any space to walk; they pushed you into the gutter; the chauffeur looked and was indifferent and a child was playing on the verandah. It would cross and uncross its legs, tuck them in more and more and sit upon them, to see how little space she could cover. She was dirty, with a skirt that wasn’t washed for days but she had a sweet face, mischievous and enjoying. The whole street was filled with cars and they were all going to a wedding party and every car was full with well dressed people, jewels, bright saris and the sober dress of men. The little girl never even looked at them for there was nothing much to see; they were the respectable, (the wealthy but...?) 'dead' people. Now, the evening light was gone and Orion was overhead, filling the little space between the trees and the house.

It’s strange how little humility there is (left in us ?) . A car went by, with a very smart, bejewelled woman inside; she was so terribly conscious of herself, of her hair, dress and of her body. She was patting her hair, adjusting her dress and in a little mirror looking at herself; probably she was going to some party or other. The man beside her seemed so insignificant, so bored, so sloppy; she was everything and he was nothing; she ruled and he followed ( although ?) probably in the office, he was the tyrant. Both of them had that peculiar atmosphere of the 'rich and arrogant'; probably they could buy anything they wanted, including the men in ( high ?) positions. They had a large expensive car, with a chauffeur, smartly turned out, who was conscious too of driving an expensive car and rich people. There was ( the smell of ?) money and more of it but not too ostentatious. She had stopped looking at herself and was looking out of the window and nobody existed, not even the setting sun and the light on the water. It was a look of infinite boredom, waiting to be “amused” . But the sea wouldn’t wait (to be 'amused' ?) nor that mass of people on the beach. It was a mass of people that was (feeling ?) alive because it was together.

At the end of the day, it was cool near the water and the sun was setting behind the wooded hill. The streets were crowded; and the beauty of the evening was there everywhere, but not in the cars, ( nor ?) in the ( 'beach' ?) people. You can’t find beauty (out there ?) , nor the tree nor the bird will give it to you, but you will find it everywhere if you ( compassionately ?) 'look'. Beauty as love, is not an act of experience; experience is interaction of the 'thinker' and ( his) 'thought' and so ( in the dualistic field of ?) of conflict.

Beauty, as Love, is (abiding ?) there where the 'thinker' is not and thought with its (associated?) feeling has come to an end. All ( mental activity of ?) 'knowledge' must come to an end for Beauty, as Love, to be. But (if?) you ( think you ?) 'know' about everything; ( since ?) you have argued and counter argued and come to many (valuable ?) conclusions; you have become so 'clever' (mentally) for you have known ( the inner ?) dullness. You can go to the moon but you have no (inwardly open ?) space in the mind where the infinite 'past' and the infinite 'future' have met and lost their meaning completely. It is only in that ( timeless inner ?) Space that there is Beauty, as Love. There is no ( free inner ?) space for ( the self-centred process of ?) thought - there is (the physical space ?) to go to the moon but Beauty, as ( well as ?) Love, is not there. It is (abiding ?) in that 'unspotted' ( pure ?) space of the Mind and it’s difficult to find ( this inward space of ?) the Mind for ( to the materially oriented mind ?) there is only ( the outward ?) exploding space. For Creation is ( a movement of ?) Beauty, as is Love and ( also ?) Death.

It was a magnolia flower, not the large variety, about the size of a small rose; it was still attached to its leaf, long, sparklingly green and beautifully shaped. The flower was pale yellow, with a delicate smell; the whole flower was the size of a large marble, with darker yellowish green petals outside. Somebody had picked it off the tree, carelessly, leaving it short of stem. As it lay on the leaf, it was ( as if ?) 'designed' to contain the structure and colour of the earth and heavens and there was ( the ?) space (of Beauty ?) within it, not the space that’s measured but it was endless. You saw it in a 'flash', a swiftness that the eye and the heart could not follow and ( its perception ?) left you ( inwardly) as empty as that space around that flower; it was a ( perceptive ?) "explosion" without the 'time fuse' and you were left marvelling that such a thing should be. All this in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye. But (in that timeless instant ?) lay the beauty of the Everlasting. Beauty is seeing the immediacy of the whole - and you can see the Immensity only in a flash (of spiritual Insight ?) , ( perceiving ?) the whole of Life in a fleeting second. It is not thought (the 'thinking brain' ?) that sees; thought is put together through time; when ( the self-centred ?) thought 'sees', ( whatever was perceived is dragged ?) within the 'field of time' and so there is continuity and decay follows and (sooner or later ?) age and sorrow set in. But it was there on the table, the flower and the leaf, waiting to be put in water, if somebody cared; it would be put in a vase and a few 'gurgling words' said about it; people were too occupied (with the outward activities ?) , too ( mentally ?) 'committed' to everything, but to see (the timeless Beauty of that ) flower there must be limitless space in the mind and only in that emptiness can there be the ( insightful ?) flash which wipes away all ( the inner procees of ?) 'time'. It (the flower) would wither away in a few hours, but if you cared, you would have no ( 'psychological') memory of it, the dead ashes of the past second.

The beauty of that ( inner ?) space is Silence and only in that immeasurable Silence that there is the flash of the Immense. You looked at that sculptured flower, with its sparkling leaf and wondered that such a thing could happen. In that wondering was a 'humility' (of Creation ?) which the earth cannot yield and beyond that flower was the noisy dirty lane, with children shouting, crying and laughing; there was always somebody on it, coming and going and only in the depth of night was there quiet. The whole city 'slept and forgot'; you would hear, if the tide was high, the far away roar of the sea and the mechanical hum of the air-conditioners. The streetlight made shadows and there is a shadow on the frosted window pane that comes every evening; it’s always dancing, always whispering and you are (meditating ?) among those delicate leaves, lost and forgotten and you can never come back to the chaos and misery of the lane. Everywhere there were ashes and that Immensity of the fleeting second was gone. You could not 'recall' it, and there was the road which had awakened to the coming day.

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Fri, 27 Nov 2015 #41
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

A few 'K words of advice'

You should never be ( stuck in the 'known' ?) here too much; be so far away that 'they' ( the handlers of the 'known' ?) can’t get at you to shape, to mould (your mind ) . Be (inwardly free and ?) 'far away', like the mountains, like the unpolluted air; be so far away that you have no ( psychological attachments to ?) relations, family, or country; be so ( meditatively ?) far away where even 'you' can’t find yourself; keep a passage open always through, (but through ?) which no one can come. Don’t 'shut the door' for there is no ( such ?) 'door', only an open, endless (open ended ?) passage; if you shut any 'door', they will be very close to you, then you are lost. Keep far away; don’t get 'contaminated' by them, by their words, by their gestures, by their great (amount of ?) knowledge; for they are waiting to shape you, to mould you, to tear you to pieces and then put you ( back) together in their own 'image'. Their 'gods' are the ( magnified?) images of themselves, carved by their own minds or hands. They are waiting for you, the 'churchman' and the 'communist', they are both the same; they think they are different but they are not for they both ( try to ?) 'brainwash' you, till you are of them, till you repeat their words, till you worship their saints, the ancient and the recent; they have armies for their 'gods' and they are experts in killing. Keep far away but they are waiting for you, the 'educator' and the 'businessman'; training you to conform to the demands of their ( standardised ?) society ; they will make you into a 'scientist', into an 'engineer', into an 'expert' ('specialist' in anything?) from cooking to architecture to philosophy. Keep far, ( stay ?) far away; they juggle with words and you will be lost in their (arid ?) wilderness. Keep far away from the 'experts in god' and the bomb throwers: the one will convince you and the other [will show you] how to kill. But besides all these ('professionals' ?) , there are hoards of others ( anonymous 'helpers' ?) to tell you what to do and what not to do. You too would ( perhaps ) like to play ( that game ?), but then their 'play' becomes so complicated and entertaining that you will be ( spiritually ?) 'lost'.

'They' ( few local dignitaries ?) were all sitting in a row in the fairly well kept garden; they had on the light and they were eating and the big house was behind them. There was the scent of many flowers in the air and the breeze was coming from the restless sea. On that road there was hardly any car and your brain was utterly still and the movement of a 'flash' was taking place. The meditation 'was' the flash that can only be in emptiness; the 'flash' (of spiritual Insight ?) that opens the door into the Unknown. That 'flash' has no (duration in ?) time, it’s only a fleeting second. You can never keep that 'flash' (of Insight ?) any more than you can hold the winds in your fists.

You never saw anything so utterly innocent; she was lying on her back; you could just see the whole delicate line of her and she was almost touching the water; it was a stroke of light of the very young, new moon, appearing for the first time in a cloudless sky. You never saw her before, though you had seen her a thousand times; it was so innocent that you in that crowded noisy street were made innocent. You were innocent, without striving, without thought; everything about you was new, you had never seen them before. Your eyes were washed clean and you had not a spot in your heart; you were so far away that nothing could touch you. You could never be polluted again for there was no 'past' or 'future'; there was only that vast empty ( inwardly open ?) space of Now, of innocency whose immensity was a benediction, but you couldn’t carry another to it, even though you ( would have ?) loved to. No Saviour, no Teacher could bring you to It; you have to abandon them and ( inwardly ?) 'get lost' where your thought couldn’t find you. It was the innocency of complete aloneness (all-oneness ?) , you were where ( past) experience could not reach you. You did not know it was 'aloneness' but there was an immense innocency in that 'no-thingness'. It was the innocence of all energy and life and if you ever get there you would be in an ecstasy that had no reason and no death.

The dirty street was terribly crowded; it was more dirty than ever and it would be many months before the torrential rains would come and wash away the brutal ugliness of an overcrowded and callous city. The sea was just on the other side of the road. The purifying tide was coming in, covering the black rocks and the sands made dirty by man. Wherever he went there was dirt, brutality and a terrifying indifference to everything, and every dog left a mark on that road where you walked; no incoming tide would wash that street clean; the mind was tired and the heart had withered and a small girl was using the street as her toilet.
But going through the crowded street, you came to a bit of road that went round the curve of the sea and on the black rocks were the many coloured saris, stretched out to dry; they were collecting them now and carefully folding them up. And the red sun was touching the water and the horizon was clear, without a sail, without a cloud. You went with the sun, far away; you didn’t withdraw you just 'went away', not knowing where; if you withdrew, you would ( have to karmically ?) come back, now or later, and then you would repeat the whole weary cycle again, endlessly. Withdrawal bred callousness and the (quiet ?) agony of despair. Don’t ever withdraw or isolate yourself; don’t "retreat" into ( the illusory safety of a ?) corrupting family or into the dead ashes of ideas, beliefs and (or ?) the cheap 'gods' of your mind. There is no love there. But if you just ( inwardly ?) 'went away', not knowing where, not planned, then you can walk in that filthy street, with ( spiritally ?) 'dead' men and you would know (the bliss of ?) Love. As you walked, pushed around by cars and people, you would meditate, with delight; then meditation became an ecstasy, a movement of infinite tenderness and you would give the garland of fragrant jasmine that had just been given to you to that passing beggar and you would see his immense surprise and delight. Then you would know that the Everlasting was always there, round every corner, under that dead leaf and the fallen flower.

We were flying at 32,000 feet; the endless clouds were far below us and the clear, spotless blue sky above; the clouds were over the desert, sea and islands but at that height the sky was of intense blue; it filled your eyes and carried you very far, beyond the measure of time. The plane wasn’t crowded yet, probably, it would fill up at the next landing, so you had the next two seats to yourself. There was the roar of those jets but it wasn’t too noisy, you could hear the conversation of those ladies, seated across the aisle. But ( inwardly) there was Silence. Amidst all that chatter and roar, it was there as clear and spotless as the blue sky. You were aware of it not as an 'observer' [of] something to be experienced; you could not 'think about it', there was no time; it was there with such intensity that there was no experiencing of it. Out of this silence, suddenly and unexpectedly, there was (a visitation of ?) that Immensity. Your whole being became utterly still, without a thought, without a feeling; there was that unapproachable Strength (Power ?) that was not put together by man. It was a Strength that no thing could penetrate and so utterly vulnerable. And there was that strange intensity which no will or passion could conjure up. They were not two separate things; they were inseparable, never to be broken up, like 'death', 'love' and 'creation'. Your (thinking ?) brain could not grasp the vastness, the majesty of it; it had become still, long ago, before you came aboard the plane when they were playing some light music; out of the humid heat of the night, you came in and instantly were lost many, many centuries ago. You sat there motionless and totally lost (in Meditation ?), and 'you' ( the 'self'-consciousness ?) would never be back completely.

Three hours passed and you thought you had just got in and they were telling you to fasten your (seat) belt. And the two seats next to you were taken by a man and woman. And again we were ( up) in the blue sky, innocent and spotless, and that (sense of ?) Immensity was there, and your mind and heart were of it, beyond all time. Such a thing to happen in such a place! The man ( seated beside ?) was smoking and the smoke was (coming) in your face; the roar of the jets changed and we were coming down to land again (in sunny Italy ) . There was a river and green fields; the river was like a snake winding in and out through the fields and the fields were like men’s mind, all broken up, divided; the 'property' of each owner. But beyond was the sea, blue, rough and incredibly alive. And there were the hills and the islands.

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 30 Dec 2015.

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Thu, 07 Jan 2016 #42
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

CLEANSED OF THE PAST (From Commentaries on Living 2-nd series)

It was a lovely morning, with the breeze from the sea stirring the bright flowers among the ruins. These flowers were very beautiful, their colours rich and deep and they grew in extraordinary places, on rocks, in the crevices of broken walls, and in the courtyards. They had grown there, wild and free, for untold
centuries, and it seemed a sacrilege to tread on them, for they crowded the path; it was their world, and we were strangers, but they did not make one feel that way.
The view from this hilltop was not breath taking, like those which are seen occasionally, and which obliterate ( one's ?) consciousness with grandeur and silence. Here there was a peaceful enchantment, gentle and expansive; here you could live timelessly, without a past and a future, for you were one with this whole rapturous world. You were not a stranger from a different land, but you were those hills, those goats, and the goatherd. You were the sky and the blossoming earth; you were not apart from it, you were of it. But you were not (self-) conscious that you were of it, any more than those flowers were. You were those smiling fields, the blue sea, and
the distant train with its passengers. 'You' didn’t exist, the 'you' who choose, compare, act and seek; you were ( one) with everything.

We were sitting under a tree, and he was telling how, as a young and middle aged man, he had worked in different parts of Europe throughout the two world wars. During the last one he had no home, often went hungry, and was nearly shot for something or other by this or that conquering army. He had spent sleepless and tortured nights in prison, for in his wanderings he had lost his passport, and none would believe his simple statement as to where he was born and to what country
he belonged. He spoke several languages, had been an engineer, then in some sort of business, and was now painting. He now had a passport, he said with a smile, and a place to live.

Q: There are many like me, people who were destroyed and have come back to life again. I don’t regret it, but somehow I have lost the intimate contact with what one calls 'life'. I am fed up with armies and kings, flags and politics. I used to be very
cynical, but that too has passed. I live alone, for my wife and child died during the war, and any country, as long as it is warm, is good enough for me. I don’t care much one way or the other, but I sell my paintings now and then, which keeps me going. At times it is rather difficult to make ends meet, but something always turns up, and as my wants are very simple I am not greatly bothered about money. I am a monk at heart, but outside the 'prison' of a monastery. I am telling you all this just to give you a sketch of my background, for in talking things over with you I may get to understand something which has become very vital to me. Nothing else interests me, not even my painting.
One day I set out for those hills with my painting things, for I had seen something over there which I wanted to paint. It was fairly early in the morning when I got to the place, and there were a few clouds in the sky. From where I was I could see across the valley to the blue sea. I was enchanted to be alone, and began to paint. I must have been painting for some time, and it was coming along beautifully, without any strain or effort when I became aware that "something" was taking place inside my head, if I can put it that way. I was so absorbed in my painting that for a while I did not notice what was happening to me, and then suddenly I was aware of it. I could not go on with my painting, but sitting there I was aware of an extraordinarily creative energy. It wasn’t I that was creative, but 'something' in me that was also in those ants and in that restless squirrel. It was just Creation, pure and simple, and the things produced by the mind or by the hand were on the outer fringes of this Creation, with little significance. I seemed to be bathed in it; there was a sacredness about it, a benediction. It was the centre of Creation, God himself, it was holy, something uncontaminated, unthought of, and tears were rolling down my cheeks; I was being "washed clean" of all my past and there was an astonishing silence - not the silence of the night when all things sleep, but a silence in which everything was awake. I must have sat there, motionless, for a very long time, but time seemed to have stopped - or rather, there was no time. I had no watch, but several hours must have passed from the moment I put my brush down to the moment I got up. Picking up all my things and carefully putting them in my knapsack, I left, and in that extraordinary state (of Grace) I walked back to my house. All the noises of the small town did not in any way disturb that state, and it lasted for several hours after I got home. When I awoke the next morning, it was completely gone. I looked at my painting; it was good, but nothing outstanding.
Now, I am not asking for an explanation, but how does this thing come into being? What are the circumstances that are necessary for it to happen ?

K: You are asking this question because you want to experience it again, are you not?

Q: I suppose that is the motive behind my question...

K: Please, let us go on from there. What is important is that you should not "go after it". Greed breeds ( its own ?) arrogance, and what is necessary here is innocence, freedom from the memory of your past experiences, good or bad, pleasant or painful.

Q: Good Lord, you are telling me to forget something which has become of total importance to me. I cannot forget it, nor do I want to.

K: Yes, sir, that (lack of inner humility ?) is the difficulty. so please listen with patience and insight. While it was happening it was a living thing and your mind was in a ( spontaneous ) state of innocency, without seeking, asking, or holding; it was 'free' ( of any anchoring in the past ?) . But now you are again clinging to the dead past. Oh, yes, it is dead; your ( clinging to its ?) "remembrance" has destroyed it and is creating a new conflict between what has been and what you hope for. This state of conflict is like death (preventing that work of Creation to happen again ?) and you are living with darkness. This "thing" does happen when the self-(consciousness ) is absent (taking a break ?) ; but your ( attachment to the ?) memory of it, strengthens the self-(centred consciousness ?) and prevents the "living" reality.

Q: Then how am I to "wipe away" (delete ?) this exciting memory?

K: Again, your very question indicates the (devious ?) desire to recapture that state, does it not? You want to "wipe away" the memory of that state in order to experience it further, so ( the subliminal ?) craving (for a similar experience ?) still remains. Your craving for that extraordinary state is ( a psychological addiction ?) similar to that of a man addicted to drink or to a drug . What is all-important (experientially ?) is that this ( addictive form of spiritual ) 'craving' should dissolve without resistance, without the action of (your) 'will'.

Q: Do you mean that my very remembering of that state, and my intense urge to experience it again, are preventing something of a similar or perhaps a different ( inwardly creative ?) nature from happening ? Must I do nothing, consciously or unconsciously, to bring it about?
K; If you really understand , that is so.

Q: You are asking an almost impossible thing, but one never knows.

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Fri, 08 Jan 2016 #43
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline


When the mind is on the flight of discovery, imagination is a dangerous thing. Imagination has no place in ( self-) understanding; speculation and
imagination are the enemies of "attention". But the mind was aware of this (potential danger ?) , and was perfectly still - yet how rapid it was! It had moved to the ends of the earth and was back again even before it had started on its journey. It was faster than the fastest, and yet it could be so slow ('slow motion' mode ?) that no detail escaped it. It was perfectly still, and because it was still, it was alone. Its stillness was a movement which was not of time, which had no going and coming, but which was still within the unknown depths of Creation.

Q: I have a guru of my own and I go to him as regularly as possible, but I am not one of those blind followers. As I travel a good bit, I have met many spiritual teachers, from the far north to the southernmost tip of India. Some are obviously "fakes", with a smattering of book knowledge cleverly disguised as their own experience. There are others who have done years of meditation, who practise various forms of yoga, and so on. A few of these are very advanced, but the majority of them are as (self-centred and ?) superficial as any other set of specialists. They know their limited subject, and are satisfied with it. There are ashramas whose spiritual teachers are efficient, capable, assertive and completely autocratic, full of their own sublimated ego. I have
attended some of your talks, when time has allowed; and while I have to work for a living, and can’t give all my time to the religious life, I am entirely serious about it.

K: If one may ask, what significance do you give to that word ‘serious’?

Q: I do not trifle with religious matters, and I set apart a certain hour of the day to meditate, and I give as much time as I can to deepening my inner life. I am very
serious about it.

K: Does the ( self-focussed ?) desire for something make for seriousness? If it does, then practically everyone is "serious", from the cunning politician to the most exalted 'holy' person . The object of desire may be worldly or otherwise; but everyone is serious who is after something, isn’t he?

Q: Surely there is a difference between the seriousness of the politician or the moneymaker, and that of a religious man. The "seriousness" of a religious man
has a quality which is wholly different.

K: Has it? What do you mean by a "religious" man?

Q: The man who is seeking God. The hermit or sannyasi who has renounced the world in order to find God, I would call truly serious. The "seriousness" of the others, including the artist and the reformer, is in a different category altogether.

K: Is the man who is seeking God really (necessarily ?) "religious"? If he knows the God he seeks, what he knows is only what he has been told, or what he has
read; or else it is based on his personal experience, which again is shaped by tradition, and by his own desire to find security in another world.

K: Aren’t you being a little too 'logical'?

K: Surely one must understand the 'myth-making' mechanism of the mind before there can be the 'experiencing' of That which is beyond the measure of the ( man-made ?) mind. There must be freedom from the known for the Unknown to be. The Unknown is not to be pursued or sought after. Is he serious who pursues a projection of his own mind, even when that projection is called 'God'?

Q: If you put it that way, none of us are serious.

K: We are 'serious' in pursuing what is pleasant, satisfying.

Q: I can only speak for myself, and I do not think that I am seeking God for my own gratification.

K: One may see the foolishness of pursuing worldly things, or be frustrated in the effort to achieve them, or be put off by the pain and strife which such achievement involves; and so one’s mind turns to "other-worldliness", to the pursuit of a bliss which is called God. After all, you are seeking some form of permanency, aren’t you?

Q: We all are; that’s the nature of man.

K: So you are not seeking God, or the Unknown, that ( Reality ?) which is above and beyond the transient, beyond strife and sorrow. What you are really seeking is a permanent state of undisturbed satisfaction.

Q: To put it so bluntly sounds terrible.

K: But that is the actual fact, is it not? It is a fact that we are all 'serious' in our
search for contentment, deep satisfaction, however much the manner of achieving it may vary. Some pursuits may not be as socially harmful as the others, but both
of us are seeking gratification, the continuation of that ( self-conscious ?) 'centre' which is ever wanting to succeed, to be or become something.

Q: You are surely not totally condemning ambition, are you?

K: Self-fulfilment in any form is obviously the perpetuation of this 'centre' that is striving to be or become something. Ambition to fulfil, or to become something,
has always within it the seed of frustration, fear and sorrow. This self-centred activity is the very nature of egotism, is it not?

Q: Good heavens, you are stripping me of everything: of my vanities, my desire to be famous, even of my drive to put across some worthwhile ideas. What shall I do when all this is gone ?

K: Your question indicates that nothing is gone, doesn’t it? No one can take away from you, inwardly, what you don’t want to give up. You will continue on your way to fame, which is the way of sorrow, frustration, fear.

Q: Sometimes I do want to chuck the whole rotten business, but the pull is strong. What will stop me from taking that path?

K: Are you asking this question seriously?

Q: I think I am. Sorrow, I suppose?

K: Is sorrow the way of ( self-) understanding? Or does sorrow exist because there’s no such understanding? If you ( meditatively ?) examined the whole urge to become something, and the path of self-fulfilment, not just intellectually, but
deeply, then intelligence, ( a transformational ?) understanding, would come into being and destroy ('delete' ?) the roots of sorrow. But sorrow does not bring understanding.

Q: How is that, sir?

K: Sorrow is the ( accumulated ) result of (psychological) shocks, it is the (result of ) temporary shaking up of a mind that has settled down, that
has accepted the routine of life. Something happens - a death, the loss of a job, the questioning of
a cherished belief - and the ( totality of your self-centred ?) mind is disturbed. And what does a disturbed mind do (after the shock is waning out? ?) It finds an (improved) way to be undisturbed again; it takes refuge in getting a more secure job, in a new relationship. Again the wave of life comes along and shatters its safeguards, but the mind soon finds still further defence; and so it goes on. This is not the way of intelligence, is it?

Q: Then what is the "way of Intelligence"?

K: Don’t you want to find it out for yourself? If I were to give you an answer,
you would either refute or accept it, which again would impede ( the awakening of your own ?) intelligence (and) understanding.

Q: I see what you have said about "sorrow" to be perfectly true. That’s exactly what we all do. But how is one to get out of this ( time-binding ?) trap?

K: To understand the whole ( 'deadly' ?) nature of the trap is to be free of it; no person, no system, no belief, can set you free. (Seeing) the truth of this (and/or other time-binding traps ?) is the only liberating factor - but you have to see it for yourself, and not merely be persuaded. You have to take this voyage on an uncharted sea.

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Sat, 09 Jan 2016 #44
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline


THE MOON WAS just coming out of the sea into a valley of clouds. The waters were still blue, and Orion was faintly visible in the pale silver sky. The white waves were all along the shore, and the fishermen’s huts, square, neat and dark against the white sands, were close to the water. Completely round and full, the moon was making a path of light on the moving waters, and it was huge - you couldn’t have
held it in your arms. Rising above the valley of clouds, it had the heavens to itself. The sound of the sea was unceasing, and yet there was a great silence.

You never remain with any feeling, pure and simple, but always surround it with the paraphernalia of words. The word distorts it; thought, whirling round it, throws it into shadow, overpower it with mountainous fears and longings. You never remain
with (the purity of a ?) feeling; when the feeling of hate arises, you say how bad it is; there is the compulsion, the struggle to overcome it, the turmoil of thought about it. You may want to remain with love; but ( even so ?) you cover it up with words,
giving it the ordinary meaning, you think of someone whom you love, or who loves you. There is every kind of verbal ( consolidating ?) movement (around that feeling ?) .
( But how about ?) remaining with the feeling of envy, jealousy, with the venom of ( of social ?) ambition; for after all, that’s what you have in daily life, though you may want to live with love. Since you also have these feelings, wanting to hurt (back) somebody with a gesture or a burning word, see if you can "stay with that feeling". Try to remain with a feeling, and see what happens. You will find it amazingly difficult (and/or pointless ?) . Your ( all-controlling ) mind will not leave the feeling
alone; it comes rushing in with its remembrances, its associations, its do’s and don’ts,
or chatter.
Pick up a piece of shell. Can you 'look' at it, wonder at its delicate beauty, without saying how pretty it is, or what animal made it? Can you look without the ( regular activities ?) of the ( superficial ?) mind? Can you live with (whatever ?) feeling without the 'images' that the words builds up? If you can, then you
will ( perhaps ?) discover an inner movement beyond the measure of time, a spring that knows no summer.

She was a small, elderly lady, with white hair and a face that was heavily lined, for she had borne many children; but there was nothing weak or feeble about her, and her smile conveyed the depth of her feeling. She spoke quietly and hesitantly, with the voice of one who had suffered much; and she was a (hindu ?) 'orthodox', for she belonged to an ancient caste that held itself high, people who were supposed
to cultivate the intellect as a means to something other than the mere acquisition of things. For a while neither of us spoke; she was gathering herself, and was not sure how to begin. She looked around the room, and seemed to approve of its bareness. There wasn’t even a chair, or a flower, except for the one that could be seen just outside the window.

Q: I am now seventy-five, and you could be my son. How proud I would be of such a son! It would be a blessing. But most of us have no such happiness. We 'produce' children who grow up and become men of the world, trying to be great in their little work. Speaking for myself, I don’t want anything from anybody; I don’t want
more money, or a bigger house. I mean to live a simple life to the very end. My children laugh at my 'orthodoxy', but I mean to continue in it. They smoke, drink and often eat meat, thinking nothing of it. Though I love them, I will not eat with them, for they have become 'unclean'; and why should I, in my old age, pander to all their nonsense? They don’t perform the religious rites, or practise meditation, as their father did. He was a religious man, but...I didn’t come here to talk about my family. My
sons will go their way, and I cannot hold them, though it saddens me to see what they are coming to. They are losing and not gaining, even though they have money and position. They are all becoming 'merchants', selling their talents, and I can’t do anything to stem the tide.
It’s difficult to speak of things that are very deep, isn’t it? It requires a certain confidence in oneself and in the listener to broach a problem,
the very existence of which one has hardly admitted even to oneself for fear of awakening the echo of darker things that have been asleep for so long.
Though as a child I used to play with my brothers and sisters, I spent a great deal of time by myself, and I always felt apart, alone. In living with my husband, that feeling was pushed into the background; there were so many things to do. I was kept very busy with housekeeping, and with the joy and the pain of bearing and raising children. Nevertheless, this feeling of being alone has gradually increased until now, and I am fully immersed in it and it’s an agony, a fearsome thing. I go to the temple; but this sense of being utterly alone is with me on the way, while I am there, and coming back. The other day my son brought me along to your talk. I couldn’t follow all that you were saying, but you mentioned something about "aloneness", and the purity of it; so perhaps you will (help me to ?) understand it.

K: To find out if there is something beyond the loneliness that comes upon you, and in which you are caught, you must first understand ( the origin of ?) this feeling, must you not? What do you mean by 'being alone'?

Q: It is a fear that comes when one feels oneself to be completely alone, entirely by oneself, utterly cut off from everything. Though my husband and
children were there, this wave would come upon me, and I would feel myself to be like a dead tree in a wasted land: lonely, unloved and unloving. The agony of it was much more intense than that of bearing a child. It was fearful and breathtaking; I didn’t belong to anyone; there was a sense of complete isolation. You understand, don’t you?

K: Most people have this feeling of loneliness, this sense of isolation, with its fear,
but usually run away from it, get themselves lost in some form of activity, religious or otherwise. The activity in which they indulge is their (psychological) 'escape' and that’s why they defend it so aggressively.

Q: I have tried my best to run away from this ( depressing) feeling of isolation, with its fear, but I haven’t been able to. Going to the temple doesn’t help; and even if it did sometimes, one can’t be there all the time, any more than one can spend one’s life performing rituals.

K; Not to have found a (permanent ?) escape may be your ( opportunity for ?) salvation. You are fortunate in not having found a means of avoiding this thing. Those who ( manage to succesfully ?) avoid it do a great deal of mischief in the world for they give (a primary ?) importance to things that are not of the highest significance. Often being clever and capable, such people mislead others by their 'devotion' (full committment ?) to the activity which is their escape; if it isn’t religion, it’s politics
or social reform - anything to get away from themselves. They may seem to be selfless, but they are actually still concerned with themselves, only in a different way. They become 'leaders', or the 'followers' of some teacher; they always belong to something, or practise some method, or pursue an ideal. They are never just themselves; they are not human beings, but 'labels'. So you see how
fortunate you are not to have found an escape ?

Q: You mean it’s ( spiritually ?) 'dangerous' to escape?

K: Isn’t it? ( Such ?) a deep ( psychological ?) "wound" must be ( exposed ?) examined, healed; it’s no good 'covering it up', or refusing to look at it.

Q: That’s true. And this feeling of isolation is such a wound?

K: It’s (the result of ?) something you don’t understand, and in that sense it’s like a disease that will keep on recurring; so it’s meaningless to run away from it. You have tried running away, but it keeps on overtaking you, doesn’t it?

Q: It does. Then you are glad that I haven’t found an escape?

K: Aren’t you? - which is much more important.

Q: I think I understand what you have explained, and I am relieved that there’s some hope.

K: Now let’s both examine the 'wound'. With affection we must examine this feeling of being cut off, this deep sense of isolation, of loneliness, mustn’t we? If we are anxious, we shall be incapable of examining it at all.

Q: Yes, I see the difficulty. I haven’t really looked at it before, probably because I was fearful of what I might see. But now I think I can look.

K: Surely, this ache of loneliness is only the final exaggeration of what we all ( subliminally may ?) feel - in a minor way- every day, isn’t it? Every day you are isolating yourself, cutting yourself off, aren’t you?

Q: How is that ?

K: (By thinking that ?) you belong to a certain family, to a special caste; they are your children, your grandchildren; it is your belief, your God, your property; you are more virtuous than somebody else; you know, and another does not. All this is a way (a mentality ?) of isolation isn’t it?

Q: But we are brought up that way, and one has to live in this word. We can’t cut ourselves off from ( the accepted mentality of ?) society, can we?

K: In this ( interactive) relationship called 'society', every human being is ( competitively ?) cutting himself off from another by his ambitions, by his desire for fame, power, and so on; but since he has to live in this brutal relationship with other men like himself, the whole thing is made 'respectable' by pleasant-sounding words. In everyday life, each one is devoted to his own self-interest, though it may be in the name of the country, in the name of peace, or God, and so the isolating process goes on . One becomes ( eventually ?) aware of this whole process in the form
of intense loneliness, a feeling of complete isolation. ( This process of self-centred ?) thinking, which has been isolating itself as the ‘me’, the ego, has finally come to the ( critical ?) point of realizing that it’s held in the prison of its own making.

Q: I’m afraid all this is a bit difficult to follow at my age, and I’m not too well-educated either...

K: This has nothing to do with being 'educated'. It needs "thinking through", that’s all.
( To recap : ) You feel lonely, isolated, and if you could, you would run away from that feeling; but fortunately for yourself, you have been unable to find a means of doing so. Since you have found no way out, you are now in a ( better) position to look at that ( feeling of deep loneliness ?) from which you have been trying to escape; but doesn’t your difficulty lie in the fact that the word itself makes trouble?

Q: I don’t understand what you mean.

K; You have ( already ?) associated certain words with this feeling that comes over you, words like ‘loneliness’, ‘isolation’, ‘fear’, ‘being cut off’. Isn’t that so?

Q: Yes.

K: Now, ( the emotional content of ?) these words prevent you from perceiving and understanding its real qualities and make-up, so you must not let such words as ‘isolation’, ‘loneliness’, ‘fear’, ‘being cut off’, interfere with your examination of the feeling they have come to represent.

Q: I see what you mean. I have always looked at my children in that direct way.

K; And when you look at this feeling in the same direct way, the feeling itself isn’t frightening (or depressing ?) , but only what you think about the feeling.

Q: Yes, at this moment I understand that very well. But will I be capable of understanding it when I leave here, and you are not there to explain?

K: Of course. It is like seeing a ( 'psychological' ?) cobra. Having once seen it, you don’t have to depend on anybody to tell you (what and where that ?) a cobra is. Similarly, when once you have understood ( the origins of this self-isolating ?)
feeling, that ( inner light of ?) understanding is always with you; when once you have learned ( at what ?) to 'look', you have the capacity to see.
But one must go "through and beyond" this feeling of 'loneliness' , for there is much more to be discovered. There is an "aloneness" (all-oneness ?) which is not this sense of isolation. That state of "aloneness" (All-Oneness ?) is untouched by the ( suprficial) mind, by the words, by ( the ongoing mentality of ?) society, by tradition. It is a Benediction.

Q: In this one hour I have learned more than in all my seventy - five years. May that ( enlightening ?) Benediction be with you and with me.

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Thu, 21 Jan 2016 #45
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

THE CONSCIOUS AND THE UNCONSCIOUS (From Commentaries on Living, first series)

He was advanced in years and very wealthy, but he was not generous either with the hand or with the heart. One could see that he was cunning and calculating, and yet there was an urge for something more than material success. Life had scarcely touched him, for he had very studiously guarded himself against any exposure; he had made himself safe, physically as well as 'psychologically'. Psychologically he had refused to see himself as he was, but it was beginning to tell on him. When he was not watchful, there was about him a deep haunted look. Financially he was safe, but he also wanted a safe investment in the so-called spiritual world, and that
was why he was playing with ideas, mistaking ideas for something spiritual, real
. He had no love except for his many possessions; he clung to them as a child clings to its mother, for he had nothing else. It was slowly dawning on him that he was a very sad man. Even this realization he was avoiding as long as he could; but life (and old age ?) was pressing him.

Q: ( You were often saying that) when a problem cannot be solved on the conscious level, the unconscious take over and helps solving it. Can you explain it a little more?

K: Is our 'unconscious' something apart from the 'conscious'? What is it that we call the 'conscious'? To ( experientially ?) understand what it is made up of, we must observe how we approach a problem 'consciously': by seeking an answer to the problem - we are concerned with the solution, and not with ( actually understanding ?) the problem. We are looking for a way out of the problem; we want to avoid the ( crisis potentially created ?) by the problem through a (satisfying ?) answer.
Our whole conscious concern is with the finding of a solution, a satisfying conclusion. Often we do find an answer that gratifies us, and then we think we have solved the problem. What we have actually done is to cover up the ( actual causes of that ?) problem with a conclusion, with a satisfactory answer; but under the ( reassuring) weight of the conclusion, which has temporarily smothered it, the (psychological causation of the ?) problem is still there. So, the search for a (psychologically satisfactory ?) answer is an evasion of the problem. When no satisfactory answer is found, the 'conscious' or 'upper mind' stops looking; and then the so-called 'unconscious', the deeper mind, takes over and ( eventually ?) finds an answer.

The conscious mind is obviously seeking a way out of the problem, and the way out is ( found in ) a satisfying 'conclusion'. Is not the conscious mind itself made up of ( a whole background of ?) conclusions, whether positive or negative, and is it capable of seeking anything else? Is not the upper mind a storehouse of ( collective and individual ?) conclusions which are the residue of ( our previous ?) experiences, the 'imprints' of the past? Surely, the 'conscious' mind is founded on the past, for memory is a fabric of ( active ?) conclusions; and is therefore incapable of looking at the problem without this ( self-protective ?) screen of its conclusions; it cannot be silently aware of the problem itself.

When it cannot find a satisfactory conclusion, the 'conscious' mind ( eventually ?) gives up the search, and becomes quiet; and into the quiet (free inner space of the ?) upper mind, the unconscious pops up an answer. But... is this 'unconscious', the deeper mind, different in its make-up from the 'conscious' mind? Is not the 'unconscious' also made up of ( still deeper ?) racial and social conclusions, memories? Surely, our 'unconscious' is also the result of (all our collective memory of ) the past, ( aka) of 'time', only it is submerged and waiting; and when called upon it throws up its own hidden conclusions. If they are satisfactory, the upper mind ( happily ?) accepts them; and if they are not, it flounders about, hoping by some miracle to find an answer. If it still does not find
any answer, it wearily 'puts up' with the problem, which gradually corrodes the mind. Disease and (or sorrow ?) follow.

(Recap:) The 'upper' and the 'deeper' (layers of our ?) mind are not dissimilar; they are both made up of (mental 'images' ?) conclusions, memories, they are both the outcome of the past. They can supply an answer, a conclusion, but they are incapable of dissolving the ('psychological' roots of the ?) problem. The ( psychological causation of the ?) problem is dissolved only when both the upper and the deeper mind are ( harmoniously integrated and ?) silent, when they are not (active in ?) projecting positive or negative conclusions. There is freedom from the problem only when the whole mind is utterly still, choicelessly aware of the problem; for only then the 'maker of the problem' is not.

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 22 Jan 2016.

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Mon, 25 Jan 2016 #46
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline


THE SUN HAS gone down and the trees were dark and shapely against the darkening sky. The wide, strong river was peaceful and still. We walked up the steep bank of the river and took a path that skirted the green wheat-fields. This path was a very ancient way; many thousands had trodden it, and it was rich in tradition and silence.
It wandered among fields and mangoes, tamarinds and deserted shrines. There were large patches of sweet peas deliciously scenting the air. The birds were settling down for the night, and a large pond was beginning to reflect the stars. Nature was not communicative that evening. The trees were aloof; they had withdrawn into their silence and darkness. A few chattering villagers passed by on their bicycles, and once again there was deep silence and that peace which comes when all things are alone.

This ( inner sense of ?) aloneness is not the aching, fearsome loneliness. It is the 'all-oneness' of being; it is uncorrupted, rich, complete. That tamarind tree has no existence other than being itself. So is the 'all-oneness'. One is ( inwardly ?) alone, like the fire, like the flower, but one is not ( often ?) aware of its purity and of its immensity, One can truly 'communicate' ( commune with All That Is ?) only when there is all-oneness. Being 'all-one' is not ( the result of ?) self-enclosure, but the ( natural ?) purgation of all the pursuits of desire.

( On the other hand, the deep feeling of one's ?) 'loneliness', with its fear and ache, is ( the result of self- ?) isolation, the inevitable action of the 'ego' . This process of (self-) isolation, whether expansive or narrow, is productive of ( a large amount of global ?) confusion, conflict and sorrow.
Isolation can never give birth to all-oneness; one has to cease for the other to be. All-oneness is indivisible and loneliness is separation. That which is all-one is pliable and so enduring. Only the 'alone' can commune with that (essence of being ?) which is causeless, the Immeasurable. To the 'alone' (universally integrated mind ?) , life is eternal; to the all-one there is no death. The (spiritual essence of ?) all-one can never cease to be.

The moon was just coming over the tree tops, and the shadows were thick and dark. A dog began to bark as we passed the little village and walked back along the river. The river was so still that it caught the stars and the lights of the long bridge among its waters. High up on the bank children were standing and laughing, and a baby was crying. The fishermen were cleaning and coiling their nets. A night-bird flew silently by. Someone began to sing on the other bank of the wide river, and his words were clear and penetrating. Again, the all-pervading All-Oneness of life.

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Fri, 12 Feb 2016 #47
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

I will post in this section a choice of words of wisdom from various sources. The first quotes have been selected by Aldous Huxley in a little known book on 'Perrenial Philosophy'

Great truths do not take hold of the hearts of the masses. And
now, as all the world is in error, how shall I, though I know
the true path, how shall I guide ? If I know that I cannot succeed
and yet try to force success, this would be but another source of
error. Better then to desist and strive no more. But if I do not
strive, who will ?

(Chuang Tzu)

Sixty-six times have these eyes beheld
the changing scenes of Autumn.
I have said enough about moonlight,
Ask me no more.
Only listen to the voice of pines and cedars,
when no wind stirs.

Though God is everywhere present, yet He is only present to
thee in the deepest and most central part of thy soul. The natural
senses cannot possess God or unite thee to Him; nay, thy
inward faculties of understanding, will and memory can only
reach after God, but cannot be the place of His habitation in thee.
But there is a root or depth of thee from whence all these faculties
come forth, as lines from a centre, or as branches from the
body of the tree. This depth is called the centre, the fund or
bottom of the soul. This depth is the unity, the eternity I
had almost said the infinity of thy soul ; for it is so infinite
that nothing can satisfy it or give it rest but the infinity of God.
(William Law)

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 12 Feb 2016.

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Tue, 23 Feb 2016 #48
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Talking about 'lost and found' pages from the Book of Life, here is the interesting record of a personal "out of the body" experience read by Sir Auckland Geddes in 1937 to the Members of the Royal Medical Society, UK. Some similarities with some K remarks about the 'Stream of Time' ?

On Saturday, November 9th, a few minutes after midnight, I began to feel very ill, and by 2 o'clock was definitely suffering from acute gastroenteritis. I wanted to ring for assistance, but found I could not, and so quite placidly gave up the attempt. Suddenly I realized that my consciousness was separating from another consciousness, which was also me. These for purposes of description we could call the A and B consciousness, and throughout what follows the ego attached itself to the A consciousness. The B personality I recognized as belonging to the body, and as my physical condition grew worse and the heart was fibrillating rather than beating, I realized that the B consciousness belonging to the body was beginning to show signs of becoming composite, that is, built up of "consciousness" from the head, the heart, the viscera, &c. These components became more individual, and the B consciousness began to disintegrate, while the A consciousness which was now me, seemed to be altogether outside my body, which it could see. Gradually I realized that I could see not only my body and the bed in which it was, but everything in the whole house and garden, and then I realized that I was seeing not only "things" at home, but in London and in Scotland, in fact wherever my attention was directed it seemed to me; and the explanation which I received, was that I was free in a 'time' dimension of space, wherein "now" was in some way equivalent to "here" in the ordinary threedimensional space of everyday life. I next realized that my vision included not only "things" in the ordinary three-dimensional world, but also "things" in these fourth dimensional places that I was in.

From now on the description is entirely metaphorical, because there are no words which really describe what I saw, or rather appreciated. Although I had no body, I had what appeared to be perfect two-eyed vision, and what I saw can only be described in this way, that I was conscious of a "psychic stream" flowing with life through time, and it seemed to have a particularly intense iridescence. I 'understood' that our brains are just end organs projecting as it were from the three-dimensional universe into the psychic stream, and flowing with it into the fourth dimensions. Around each brain there seemed to be what I can only describe in ordinary words as a 'condensation' of the psychic stream, which formed in each case as though it were a cloud; only it was not a cloud. While I was just appreciating this, the ( inner) voice who was conveying information to me explained that the fourth dimension was ( implicit ?) in everything existing in the three-dimensional space, and at the same time everything in the three-dimensional space existed in the fourth dimension, and I quite clearly understood how "now" in the fourth-dimensional universe was just the same to all intents and purposes as "here" in a three-dimensional universe—that is to say a four-dimensional (4-th dimension of our ?) being was everywhere in the "now" just as one is "everywhere" in the "here" in a three-dimensional view of things. I then realized that I myself was a "condensation", as it were, in the psychic stream, a sort of cloud that was not a cloud, and the visual impression I had of myself was blue.

Gradually I began to recognize people, and I saw the psychic condensation attached to A, B, C, D, E, F, and to quite a number of men that I knew. In addition I saw quite a number of people that I know had very little psychic condensation at all attached to them. Each of these condensations varied from all others in bulk, sharpness of outline, and apparent solidity. Just as I was beginning to grasp all these I saw "A" enter my bedroom; I realized she got a terrible shock, and I saw her hurry to the telephone; I saw my doctor leave his patients and come very quickly, and heard him say, or saw him think, "He is nearly gone." I heard him quite clearly speaking to me on the bed, but I was not in touch with the body, and could not answer him. I was really cross when he took a syringe and rapidly injected my body with something which I afterwards learned was camphor. As the heart began to beat more strongly, I was drawn back, and I was intensely annoyed, because I was so interested, and just beginning to understand where I was and what I was "seeing." I came back into the body really angry at being pulled back, and once I was back all the clarity of vision of anything and everything disappeared, and I was just possessed of a glimmer of consciousness which was suffused with pain. It is surprising to note that this dream, vision, or experience has shown no tendency to fade like a dream would fade, nor has it shown any tendency to 'rationalize' itself as a dream would do. I think that the whole thing simply means that but for medical treatment of a peculiarly prompt and vigorous kind, I was dead to the three-dimensional universe. If this is so, and if, in fact, the experience of liberation of consciousness in the fourth-dimensional universe is not imagination, it is a most important matter to place on record.

Thus ended the record: what are we to make of it? Of one thing only can we be quite sure. It is not fake. Without certainty of this I should not have brought it to your notice. But, was it a dream, or does it record a symbolic vision of one aspect of reality translated into adequate words? I do not know. Whichever or whatever it was it provides us with a scheme that helps to make "picturable" to our minds things otherwise difficult to grasp. First it has helped me to define the idea of a psychic continuum spread out in time like a plasmic net. It does more; it provides a comprehensible background for the soul paleontology of Jung, and it seems to throw a flood of light on the meaning of soul abysses discovered by the method of Freud. It brings all the parapsychic manifestations into the domain of the picturable. It also provides a rational seeming background for such ideas of the 'group soul' and such a conception as the 'psychic atmosphere'. But, most important, it makes the idea of the lifelong unity of body and soul (mind ?) much simpler to grasp. Of course, I do not imagine there is a visible 'psychic stream', but I do quite definitely believe that the record I have read presents in words one aspect of Man's complicated being and relationships, as these were symbolized in the mind of a man at the point of death. There is one more important point that we must notice: there is absolutely nothing in the record which is 'metaphysical'. The whole adventure, if such it were, took place on the plane of nature. It is thus to be sharply distinguished from the records of the spiritual adventures of the mystics.

Beyond the scientific knowledge of man lay an
incompletely explored area in which important things
happened without discoverable physical cause. They had
all become so sure that science was the only door to
knowledge that they tended to ignore the older ways of approach. If they could re-awaken the sense of untrammelled wonder, which in the days of the Renaissance gave birth to science itself, they should make fresh starts along new lines; but for the time being, and for a little longer, science was queen of the mind. The brilliant record and achievement of science showed how rich had been the prize won for each of them by disciplined curiosity, but that must not obscure from them the fact that to-day science was running into blind alleys from which it could only emerge by escaping from direct touch with human understanding. They could not grasp man as a whole. This did not mean that it was impossible to improve their understanding. On the contrary, once they had ceased to fear what seemed to them nonrational, and recognized that human reason could not grasp all reality, they could get to know a lot about him. The body-soul of a man was only the house in which his real self lived. Man was also a spirit, and this spirit in some way had become a partner in the body-soul, making the
diagrammatic formula of man, body-soul-spirit."

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 23 Feb 2016.

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Wed, 20 Apr 2016 #49
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

paul daniel wrote:
expand on the content of that, if in the mood and if you think it is worthy, like what is your "impression" now have triggered my curiosity here with this.. thanks..

Nothing big, Dan, but every once in a while some 'no name' psy-entities seem to check up with you- but this being said such experiences are so close to being purely 'subjective'... But for your curiosity's benefit I'll try to copy-paste a few of K's more 'documented' psy-events. Here's one from Mary Lutyens bio- if you want I can mail you the whole e-book

It was a short operation and not worth talking about, though there was considerable pain. While the pain continued I saw or discovered that the body was almost floating in the air. It may have been an illusion, some kind of hallucination, but a few minutes later there was the personification—not a person—but the personification of death. Watching this peculiar phenomenon between the body and death, there seemed to be a sort of dialogue between them. Death seemed to be talking to the body with great insistence and the body reluctantly was not yielding to what death wanted. Though there were people in the room this phenomenon went on, death inviting, the body refusing.

It was not a fear of death making the body deny the demands of death but the body realised that it was not responsible for itself, there was another entity that was dominating, much stronger, more vital than death itself. Death was more and more demanding, insisting and so the other interfered. Then there was a conversation or a dialogue between not only the body, but this other and death. So there were three entities in conversation. He had warned, before he went to the hospital, that there might be a disassociation with the body and so death might intervene. Though the person [Mary] was sitting there and a nurse came and went, it was not a self-deception or kind of hallucination. Lying in the bed he saw the clouds full of rain and the window lighted up, the town below stretching for miles. There was spattering of rain on the window pane and he saw clearly the saline solution dripping, drop by drop, into the organism. One felt very strongly and clearly that if the other had not interfered death would have won.

This dialogue began in words with thought operating very clearly. There was thunder and lightning and the conversation went on. Since there was no fear at all, neither on the part of the body or the other—absolutely no fear—one could converse freely and profoundly. It is always difficult to put a conversation of that kind into words. Strangely, as there was no fear, death was not enchaining the mind to the things of the past. What came out of the conversation was very clear. The body was in considerable pain and not apprehensive or anxious and the other was discernibly beyond both. It was as though the other was acting as an umpire in a dangerous game of which the body was not fully aware. Death seemed to be always present but death cannot be invited. That would be suicide which would be utterly foolish.

During this conversation there was no sense of time. Probably the whole dialogue lasted about an hour and time by the watch did not exist. Words ceased to exist but there was an immediate insight into what each one was saying. Of course if one is attached to anything— ideas, beliefs, property or person, death would not come to have a conversation with you. Death in the sense of ending is absolute freedom. The quality of conversation was urbane. There was nothing whatsoever of sentiment, emotional extravagance, no distortion of the absolute fact of time coming to an end and the vastness without any border when death is part of your daily life. There was a feeling that the body would go on for many years but death and the other would always be together until the organism could no longer be active. There was a great sense of humour amongst the three of them and one could almost hear the laughter. And the beauty of it was with the clouds and the rain. The sound of this conversation was expanding endlessly and the sound was the same at the beginning and was without end. It was a song without a beginning or an end. Death and life are very close together, like love and death. As love is not a remembrance, so death had no past. Fear never entered this conversation for fear is darkness and death is light. This dialogue was not illusory or fanciful. It was like a whisper in the wind but the whisper was very clear and if you listened you could hear it; you could then be part of it. Then we would share it together. But you won’t listen to it as you are too identified with your own body, your own thoughts and your own direction. One must abandon all this to enter into the light and love of death.

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 20 Apr 2016.

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Fri, 24 Jun 2016 #50
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More lost & found 'pages from K's life ( dutyfully recorded by Mrs Zimbalist ) Who said they are 'boring' ?

Mary (Lutyens) told, jokingly, of a sentence she had censored in Krishnaji’s letters to her mother. He had written from Ojai, “I am going to Santa Barbara, where I will cook a millionaire.”’ To our amazement and hilarity, Krishnaji said, “Yes, and she only gave a hundred dollars!”’ ‘It was a Mrs. Bliss. (For a man who cannot remember so many things he suddenly remembered this!)


‘Narayan, Fritz Wilhelm, and David Bohm had planned to have a discussion. Krishnaji said he would sit in “as an observer.” Dorothy and I also were present. Once there, of course, Krishnaji participated.

They began to examine the way a child learns, motor-learning, action-learning, then touch, etcetera. After a bit, Krishnaji jumped it way forward to insight. He asked if our consciousness can be aware of itself. He said that if insight is not acted upon, it dies. He spoke of observation in which there is no distortion; distortion is the "me". He said there is no action before insight. If there is action, it is the action of learning. Dave said humans handle their lives through "action-learning", therefore, insight must be different. Bohm said, “You say insight comes before action, something goes beyond action—what is it? Perception? Krishnaji said there was fragmentary perception. “Insight implies holistic action, which affects my daily life, the way I live, feel, love.
Dave said that then motor-learning is a limited perception and insight is when it is whole. Krishnaji said he had yesterday picked up his biography and read about dissolving the Order of the Star . “And I said, How did he do it? He had tremendous insight—he did it.” Krishnaji went on to say that insight doesn’t come out of learning. Dave pointed out that Krishnaji emphasizes observation and learning. Isn’t it necessary?

Krishnaji said it helps free the mind. Narayan said that Krishnaji had once spoken of the art of listening, the art of looking, and the art of learning—the three arts. Do they precede insight? Krishnaji replied, “They open the door, but it doesn’t mean that there will be insight. He didn’t do these—he simply said, “This is absurd.”… “The point is how we move out of the pattern. Looking, listening, learning is in the pattern.”… “Can you have insight without compassion? But he (as a child) didn’t know the meaning of the word.”…“There is 'outward-going' and 'inward-going'. Most of us are 'outward-going', linear. That means he was entirely inward-going at that time. He was not an extrovert. There was insight. That is what I want to get at. I wish I could study him.

Can consciousness become aware of itself? Is there a mirror in which consciousness sees itself—the three arts ? David asked, “What does it learn?” Krishnaji replied, “Its content. I think it can. I say, yes it can.”…“Can consciousness listen to itself without an outsider listening in?”…“Have you ever seen a body from the outside?”’
‘“Can consciousness listen to itself? What happens? Nothing happens. There is empty space, absolutely nothing. No observer, only 'that'.”’

What is insight? There must be a certain foundation. The foundation is "non-self". Insight 'is' (occuring) in the absence of self. When consciousness is aware of itself, and there is 'no-thing', then there is insight. That nothingness is insight. Insight is emptiness and non-self.

‘“Consciousness becomes aware of itself, and there is no-thing, no content.”…“How am I to communicate this? If ( a holistic) education isn’t (helping) the flowering of human beings, it has no meaning.”’
‘“Without love, compassion, there is no fine mind. No fine mind without insight, observation.”’
‘At the end, he said, “This morning while I played (the disc with) Southerland singing Bellini there flashed a great delight I missed in my youth. I said, ‘What the hell are you looking at there? It is here.’ That was insight.”’

First there is freedom, then insight, revolutionary action. If they stiffen into a pattern, then follows dogma and power. Freedom is movement. When or if insight becomes knowledge, then dogma follows. Freedom from self brings insight. When there is insight, there is radical transformation, which is freedom. When fundamental change does not take place, then there is pattern, dogma, and power. It is the function of the Foundations to see this doesn’t happen.


Krishnaji spent the day in bed sleeping, reading. He said, “I don’t dream anymore. Somewhere in Madras or RishiValley, I forget which, I dreamt Rajagopal was chasing me and then I woke up. I said this is silly to keep thinking of that man. That is enough. And so I went into it, and I haven’t dreamt since.”


Krishnaji at lunch said that the Sanskrit root meaning of mantra is interesting: Man means 'reflect on non-becoming'. 'Tra' means to destroy, to finish with self-centered activity.”’


(1977) Near the big rock, he said, “You must see into this brain, learn how he thinks. Amma and Leadbeater said this brain had been prepared for a thousand years. It is a special brain. It will probably get better the longer I live, and I will live another ten or fifteen years. You are twenty years younger, you must outlive me. I must find someone, maybe it is you, someone to carry on who has understood something. I wish I had met you forty years ago.”’


Along the beach road, he said, “During the last three or four months, something has been happening during sleep. It sounds silly, but it is a sense of ecstasy, as though the brain were trying to assimilate a "depth". Dreams are usually superficial and have very little meaning. I have hardly any dreams.”’

‘I asked, “How do you perceive it?”’

‘Krishnaji replied, “When I wake up, there is a strange feeling that I haven’t had before.”’

‘Me: “Is it that the brain is touching something it hadn’t touched before?”’

‘Krishnaji: “Yes. That’s it. It is something the brain hasn’t touched before. It isn’t an 'experience'. In that sleep, there is a greater penetration into something that the brain —no, thought- can never touch.”’

‘Me: “What happens to most people is that you see something and then you try to understand what it is, but this is different? How is it different? Is it outside the realm of what the brain can investigate? Is that right?”’

‘Krishnaji: “The brain is trying to understand it, trying to find out what it is.”’

‘Me: “When you say ‘the brain,’ do you mean thought, or the brain without thought?”’

‘Krishnaji: “No, not thought.” A little later, he said, “You remember that night we were sitting quietly and there was "something" in the room? That has been happening more. It happened in India a little.” I asked him about the pain, and he said it is going on slightly all the time. I asked if the “otherness” of The Notebook and this thing he is speaking of today, is of the same, and he said, “Yes, yes”…“But I don’t remember ‘the other.’ It is gone.”’


February twenty-fifth (1977) , ‘Krishnaji slept badly. He said he had a nightmare. “Evil ones were trying to push me, fight me, and I was trying to make a circle around myself, but it didn’t work and I finally woke up.”…“I was trying to make a circle around the house. I knew you were in there, and I was trying to make a circle.”’

‘When I questioned him about why the 'circle' didn’t work, he said. “Well, it did because I woke up.” Then we started to talk about 'making the circle', and he said it was something he didn’t want to talk about.

‘I asked, “Was it magic?”’

‘And he said, “Yes, sort of.”’

‘I asked, “Did you learn it? Were you taught it?” He replied no, but he knows things like that.

I asked why shouldn’t it be told to other people?
And he said, “I have an 'instinct' about it. I’ve never talked about it.” Then he said, “Do you remember when we first came to this house?”’—he was referring to Pine Cottage—‘“I wanted to run from it, it was bad, it was all wrong. And then we came and stayed, and it became alright, and it got better and better. Do you remember that?”

And out of this, he told me he 'does this thing' whenever he comes to a house, Brockwood, Malibu, here, or I presume Tannegg too, or a hotel room. He does what he calls “drawing a circle around a place” and he said that that is one reason that when he is not with me, it is difficult for him to do it—when I’m traveling or away, and yet even when I go to town in the car alone, he does it to some degree to protect me. One does not protect Maria or oneself. One is with non-resistance, non-opposition, non-setting oneself— there is no self in this because there is no opposition—the intrinsic part is the non-self and non-opposition. He spoke of 'angels', not angels as 'sentimental beings'—that blah, as he put it—but the invitation to the good, the beauty.


He spoke of a "mine of gold"; are we going to stop at the edge of the cave? What are we going to do about the mine of gold?”…“I’m going to pursue this for the rest of my life with the Foundations. It happened we are together. My job is very clear for the next ten years. Whenever we meet, I’m going to push this thing. What is your 'dharma'? A good word, but spoilt. Dharma means 'sustain the original'—if I may use that word with tremendous hesitation. It is not understood in the West.”

K says this "(gold) mine" is a sacred treasure. I leave it to you. What will you do with it? My dharma has become very clear in these meetings, apart from the public meetings, to push and pull you into the cave. I feel this tremendously. I accept that.


‘Krishnaji said, “No human being has refused to go through all this (fear, etc.) and said I won’t operate in my conditioned response. If he did, something other may take place. Something other does take place when you look at the whole thing.”…“Yet, that man, K, never said that, he just did it. The demand for the essence of excellence washes everything else way. It is possible.…One must have passion for excellence.”… “Total insight is the flame that burns away all confusion.”…“Don’t you then act as a magnet when you are passionate to bring about transformation? Passion may be what is missing. If it is missing, ask for it!

*( lost & found excerpts from a 'casual' K conversation with David Bohm and Mary in 1977)

Krishnaji: There are other "forces". You may use the word 'evil'. There are people in the world who are "evil".

David Bohm: Would you say (the action of these) forces penetrate beyond the ordinary communication ?

Krishnaji: They penetrate only when "that interest" is not in charge.

Bohm: What is not clear to me is, suppose there is an evil person, making evil through his words and actions. But suppose I don’t see him. He is somewhere, far away.

Krishnaji: But there is a very well-known phenomenon (of telepathy ?) . I can think about you with affection, care, or I can hate you.

Bohm: How does that hate affect you when you are far away?

Krishnaji: Yes, that’s what I mean.

David: Then, there is ( telepathic) transmission of thought?

Krishnaji: Oh, obviously, obviously.

David: “Yes... Well, it is important to get it clear, because it contradicts what people usually accept, but you are quite clear on that? Quite sure of it?

Krishnaji: I’m quite sure. Personally, when I go to a place which I’m not familiar with, where I haven’t lived, say when I first came here (in Ojai) after ten years, I came through that door. I felt appalling, I said to her: I (wanted to ) ran out.

David: But, how is it now?

‘Krishnaji: Nothing. It’s all gone.

David: But what happened?

Krishnaji: Because the "other thing" is stronger, it cannot be touched. That’s why whenever a doctor said to me, ‘Do you want it?’”’—meaning a general anesthesia—‘“by injection, a total anesthesia…(the answer is 'no' ?) ’

‘David: Would you say, suppose you took an anesthetic could an 'evil thought' take hold of you?

‘Krishnaji: Oh, but I don’t want to go through all that. Of course.

‘Mary: Is it relevant to ask what is the difference between the "unconsciousness" of anesthesiology and sleep?

‘Krishnaji: Oh, that’s entirely different. There, it is natural. This is unnatural.

‘Mary: Because it is imposed?

‘Krishnaji: You are forced, you’re driven out.

David: Now, with sleep, would you say there is still a kind of attention (going on) ?

‘Krishnaji: Oh, yes. That Intelligence is watching.


In the evening, Krishnaji spoke to me about not letting him 'slip away' in the hospital. I must talk to him, remind him, be watchful after the operation. He said that the (consciousness of the ?) body for the last three days has been resisting the (prostate) operation, and that the danger is that he, Krishnaji, might suddenly say, “That is enough,” and 'slip out'. The (fine) line between life and death is always there; it has happened to him in the past; it happened here in Ojai when he was walking in the mountains; it has happened in India when he “goes off” and “wanders away,” and that could happen here. He said he must not take any sedation, but in particular I must be "watchful". I asked what I could do, and he said to talk, to talk to him. It wouldn’t happen with strangers about, but after he comes back to his room after the operation, I must talk to him. I must remind him, too, in the morning before he goes down to surgery. I must also remind him before he gives blood. I must be watchful. Last night, when we were joking about a “home loan,” which was being advertised on television, I jokingly said, “Do you wish to apply for a home loan?” and he said, yes. And I said, “For what purpose?” And, he said, “For an operation,” which threw me, because since he made the decision to have the operation, he hasn’t referred to it except very factually, and suddenly in the middle of a joking conversation, I realized it is in his mind to some degree. Sometime later, I asked if he didn’t want to have the operation. Should we cancel it? And he said, no, no. It is decided, and this morning, I asked him again if we should not have it. “No. If one neglects it and there is a 'stoppage', it would be much worse.” But, I must 'remind' him.


Abdullah and Ms. Habib were there. They asked Krishnaji about thought being matter, etcetera. Thought as matter dies with the body, which is matter, but Krishnaji implies thought in some form enters a 'stream of (collective) consciousness' and continues.

Abdullah asked about reincarnation, and Krishnaji said the body and mind die, but "thought" is like an energy put out by the mind, and it is matter and continues as evil exists, as good exists, the good put out by man, etc


( summer 1977) After she (the hospital nurse) left, he took my hand, then had me sit near, but not too near the bed. “This is the danger point. I feel like going off, not fainting, you understand.” I talked quietly to him as he had instructed me, but now he stopped me, “No, no. You mustn’t say anything. You mustn’t interfere. You mustn’t think about anything.” He had me move the chair to the foot of the bed opposite him. His face became inward-turned, slightly hallucinated look. This was interrupted by Lailee coming in to see him.Dr Hausman had left orders for Demarol if needed, and Lailee told the nurse, Ms. Mitchell, to give him a tiny dose, what one would give a child. It was given, and he began to feel a dizziness from it. “Is this normal?” he asked several times. It cut the pain, but soon made him sick to his stomach, and he vomited several times.

Hallucinatory look increased. He kept telling the nurse to go and have her supper, which she had had earlier. It was by now a little before 9 p.m. When she was out of the room, he told me, “I felt the body floating and there was a dialogue between death and the body and ‘the Other,’ and death was winning.” He became aware that the nurse had returned to the darkened room, and this seemed to bring him out of the state he had been in.

We were able to talk about this in spite of her comings and goings. And he said there was nothing I could do, not to interfere. I pointed out that the nurse’s presence had brought him round. But he said, “It will come again tonight until it is settled.” Soon, he lapsed again into the “off” state and said that since five this morning, so many people have touched the body, and he began to count them, and said, “About ten have touched me.” There was a sense of irritation in all that had been done to him and soon he began to look about as though seeing things, making random gestures, raising his right arm.

Then, “Where am I?” Pause. “I have been wounded,” looking about. Then, “Where’s my brother Nitya?” The voice was light, higher, almost that of a boy. Then “I want to join you, Nitya.” And then, “I’m going away.”

I said, “No Krishna. You are going to be well and strong.” After a few seconds, he made a deep-sounding cough, his normal cough, and his voice dropped to its normal level, and he said, “That’s better.” And then, “I’m not going. I’ll join you later, Nitya, much later, another ten years.” Later, he said, “One mustn’t be burdened with the past.” And later, he said, “You and I mustn’t be in an automobile accident, so drive carefully.” And later, “I’m not a philosopher.”’

‘Finally, after about an hour, he seemed to come out of it and spoke directly to me. “I’m all right now.”

May tenth. ‘Krishnaji was reading when I came in at 6 a.m. He is much better. No pain. Lailee came in early and so did Hausman. Krishnaji didn’t want solid breakfast, but I made a little muesli and some of his usual food, and he ate it saying “L’appétit vient en mangeant.”

After Hausman’s visit, Krishnaji dictated to me a dialogue with death which is, at least partly, already in Mary Lutyens’s book.

“It was a minor operation and not worth talking about, though there was considerable pain. While the pain continued, I saw or discovered that the body was almost floating in the air. It may have been an illusion, some kind of hallucination, but a few minutes later, there was the personification of death. Watching this peculiar phenomenon between the body and death, there seemed to be a sort of dialogue between them. Death seemed to be talking to the body with great insistence, and the body reluctantly, not admitting what death wanted. Though there were people in the room, this phenomenon went on, death inviting, the body refusing. It was not a fear of death why the body was denying the demands of death, but it realized it was not responsible for itself, there was another "entity" that was dominating, much stronger, more vital than death itself.

Death was more and more demanding and insisting and so ‘the Other’(spiritual entity ?) interfered. Then there was a conversation or a dialogue between not only the body, but ‘the Other’ and death. So, there were three entities in conversation. He had warned before he went to the hospital that there might be a 'dis-association' with the body and so death might interfere. Though the (MZ) person was sitting there, and a nurse, it was not a self-deception or kind of hallucination. Lying in the bed he saw the clouds full of rain and the town below stretching for miles. There was spattering of rain on the window pane and he saw clearly the saline solution dripping drop by drop into the organism. One felt very distinctly and clearly that if ‘the Other’ had not interfered, death would have won.

This 'dialogue' was expressed in words with thought operating very clearly. There was thunder and lightning and the conversation went on. Since there was no fear at all, neither on the part of the body or ‘the Other’—absolutely no fear—one could converse freely and profoundly. It is always difficult to put a 'conversation' of that kind into words. Strangely, as there was no fear, death was not enchaining the mind to things of the past. What came out of the conversation was very clear. The body in considerable pain and was not apprehensive or anxious and ‘the Other’ was discernibly beyond both. It was as though ‘the Other’ were acting as an 'umpire', a dangerous game of which the body was not at all aware. Even if it was, there would be no withdrawal from the scene.

Death seemed to be always present, like one’s shadow. Being concerned with the whole movement of life, death cannot be 'invited'. But, death and the living, in this peculiar phenomenon that was going on, the three, would never be separate. During this 'conversation' there was no sense of time. Probably the whole dialogue lasted about an hour and the time by the watch did not exist. There were no words used but an immediate insight into what each was saying. (Of course, if one is attached to anything—ideas, beliefs, property or person, death would not come to have a conversation with you) 'Death' in the sense of ending is absolute freedom.

The quality of conversation was 'urbane'. There was nothing whatsoever of sentimental, emotional extravagance to distort the absolute fact of time coming to an end and the vastness without any border when death is taking part in your daily life. There was the feeling that the body would go on for many years but death and ‘the Other’ would always be together till the organism could no longer be active. There was a great 'sense of humor' among the three of them and one could almost hear the laughter. And the beauty of it was with the clouds and the rain.”’

PS: When in the evening, he did have me reread the whole piece, I pointed that he’d been speaking of death, “the Other,” and the body, and now he referred to death, K, and the body—so he changed that sentence, putting “the Other” in place of “K.” “You know what I mean by ‘the Other,’” he said. “The "mind" that is inhabited by K.”’

This post was last updated by John Raica Fri, 24 Jun 2016.

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Sun, 26 Jun 2016 #51
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Continuing the 'lost and found ' pages about K from MZ's memos

(1970) He asked me if I felt any presence of Sam (her husband) after he died. I said yes. We discussed what is evidence and what is imagination. I said I felt it strongly but neither saw objectively nor heard anything. It was a strong sense of presence and communication, real to me, but I cannot offer it as objective evidence to another.

Krishnaji said to me, “You can tell the difference between imagination and a 'something'.” I asked how one can assess such things. "I don’t assert anything because I cannot see how it can be proven. But I pay attention and do not deny any part of it".

Krishnaji then spoke of change and listening, i.e., ‘“if you really listen and see, that erases the habit, the previous imprint. The "new" then functions in the mind and whenever an action of the old pattern arises the mind alerts the consciousness, the conscious attention.” He spoke of my bad habit of frowning, and the need for “a quiet face”’—he always used to say to me, “Have a quiet face”—‘remains because I haven’t seen the importance of changing them. If I had, the old pattern would be erased, he said. He said, “The body sometimes takes time to relearn, but the mind can be instantly alert, therefore, to listen, to see, to change, to wipe out the old pattern. Lack of change is inattention,” he said.


Toward the end of lunch, Krishnaji began to ask Dick Clarke about what Krishnaji was like when they found him. Clarke seemed to remember it all clearly. Krishnaji kept at him with questions, holding Clarke’s left hand and ticking off the questions on his fingers. Krishnaji seemed to feel that what “the boy” was like and whatever went on in his mind—as he kept asking—eluded him.’ In other words, he seemed to feel that it eluded him. But for me, the picture was a true line throughout; the dreamy child who when punished by the school master would stand on the veranda until told to leave, who often had to be fetched home by his little brother, was a gentle, compliant boy who replied to his TS elders, “Whatever you say” when asked about doing something. He was polite and accepting, but not really touched by their world; it went in one ear and out the other. He learned outward things: manners, speech, witnessed the TS goings-on, but it left little mark; he was "elsewhere". He remembers vaguely standing by the Adyar River for hours, staring at it, vacant. *This vacancy was some 'otherness' that protected him, let whatever he is grow, mature very slowly. It protected him from most of the pulls of life later on, from the brutalities of Rajagopal and Rosalind. It is there today when he is “off,” when he sits in the dental chair for four hours without a thought; his "reality", his native place is elsewhere, as it were. I said all this to him later and at supper when we all talked a bit about it. In the Rajagopal and Rosalind times, he said he was sometimes physically beaten, but he didn’t resist their violence as he hadn’t fought against the wretched schoolmaster as a child. It all left no scars, just as the Theosophical beliefs did not condition his mind.


On Sunday, the twentieth (1970), ‘Krishnaji planned to write, but a conversation at breakfast lasted into the morning. He sat with Pupul and me in the West Wing dining room, and got onto the subject of kundalini. He questioned Pupul on whether her observation of what happened in Madras and at Ooty in 1948 could have been kundalini. Her version, which she wrote in detail, was taken by Rajagopal, who forbid her to make a copy. She described it to Krishnaji and me. She and Nandini were staying in Vasanta Vihar. They heard Krishnaji groaning in his room and went in, fearing he was sick. He looked at her and said, “Are you Rosalind?”
She said, “No.”
He told them to stay in the room and not leave him alone. He said, “Krishna has gone away,” and then he put his hand over his mouth and said, “I mustn’t say his name. He doesn’t like me to say his name.” He was in apparent pain, sweating and faint.
This happened again the same year when he was staying with Frydman. It would start around 6 p.m. and lasted until 1 a.m. He told Pupul and Nandini to stay in the room’—this is the Ooty occurrence—‘but wouldn’t have Frydman there. He would faint and an extraordinary beauty would come into his face. Pupul described what was happening to him as seeing a total cleansing of his mind.

In reply to Krishnaji’s questioning, she said that she wouldn’t describe it as kundalini, which is a result of conscious deliberate meditation on chakra centers in the lotus pose, and the result of great effort and a release of great energy, bringing various powers, etcetera. But Krishnaji’s various related experiences were different. Leadbeater, who knew at least something about kundalini, couldn’t explain Krishnaji’s experience. In kundalini, there is a breaking of the energy in the mind, like an explosion. Krishnaji never seems to have been caught in conditioning. He was very interested, and questioned her at length. After these episodes, he has no memory of them at all. In Madras, and maybe it was at Ooty, he spoke of “the shining ones, the great ones are here.”


Later he told me he had dreamt he met Winston Churchill talking to a girl. Churchill said to Krishnaji, “Oh, it doesn’t matter if you marry a girl or not.” Krishnaji said to Churchill’—“If you’ll forgive my saying so, Churchill, you are naughty!”’ ‘To which Churchill replied to Krishnaji, “I love you, I love you.”’ End of dream!
‘Krishnaji said to me, “I’ve met very many distinguished people on the astral plane.”’

*.... And, for instance, his not wanting to go into hospitals is part of that. When I had the skin graft on my leg, it wasn’t serious, but he said to me, “You know that I can’t come and see you in the hospital,” and I said, “Of course I know, I wouldn’t hear of you coming to see me in the hospital!”  He knew I was in the hospital, but it wasn’t so much me in the hospital, but it’s all the terrible things that are happening to people all around. It was the hospital, not me. And when he said to Dorothy or to the school, “If you don’t settle all of this between you, I will close the door to the West Wing,” and that would be a physical cut-off. And when he would come to Brockwood, when the troubles were going on, he would pick it up the minute he got here, that it was… It also ties in with him saying that he wanted students, when they came through the gate, to "feel something".
I keep coming back in my mind—I know we talked about "the angels". Two angels who were looking after me.
And he asked me the next day, “Do remember what we talked about?” and I said, “Yes, about the two angels.” And then I said, “What did you mean by that?” And he said, “You should have asked the man then.” That has been haunting me. Who was saying that?  And when I said something, he said, “Probably.” I mean that was a bystander’s comment. It’s very strange if you start questioning these things.And there’s that strange repeated statement reported by Nitya in “the process” times of “the man who came to watch.”  Well, there were different entities during “the process”; there was' Krishna', who went away; there was the 'little child' who was left; and there were 'entities' or “somethings” who were doing operations, and then the "man who came to watch".
(...)Where were we? While driving, Krishnaji said he had a meditation,’ it says here. ‘“Be empty and aware from within.”’


. So we went in the morning in his, he driving. He said “a marvelous meditation” had been in the night.’
‘I asked what made it marvelous, special. Was it the intensity or content?’
‘He said, “Both.”’
‘I asked if it had content, and he said, “Of course not.”’
‘I asked, “Is it a feeling without content, without words?”’
‘“Yes,” he said; it was in his sleep, but continued when he awoke and got up in the night, and when he went back to bed.’


He said he awakened in the night with a sense of joy and felt the room was filled with people. Quote: “Eminent, holy beings who seem there when something happens in his brain. My head felt enormous.”

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 29 Jun 2016.

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Wed, 29 Jun 2016 #52
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost & find' stuff From K's life


What happened was that years before, Biascoechea was donating some money to KWINC, and he wanted to know more about the finances of KWINC.
Rajagopal refused to give that information, and said that if there were any difficulty about it, he would reveal that Krishnaji had a relationship with Rosalind. And this so shocked Biascoechea, not the relationship, but the fact that Rajagopal would blackmail him. And poor Biascoechea was concealing this for the rest of his life, including through the deposition. So, this wretched Terry Christensen lawyer got him to lie, that Rajagopal had never done anything wrong about money.


At lunch, after reading Candles in the Sun, he spoke of “protecting the body”, how it is necessary. Crossing the beach road together, Krishnaji paused and a car came along fast with the sun in its eyes. I called to Krishnaji, who was just out of my reach, and he said, “I see it, I see it,” but he didn’t move. He has an odd tendency never to act quickly when there is danger from traffic. He says he sees it as though that was enough.’
I remember the first time crossing Piccadilly road with him: he was about to step into traffic and I, without thinking, grabbed him. And he said very casually, “You just saved my life.” And I was horrified, and he said,
“Well, it wouldn’t happen if I were alone. Then I pay attention.”**


On the ninth of June we went to London, and we lost my briefcase in the cab. What happened was Krishnaji was always concerned by what I carried. And when I carried both a handbag and, in this case, a briefcase, he wanted to carry the non-handbag. I always resisted, but I gave in on this occasion. He left it in the backseat of the cab.
 We didn’t know it until we got to Huntsman. He was very disturbed by that. ‘So, The taxi driver had taken it to the police, who could see from papers inside that it had to do with Michael, so they called his office, and Michael’s clerk collected it.


Then, Krishnaji guided us to Montesano, a hotel where he and his brother stayed in the early ’20s, when Nitya had TB. Then, in 1957 also, Rajagopal left him there alone for about two months, giving him just enough money to pay his board plus 50 francs so he could do nothing else. We lunched there in the dining room where Krishnaji used to have a table alone in the corner by the window. It is a family hotel with long tables, children and parents on holiday. Krishnaji told us of Rajagopal having written to Vanda who was, at the time, in Gstaad not to communicate with Krishnaji.’ He left him there alone.
‘When Rajagopal left, after several days there, on one of which he was drunk in the dining room and called Krishnaji names in a loud voice, he told Krishnaji,’ ‘“You say you are never lonely, well, now you’re going to find out what it’s like, what the rest of us feel.”’

‘“But I was never lonely,” said Krishnaji.’ ‘“I could have just stayed there.” He went for walks all day in the hills, never spoke to anyone, even when the hotel manager wanted to introduce him to some guests. He left when it was time to go somewhere he was due. He went by train, changing twice, to Chamonix, where de Vidas met him.
But why did I put up with him?” he asked. “I just accepted it. I suppose because there was no one else to turn to.”’

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 29 Jun 2016.

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Sat, 02 Jul 2016 #53
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

March sixteenth (1977) ‘Krishnaji’s seventh meeting with the trustees

I asked about the “open window” through which the wind may come.’
Krishnaji said that “laying the foundation (understanding, fears, etc., etc.,) demands the 'other'. Laying the foundation brings about a movement—the volume of the water brings the movement. Movement brings energy

In 'laying the foundation' do not taking too long: compress it, then there is momentum, energy, movement. Then, discussion would take place at a different level, verbally or nonverbally.

Later, he said, “Can we act now as if K were no longer here? What would you do? and “if you have imbibed the teachings, you are the teacher.” Then, “You’ve got a deep well, don’t go to it with a little bucket. For god’s sake, use K, learn. You’ve got a short time. It is the responsibility of the Foundation to 'suck that dry'.’

As he continued, it was clear that one 'goes to the well' with no bucket. Consciousness, empty of knowledge, is no bucket.’

March eighteenth, ‘Krishnaji’s meeting with the trustees number eight. It began with David Bohm suggesting we start where the K-Bohm-Shainberg videos ended, the subject of something “sacred.” There was considerable exploring of guilt and responsibility. Krishnaji rather denigrated 'responsibility' in favor of a much larger, encompassing compassion. “Compassion can never be wrong. Compassion can never be inadequate in any circumstance. If action comes first it leads to guilt. Let compassion act.’

“If you are the world, which I feel most profoundly, compassion arises.…Sacred is the sense of wholeness. To live at the point of wholeness is a tremendous thing.…“The teaching is concerned with all of life, and out of that, comes compassion.”…“K feels you should enter into this sense of compassion, and so he is working at it. You are asking what do we do about this and that, the school, and the administration, etcetera. And K says, ‘Stop all that, and come into this, and you will answer rightly.’…“I won’t feel guilty if you don’t do it. I want you to do it, but it would be a horror if I felt guilty or disappointed. So it is my job to see that you come in . Isn’t it your job to see that others come in? But, first, come here.”…“Do we feel guilty because we can’t do it? Churches have said that you must renounce, and there began the ‘Separation-guilt.

“Are you listening consciously or unconsciously? ( Listening) 'consciously' is reaction. Deep listening is without ( self-conscious ?) response. That may be the answer. At that deep level, there is no 'you' and 'me'. At this ( superficial level ) there is.”’

“Something extraordinary is in this. You are listening to K on the surface, and you are making an effort to go down there and listen. That doesn’t work that way. Can you listen without the waves? Listening with background and knowledge is one thing; ( such ) listening is ( part of the self-centred ?) movement. Can you listen without ( mental ?) movement? That may convey what K wants to say more profoundly than the listening with waves. If you listen at a deeper level without words, as Foundation members, something entirely different takes place, about the schools, the centers, etcetera, then you are the teachers because you have moved from the periphery to the very center of it.… If you really listen in silence, you are there because there is no me, you are the world.”

Krishnaji’s trustee meeting number ten. There was a discussion of what relationship is between Krishnaji’s teachings, Krishnaji’s words, and truth. Is there such a thing as 'K teachings', or only truth? Is he talking out of the silence of truth, or out of an illusion of truth, the “noise of illusion. How to find out? Who is to judge? Is it out of silence of truth, or out of reactions and conditioning? How to approach this question? As I don’t know, I listen —this is what we should do, but put aside the personality, influence. Can I listen to what he says with an abandonment of the past? Then, there is a different relation to him. If I’m listening out of silence I see all the dangers of thought, etc

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 02 Jul 2016.

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Tue, 05 Jul 2016 #54
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More strange 'lost & found' pages from K's daily life (as recorded by Mary Z)

May thirteenth. (1978) The Marogers are here with their youngest daughter, Diane, a dear little girl, very bright, eager, friendly, and who has a congenital bone illness. Her parents hope that Krishnaji will cure her. In the evening, Vanda and I talked. She has brought with her her record of the times in 1961 in Gstaad, and 1962, when Krishnaji fainted, and another 'entity' seemed to speak to her through him. She came across her notebook when moving out of her Rome flat at Via Barnaba Oriani. She feels as though it is private, and she has kept it to herself, but that she has not the right to do this indefinitely.

Vanda began to tell Mary Lutyens about the events that began in July ’61 at Tannegg, the period at the start of Krishnamurti’s Notebook, when Krishnaji was staying with her. Krishnaji, in his room, suddenly fainted, and then as Vanda described it, his eyes became enormous and another being spoke to her through Krishnaji’s body. An extraordinary change came over the face. It happened on July 18, 1961. The voice said, “Don’t leave me until he comes back.” And then, “He must love you if he lets you touch me, as he is very particular in this.” And “Don’t let anyone come near me until he comes back.” On the following day, it happened again. Krishnaji fainted. After trembling, the eyes became larger and deeper, and the voice said, “I feel very strange. Where am I? Don’t leave me. Will you kindly stay with me until he returns? Are you comfortable? Take a chair. Do you know him well? Will you look after him?” It was this last question that Vanda said “Is why I am here.” She feels she gave her word on this; she said that for a whole month Krishnaji’s face continued to change. There was not a return of the other being but a “different look” would come over his face. He fainted once in the woods on a walk across the Turbach stream.

‘She describes these looks, and the feeling around Krishnaji at that time, in language that seems to copy Krishnaji’s own in Krishnamurti’s Notebook, which she was reading as he wrote it. It described a time, a year later, the twenty-first of May, 1962, in Rome when Krishnaji was ill with fever, and became delirious. “It has been told to you to look after him. He should not have gone out. You should’ve told him.” And, “Do you know him? You cannot know him. How can you know the running water?”…“We repeat and never question. Tell him, take a pencil, tell him ‘Death is always there very close to you, to protect you.’…‘When you take shelter, you will die.’ (Mary and I guessed there were four entities in all this. The one who 'goes away' (presumably Krishnaji); the one who tells what should be done; the one with the great eyes; and probably the childlike one who also spoke to me in Gstaad when Krishnaji was delirious).


The first of June. Krishnaji and I went to London. In the train he spoke again about the four hours on Tuesday in the dentist chair during the entire of which his mind was empty. And he didn’t…or, at least, I’m saying he didn’t, I don’t know what he did, but I don’t think he was trying to make it empty. I think it just was. He said it hadn’t struck him until afterward that his mind had been empty. He said that only when Mr. Thompson asked if he was alright, if it hurt, he would reply.

Otherwise, his mind was empty. Then, he said, “All this way in the taxi, coming from the station, there has been nothing in my head. It’s getting more and more this way.” Then, he said that when he put his hands on people to heal, sometimes it is as though there were a flame, a little flame in the middle of his hand, and that when he started treating Diane Maroger, there was none, for a number of times, and then slowly, it began to happen. And then, he felt, he was able to help her. He said that, for instance, when he put his hand on Sacha de Manziarly when he was in the hospital and dying’—this was in Paris—‘there was no flame, and from that he could tell that he could do nothing.

At lunch, I asked him about his own response to seeing suffering in India, or a poor bent man that we saw shuffling along the Strand. Was what he felt “a reaction”? "I mustn’t, because he then feels it in me, and he doesn’t want the burden on me. He spoke about going back to India in 1922, and the sights of misery were so appalling, that he could only walk at night.’

A man named Geoffrey Nicoletti in Philadelphia has been writing urgent letters to Krishnaji, to me, to David Bohm, and one came here for Alain Naudé, which I forwarded. He is hung up on resolving Krishnaji’s teachings and life, to the implications of the life of Padre Pio, whom he greatly reveres. He speaks of the physical signs: the stigmata, healings, being in two places, etcetera, which he regards as evidence of something, all involved with faith, a belief in Jesus, etcetera; but then there’s Krishnaji’s denial of faith, etcetera. I read the latest letter to Krishnaji, and he suggested that he and I have a taped conversation in which I put forth the questions in Nicoletti’s letters, and see what happens. We did this today, taping it on the Uher.

Krishnaji said that the phenomena of so-called “sainthood” are familiar in various religions, and they can come about without the person having truly perceived truth. He spoke of waters in the harbor and the waters of the sea. They are the same waters, but those in the harbor are 'contained' (i.e., still within a framework); whereas those of the sea are boundless. He questions any perception that doesn’t discard all religious dogma. It is partial, and therefore not the ultimate.

Nicoletti had mentioned kundalini, assuming Krishnaji to have had it, and that Padre Pio’s experience could be so described. Krishnaji objected to the term, and said he questions most descriptions of kundalini as not being the real thing. Nicoletti also asked if Padre Pio would consider Krishnaji as a profound thinker, but incomplete in not having perceived the meaning of Jesus; and if Krishnaji would consider Padre Pio as one who had helped people through healing, etcetera, but who had fundamentally done them harm through using faith, belief, etcetera. Krishnaji said this was a question he didn’t want to answer: to assess someone, “to say he is or is not.” And he questioned comparing Krishnaji and Padre Pio.


 June eighth. Krishnaji and I went to London. Then, during lunch at Fortnum’s, Krishnaji said, “There’s something in the head that is absolutely still, and that "center of energy" looks and sees. And when that is happening, the rest of the body is quiet, as though it were nonexistent.

M: When that 'silence' (silent energy ?) looks, does it record?

K: No, and that is the point of it.

M: If I were to ask you what you see, do you know what you see?

K: Yes; (but) the 'center of energy' doesn’t record. The tape records, the memory records, but not the "center of energy". (He said that the other day he thought of Rajagopal, and it kept coming back into his mind, and he said to himself “Why is this happening? No recording!” And from then on, he has not thought of it.)

M: I asked him if there is an 'action' in this, and he said, “Yes. There is an action but I don’t know what it is. In the center of the head there is a sense of great space, stillness, and energy. I discovered when I was putting my hands on little Diane—usually when I do that, I just put my hands on the person and look at the sky or the trees. But I discovered when I was doing it with her, that energy was not doing it, but that energy was there and is still continuing.

M: Is this is something new, something different?

K: Entirely. I am just watching it go on. It is an extraordinary kind of stillness, quietness, I haven’t had before. I mustn’t talk too much about it. ( as he said this, he gestured with his hand across his forehead) I shouldn’t talk about it. I talk about it to you, but it is something totally new. I haven’t had it before.

This post was last updated by John Raica Tue, 05 Jul 2016.

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Wed, 06 Jul 2016 #55
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost an found' pages from K's life (1974) as recorded by Mary Z‘

A few days ago he said he had had a good meditation in the night. I asked him about the distinction he appears to make in the book between meditation and “that otherness,” that immensity. Krishnaji asked, “What does it say?” I said that it seemed to me as if there were something in him, a state of perception of which he was capable, whereas “the otherness” appeared to come to him and enter into his consciousness. He replied, “That sounds right, but they are not entirely separate.”

‘This evening when I said how good his talk was this morning, he said,  “I knew something was going on in the brain the last few days.” When I spoke of the ( Notebook) manuscript he wrote, he said, “It’s not my book. I didn’t write it.”’


On the twenty-fifth of June, on the train going up to London, Krishnaji asked me to tell him again what Erna’s letter had said. One obvious advantage is the land is suitable and the cost is nil. Krishnaji dictated a cable to be signed by us both and sent to Erna. “Please gladly proceed with what you propose in matter of land.” Krishnaji then said, “It is strange. Four days ago when I was going down to lunch, the thought came. I said, ‘Nitya, do something about Arya Vihara. They are such silly people. See that something happens about this.”’


June twenty-sixth: ‘A while back, in a conversation with Krishnaji about interviews, he said, “When they are open, they want you to read their letter. Other times, they have a mask on, and I am deceived. And if people don’t want to be looked into, he said, “It is not my business.” ‘And he said, “You come to see me, and you are serious. You ask me to look. I never offer my opinion. Then it is simple and clear. I can go ahead. Others say, ‘Look, but not too deeply.’ I go as deeply as they want me to. If they want me to go a mile, I go a mile. Naudé never did. I wish he had. That is what makes me uncomfortable. “If you are able to perceive me, you must be in a meditative mind.”

It is pleasant and I feel a sense of having brought Krishnaji safely to a shelter in the sense of a necessary shell around him, clean, quiet, adequate food, and something he is used to. The luxury is what one must take to have all those other essentials. “Without you, I wouldn’t be here,” he said. Then he said, “Thank you for looking after me.” It is warm in Paris, and nice to be here. We went for a little walk to a pharmacy for toothpaste and came back to supper in the rooms. Krishnaji had stopped twice at windows of a patisserie. “It makes me hungry,” he said. So we had tarte aux pommes for supper.


This morning he said, “There is something even in this room, a marvelous meditation, that thing is going on. It started here last night. It was good to get away from Brockwood. The atmosphere was too infantile.


Krishnaji remained in bed till 4 p.m. when the Sufi leader Pir Vilayat Khan, who has asked to see him, was due. He didn’t turn up till 5. “Typical of these people.”’ ‘He came with a young woman who remained outside, and Krishnaji and he talked alone for one-and-a-half hours. Tea was then given. The Sufi left. Long black robe, gray beard, speaks excellent French, lectures in it, and German. He told Vanda and me that he was for subduing the self, control, etcetera. Krishnaji said, “How rigid these fellows are.”’


The next day, ‘I woke up and worried about Krishnaji’s weakness yesterday. Until almost 8 a.m. his door was closed. He then appeared almost shaking with energy. “Fine, fine,” he said. He said he had been thinking of a center in Ojai and everywhere else.
He had me write it down. “Must produce people so intelligent they will be basically religious, and with that intelligence will function in every field, politics, art, business, and every form of social relationship.” Krishnaji, blazing with energy, told me to write about the essentials of the center: keep the school in a corner, separate from the center. But he wants also a school for older children. The center is to have a meeting room to hold 200 people, kitchen and dining room for 100, and housing for thirty to forty people there on invitation to discuss, etcetera. We would start building immediately. I pointed out we had no funds yet to even pay Mark Lee’s salary. “You’re always talking about money,” he said impatiently.’


In the woods, Krishnaji said suddenly, “I woke up early and something extraordinary happened. It was as though this”’ [wide gesture] “‘were enormous, spreading out to take the universe.” I asked, “This being consciousness?” Krishnaji replied, “More than consciousness. It went on for more than an hour.” I asked, “Did it fade then?” Krishnaji answered, “No, you know how this is. It is there somewhere.” We walked to the river only. He asked me to walk ahead and leave him alone to walk more slowly. He said, “I must work.” In the wood, by the small stream, he called ahead to me, saying he would sit there awhile. I sat on the bench there for about twenty minutes, and he then passed me and went on to Tannegg. When I returned, he was coming out with rubber gloves to clean the Mercedes engine.’ Full of energy! I had been wondering and when I mentioned it to Vanda whether there is something in the fact that just about every summer before his talks here, he has a low period, a sick week, and then zooms up for the talks, as if some unknown something puts the body into low gear in order that some other force gathers in him.

On July thirteenth, ‘Edgar Graf came to see Krishnaji for a personal interview, and Mr. Mirabet came to greet Krishnaji and make his annual donation. Graf came back to lunch with Vanda and me. I got car washing equipment and started washing the Mercedes while Krishnaji was on the walk with Peter Racz. Vanda brought a young American boy, a sculptor home, and after Krishnaji was finished washing the car, he went with him for a short walk. Frances and Tapas came for a short visit.’


We wore them on a walk to the river. On the way, I speculated what would happen if people really said no fighting, no wars. The aggressor nations would take over. Krishnaji said you couldn’t let them do that. You would speak up, get people to 'not cooperate'. Do no work. Russians or anyone else couldn’t control the world if everyone refused to work. “You’d have to talk, organize it ahead of time. At the last minute, it’s too late.” I said, “Isn’t it already too late?” and he said, “Maybe. Now I must get woolly. I have to talk tomorrow.”’ ‘I said no more, but walked ahead so he could be alone. In the woods, he called to me,  “Maria, remind me of these words: idea(ls ?) creates conflicting energy.

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Fri, 08 Jul 2016 #56
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost & found' pages from K's life :

January tenth (1976).

At breakfast Krishnaji said, I once saw ‘a face.’ I’ve been feeling ‘that face’ all night. Something happens to me here.

MZ: Something curious happened to me last night when you were talking to me. Did you know that?

K: Yes. I will tell you sometime, not now(...)

In the car coming home, I asked about “the face.” He has seen it often, “out there like that bush there.” A face only, not a body.

MZ: Does it move or speak?

K: No. I have been seeing it since that night (Friday). Not outside, but inside. It usually means it is moving into this body.

MZ: Could presage his “going off,” and, if so, should he stay alone in the cottage while I am in the hospital?

K: That will not happen when I am alone. The body must be looked after.

 And he once said to me, “Did you see ‘the face?’  He’d seen “the face,” and it seemed to move into him, but he didn’t say, as I’m looking at you, of course, with several feet of space. He hadn’t seen it that way. So he seems to be saying two different thingS: He has seen it outside and inside.

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Sun, 10 Jul 2016 #57
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More lost & found random pages from K's life

( 1972) Krishnaji and I walked in Villa Glori. He said, “Pay attention to your "unconscious" (mind ?) . It may want to tell you something now. Do not take too long to change. You are quiet inside now. Do not take so long to change. It will tell you something and you must be alert and quick to respond, otherwise it is harmful". He has touched "something" that is now different, an interior movement.


On the seventh of October Krishnaji has a dialogue with David Bohm. Saral, Dorothy, Doris, and I were present. They discussed what intelligence is, it is not thought, which is in time, etcetera. At one point, far into the discussion, Krishnaji put the question: “What is its source?” David was silent, and Krishnaji later asked me if I had noticed the "change of atmosphere" in the room when he asked that question. Then, at the end, he suddenly began to speak of another way to communicate something, to speak not to the "conscious" mind, but to the "unconscious". “That is affection,” he said, “that is love.” To me, later, he said, I’m going to speak to you that way about your habits of tension.

On October eighth, Krishnaji was scolding me saying he’s going to "speak to my unconscious". He said that he has noticed that I have neglected my body, that for reasons he doesn’t want to inquire into it, I am highly nervous physically. It shows in an unquiet face, fiddling with fingers, etcetera. I have tried to correct it from the outside, through will, through the conscious mind, and when he has pointed out these mannerisms, I have responded with effort, will, irritation, or depression- all of which are superficial responses. He said, “I am now talking to a deeper level, out of affection. It is from this level, from the inside, you must listen and change. If you do, in a few days, you will be different. There will be an awareness of your body.” He said that after my husband died, for eight years, I abandoned my body, neglected it. Today, I have greatly changed and am aware in many ways, but still not in the well-being of the body. He will speak at this level to me, to "my unconscious" during the coming days.’

October ninth. ‘Last night Krishnaji again said, “I’m speaking to your unconscious mind. I feel it doesn’t feel it is important or you would’ve changed these habits during these five years. Do you know what it is to be quiet?” As he was saying this, I saw that the habits are offshoots of tension; I don’t feel tense or nervous, but somehow, to get things done, I build up this steam of energy, which has a quality of tension. It feels like being in high gear. This shouldn’t be necessary. It probably wastes the very energy I need. I see that, from the inside, a quietness is necessary, and that the core of these things cannot be done from without. It is a false tension. Quietness inside, I understand that. Later this morning, while doing dishes in the kitchen, Krishnaji said he felt a difference in me. Then late in the evening, he said, “You have taken the first initiation. Do you know why you have taken so long? When you do, it will be the second initiation.”’


a quote from Krishnaji: ‘“I had an odd dream last night. There was a certificate that the mother, probably our mother, was dead. And I sat down on the bed and put my hands on her, and gradually I felt the warmth return to her and she sat up. Then I woke up. Probably it is symbolic.


he sixteenth of August (1973) . ‘Krishnaji, about his head pains, and that faraway feeling, said, “These people usually remain in one place surrounded by their disciples. The Buddha walked eighty miles, but that wasn’t very far. This body was made sensitive and it rebels at being pushed around in strange places.”’
‘I said, “Shouldn’t it stay in one place?”’
‘Krishnaji said, “If you mean Brockwood, no.’


Krishnaji told her of the curious thing that happened before the first Brockwood talk two weeks ago, August thirty-first. He woke in the night feeling as if a ball of light were being placed in his head.


On the drive this morning (August 1972) Krishnaji spoke of death. “I don’t like to speak of your father,” he said, “but what happens to a man like Rajagopal?” Late in the evening he said the following, which I wrote down verbatim

K: Take a man like X who is suspicious, jealous, secretive, concerned with his physical security. He is, after all, a product of his environment, his culture, his pattern of behavior. He may have peculiarities, his temperament, his so-called character. His mind is conditioned by the class he was born in, and so on. And when he dies, and that’s what we are talking about, what happens to him? He has not come out of his (psychic ?) ‘environment.’ He has not made anything of life. He is merely reacting within his conditioning, which may be very clever, cunning, artistic, but he has not come out of it. He is part of the whole quivering mass. He may think he will reincarnate, be reborn, or absorbed into something greater, which is his hope and comfort, but basically, he is still a result of his tradition, of his forefathers, his environment. He has not come out of it, so he is absorbed into his basic conditioning. This sounds cruel, but as you observe, he is part of this humanity. As he was in his life, so he is in death. To live with death every day is to deny totally this conditioning. So to die to conditioning every day is to live a life of a different dimension.


(1974) We had supper as usual on trays and watched “Washington Week in Review.” Then Krishnaji watched Ben-Hur on television. I came in several times to remind him it was getting late, and when I came in at 9:45 p.m., he was sitting with the sound turned off and a far-off look. He said, “Sit down quietly.” He looked as though something were happening—intent, listening, aware of something. ‘Soon he left the living room and told me it had been extremely intense, a “precipitation,” something so strong in the room he had been prepared for it to become “manifest” in some further way “visible—I don’t know how. I’ve never felt it like this. Something is happening.” He said later that it continued when he was in bed so that he stayed wide awake and had to sit up. His head was bad.’


A little later he said, “One shouldn’t die violently, suddenly. It is too much of a shock.”
A shock to the one who dies? I asked.
“Yes. It should be willingly, healthily.
Few people die willingly, I said.
I’ll talk to you about that another time.

He told of the time some years ago when Kitty Shiva Rao was with him on a flight from Delhi to Benares and the plane came into thick fog. Kitty, sitting beside him, got panicky, and Krishnaji took hold of her hand and said, “If we are going to die, we are going to die. Let’s do it happily.” She calmed down, but pretty soon as the plane lost altitude, she began to get hysterical. Krishnaji spoke to her again and then the pilot got below the fog and was able to land.’ There’s another anecdote with Kitty, when he said, “Nothing will happen because you’re with me.” He always thought that if he was in a plane, it would be safe.’


(1975)At supper he asked about the Ananda magazine that Tapas had sent. I read him part of an article by E. A. Wodehouse withering Arundale for carrying on ceremonies in Benares in 1928 when Mrs. Besant asked Krishnaji to preside at a TS congress in her absence, and out of politeness to Krishnaji and his views decreed there should be no ceremonies. Krishnaji remembered it vaguely and smiled. He said E. A. Wodehouse wrote very well, but gradually died of laziness.He looked at the magazines. “We were all very young then.” There is a chapter on the Hindu version of the Lord Maitreya in their sacred books. I read it to Krishnaji. Maitreya foretold by Gautama, it said, did not become a Buddha himself, but refused it until humanity is rescued, hence he returns to human life.’ That’s why the Maitreya returns.
‘I asked Krishnaji, “Will you become a Buddha?”’
‘“You mustn’t ask that,” he said. “It doesn’t work that way. These people made it all into a hierarchical affair.”’


Erna handed me to read the five-page account, handwritten by Pupul Jayakar of events in June 1948 in Ootacamund when Krishnaji was “off,” in great pain, spoke of **“they have burnt me so there can be more emptiness. They want to see how much of Him can come.

Then it goes on about ‘something to being close to death but not wishing it “as there is so much to be done” and of something happening on the walk (when he was alone) and not being able to remember it, of fearing 'pieces of him' were left on the road, of a great power filling him.


During lunch, Mary Lutyens gave Krishnaji the first and only copy so far of the biography Krishnamurti: The Years of Awakening. On the dust jacket there is part of one of the photos of Krishnaji taken in 1926 in Indian clothing standing in front of the Gobelin tapestries at Castle Eerde. I read the biography all afternoon while Krishnaji slept. Then, he and I went for a walk and talked about the book. He asked if it would really interest people, what they could make of it ?

I said that the first part, which is all that I have so far read, may bring up the inevitable questions about Theosophy, masters, etcetera—if the masters exist, why all those communications reported with them then and nothing since?

Krishnaji said, It is simple. The Lord is here.

I said, You mean those communications were necessary to prepare for that (coming ?) ?

Krishnaji replied: Obviously. I just thought of it [with humor in voice].

I asked: Am I being dense or insensitive not to perceive such things, or am I simply not being spoken to?

Krishnaji said, You’re doing what you should, looking after K. There may be no need to communicate (with you) . You have been with me how long? You are perhaps used to certain things.

I began to tell him of the curiously full reporting by the young Krishnamurti of his “initiation,” so unlike his present-day way of describing, so detailed, etcetera. But Dorothy came along the lane and joined us, and we couldn’t go on with the conversation

The tenth of May. ‘I put the biography on Krishnaji’s bed beside the breakfast tray. He said he wasn’t going to read it’ ‘but I thought he might read parts, and so he did, starting with the discovery of the boy. He asked how far I had read in the night, which was up to page 120, and what it seemed to me.’

I said: So far, the mystery of his becoming what he is, is deepened by the book. Working from Krishnaji’s letters to Mary L.’s mother and the latter’s diary gives a picture of an entirely immature, partly Victorian child, surrounded by jealous and competing friends, much talk of "love" that is childish and unreal.

Krishnaji said: The boy was not conditioned, that he was fed all the TS stories, but that it was superficial, and it went into his head and out. If he were conditioned, he said, he would’ve gone on in the TS way.

I pointed out that many people have changed belief or views, but he said this was different. He was simply empty, moronic, dull. What made him awake? He thinks that slowly, drop by drop, he was awakening, changing. There was no real conditioning there. He was untouched and the very slow maturing was important. “Care of the body was and is important. I have right food and all that. I may live to be 100 (90 ?)


On May eleventh (1975) , Krishnaji spoke to the school in the Assembly Room. He asked what is the most important question in life? He was critical later of their lack of response. On the walk, he said to Dorothy (Simmons) , “They are 'dead'…It’s no use to ask what Brockwood can give to them or they to Brockwood.” And in the evening, to me he said, “What is the use of all this? In five years, there is not one student who has understood something.”


Doris, having read the biography, heatedly asked Krishnaji why he had to suffer so. Do we all have to go through that? Krishnaji replied that to come upon something new, to discover, one person had to go through it in order to be able to point it out to others.’


When I brought Krishnaji his supper, he said he had a message from the Great White Brotherhood thanking me for looking after him, but I mustn’t spoil him.”


June third, Krishnaji spoke to the school and said, “I will teach them in spite of themselves.”’


‘Before lunch today, Krishnaji had a very far-off look, while sitting with Erna and Theo. At lunch, he said to Erna, You asked about the process. It began here( in Ojai) . Pains, fainting. It’s probably Kundalini. I am very skeptical about those things. I doubt most who say they have had it.


Then,( 1976) he said, “Do you feel something in the room?” I had and did. And strangely, the tiredness I had felt disappeared as if a transfusion of strength had been given.’
On January tenth. ‘At breakfast Krishnaji said, “I once saw ‘a face.’ I’ve been feeling ‘that face’ all night. Something happens to me here.”’
‘I asked, “Something curious happened to me last night when you were talking to me. Did you know that?”’
‘He replied, “Yes. I will tell you sometime, not now.

In the car coming home, I asked about “the face.” He has seen it often, “out there like that bush there.” A face only, not a body.’

‘I asked, “Does it move or speak? No. I have been seeing it since that night”’‘(Friday) not outside, but inside. It usually means it is moving into this body.”**’
I asked if it could presage his “going off,” and, if so, should he stay alone in the cottage while I am in the hospital?’ That will not happen when I am alone,” he said. “The body must be looked after.”’


K.” He then said that at Ojai, he had a feeling he must offer a chance to Rajagopal and RR’—that’s Rosalind—‘to redeem themselves, expiate their sins before they die. Must do it, so they cannot refuse, for if they do, it will be worse.’
‘“Greater damnation?” I asked.’
‘“Yes,” said Krishnaji.’


. Krishnaji came in and talked seriously. He said, “My life is uncertain and because it is uncertain, it is enduring. He said, “There is something more in my life than K, and if "That" operates, it will do what it wants. No one can prevent it. And he said, “My love for you is without attachment, and therefore it will endure.”’


From Krishnaji, “I will talk to your body, not you, on a quiet face and quiet hands.”…“I am aware of gestures as I talk; why aren’t you?” said he.’ . Krishnaji was always bothered that my hands were not quiet. It bothered him always. Bothers me still.

 On the twenty-second, ‘Krishnaji walked in his sleep last night. I must’ve heard him bump into something in his room, for I woke up suddenly and totally and alarmingly.’ ‘He came into the sitting room, where I was sleeping on the sofa. I spoke to him, and he said, “Maria?”’ That’s the name he called me. ‘I put on the tiny Dutch flashlight and saw Krishnaji was standing against the wall facing it.’ That means he would’ve had his back to me. ‘He woke up with the light and went back to the bathroom and bed, falling immediately deeply asleep. I could hear his breathing was that of sleep. I stayed awake a long time. In the morning he said, “I must’ve walked in my sleep. I have never done that.”

February twenty-third. ‘Krishnaji at breakfast said, “My head, here”—he indicated the back part—“feels as if it were expanding—great stillness, air, and light.” He gestured and laughed. Last night he seemed to have walked in his sleep again. I was instantly awake around 1 a.m. when I heard him walking in his room. I spoke and he responded, and came in. “I wonder why I do this.” He went back and slept immediately.

‘And so, we didn’t get off till about 5 p.m. in the car. Krishnaji said his head was suddenly bad. He asked me to drive between fifty and fifty-five m.p.h.’ That means slowly. ‘Suddenly he said, “I almost fainted just now.” Several times, he put one hand over his eyes and groaned. “It’s pretty bad,” he said. Along the coast road near Decker Road, he fainted for about two minutes. The seat belt held him gently so that he didn’t fall into my lap as in past faintings. When we reached the house, he said he was alright, and jumped out and opened the garage doors. We carried things into his room. When I asked, he said, “I’m alright. Don’t worry. I never faint when I’m alone.” So, I went to fix our supper. Going to bed and saying goodnight later, he said his head was bad.’. Krishnaji also saw Rusch and Carey Smoot. We enlarged on Monday’s decisions. Tea afterward. Krishnaji had a stomachache after lunch, but felt better later.’

February twenty-seventh. ‘We left at 11 a.m. for Ojai in the green car, Krishnaji driving. Along Zuma Beach, he asked, “Have you any paper?” I found a scrap in my bag and wrote what he said. “A strange thing happened this morning. I was sitting quietly, a sort of meditation, and suddenly, there was absolute silence, a withdrawal of everything, and it was like death; there was this body sitting quietly and this truth of not existing anywhere; complete death. And if I hadn’t felt, by Jove, this is getting too far, I don’t know what would’ve happened. It was absolute nothingness. It felt as though, if that state continued, the body would die. There would be an end of everything.”

‘Then, I asked, “Was it similar to the times on a walk alone when you felt like going away?”’
‘Krishnaji replied, “It was much more intense this morning.”’
‘I asked, “When did it happen?”’
‘Krishnaji said, “After I’d seen you.” Which was about 7 a.m.’
‘I said, “Before breakfast?”’
‘He replied, “Oh, long before breakfast. There was a period when the back of the brain was tremendously ventilated, as though taking deep breaths and being filled with air. It went on for some time.”’
‘“How long?” I asked.’
‘Krishnaji said, “May have been two or three minutes or more. I don’t know.”’
‘I asked, “When you felt it was getting too much, was it then instantly out?”’
‘Krishnaji replied, “Oh, instantly out.”’

What do you think it is? I asked.’
He said, “I’ve had it before, but it was in the sense of going away, "withdrawing" is the wrong word. It was absolute stillness. I think it has to do with what happened in the brain, the expanding, getting ventilated, really air going into it: a slight strain, as though a new fresh brain had been put into it.
It sounds so damn silly.” Then he laughed. “A totally uncontaminated…”’ I


‘We were off at 11 a.m. with Krishnaji driving. After a while, he said, “The curious thing is happening. A new thing is being added to it. This morning it was so easy—it has become quite ordinary—it is there, nothingness, a vast space of nothingness. The new thing I felt a few days—something—that word sacred; something totally holy—sacred—I don’t know what it is.


He described Rosalind's anger when he used to heal. “Why do you do that!?” she would say.’ And her walking out when he would talk to the Happy Valley teachers. She didn’t come to discussions. ‘“She was too stupid to understand,” and he retold her query when The Commentaries were published, “Did you write that? You couldn’t have. It must’ve been Rajagopal.”’


‘At 4 p.m. he talked about how to handle a child who doesn’t respond the to two approaches they use, creating an atmosphere and by dialogue. The child is self-centered, gets attention by behaving badly. Krishnaji said, “Can you move his attention from himself by creating another attention which he will want, instead of giving him the personal attention which he wants, you move his attention away from him with the same intensity, divert his energy.”’

I will talk to 8,000 people in Bombay about things that are the opposite of what they want. This is my problem, how to reach them. I point out something that is true, get them to look at it, not as opposed to something else. I appeal to their 'unconscious'. There may be an 'unconscious' movement for change. And this may affect parents to send the child to the school. The same quality may affect the child
There may be an 'unconscious' demand, urge, that we cannot go on living as we have in violence.
So, there are two things, to direct his attention and talking to his unconscious.
You mustn’t put him in the position of resisting. He may be here because 'something else' sent him, not his parents. Therefore, my responsibility is much gr he asked Krishnaji


Bud asked about the communications reported between Theosophy and the Masters. Krishnaji explained the beliefs that were held by the Theosophists, and way back, before that, by the Hindus and Buddhists. He said he has no memory of those days. Bud asked if Jesus figured in the Theosophical hierarchy. Krishnaji said Jesus was considered to be “a disciple,” not an "original".

This post was last updated by John Raica Wed, 20 Jul 2016.

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Thu, 21 Jul 2016 #58
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

More 'lost & found' pages from K's life as recorded by Mrs Zimbalist

(May 1976) He said to me in the evening, I had the most extraordinary meditation while sitting at breakfast. I "went off". I must be very careful. You know, death is very close. You mustn’t look like that when I mention "death". It isn’t that; it is complete emptiness, nothingness.

Krishnaji spoke to school and guests on registering only at the biologic or technical level but not at the psychological level. A “thin, thin” surface registering without reaction of the psychological 'me'.


Krishnaji told me in the morning of a “strange happening,” and then while at his lunch, he spoke of it again to Vanda and me, and dictated the following:
Before beginning asanas, he generally sits quietly, thinking of nothing. But this morning, a strange happening took place, most unexpected and in no way invited. And besides, you can’t invite these things. Suddenly, it appeared as though in the center of the brain, the head, right inside, there was a vast space in which was unimaginable energy. It is a part, or it is there that nothing whatever is registered, for that which is registered is a wastage of energy. If one can call it, it was pure energy in a limitless space, a space that had nothing but this sense of immensity. One doesn’t know how long it lasted, but all during this morning, it was there. And as this is being written, it is as though it was taking root and becoming firm. These words are not really the thing itself.

Basta. I better go ahead and eat.


Krishnaji received a letter from Pupul from Bombay, saying she and Nandini had been writing all they could remember about the incidents at Ootacamund in May and June of 1948. She wrote down every night what had taken place during the evenings that she and Nandini were living at a hotel nearby, and Krishnaji was staying with Ms. Hilla Petit and Maurice Frydman.

She describes Krishnaji’s pain in spine, nape of neck, and tooth. Krishnaji had asked Pupul and Nandini to sit quietly, not interfere and not be afraid, not to touch him except to close his mouth if he fainted, and on no account to leave the body alone. He would toss on the bed, have fits of shivering and would call out for Krishna, and then put his hand to his mouth and say, “I must not call him.” The body appeared to be only a shell. In this state, the voice was frail, childlike. “Then, suddenly, the body appeared to fill with a vast presence, Krishnaji would sit up, cross-legged, his eyes closed, the fragile body would appear to grow and fill the room, and there was a palpable, throbbing silence that poured into the room and enveloped us. In this state, the voice had great volume and depth.

They remembered one incident vividly: Krishnaji in great pain, stomach swollen, tears streaming down his face, suddenly fainting, and the body becoming intensely still. “The traces of pain and fatigue were wiped away. The face was greatly beautiful. There was a radiance, a light that illumined it and a stillness, and a sense of vastness that we had never witnessed. A quality of sacredness filled the room.”…“For moments, he lay unmoving. Then, his eyes opened. He saw us, and after sometime said, ‘Did you see that face?’ We said, yes, but could not say anything else as we had no words. Krishnaji lay silently, and then, ‘The Buddha was here.’ And then after sometime, ‘You are blessed.’…“Most of the time in the room, we had no part to play in what was happening, and yet, we had a role we could not understand. We questioned him during the day, but he became vague and would not explain…On most occasions, while the pain rocked him, he spoke of trees and wind, rain, nature, its storms, and vast silence. There was nothing personal in him during the incidents, no emotion, no relationship to us. The ordeal appeared physical, and yet the next day it left no traces on his face or body. Not a word that was said by him had psychological overtones. What he spoke was totally impersonal. The sense of the sacred permeated the room and the atmosphere on every occasion.

Krishnaji didn’t read it for quite a while. He said, “We’ll read it together later,” and then put it off. When I asked about it later, he said, “I’ve seen it. I’d be shy to have it read out loud.”’


Krishnaji said our talk yesterday in Villa Glori was very much in his mind. He had me repeat it, and then write him a memo on it to take with him. He said, “First there is freedom, then insight, revolutionary action. If they stiffen into a pattern, then follows dogma and power. Freedom is movement. When or if insight becomes knowledge, then dogma follows. Freedom from 'self' brings insight. When there is insight, there is radical transformation, which is freedom. When fundamental change does not take place, then there is pattern, dogma, and power.

Krishnaji spent the day in bed sleeping, reading. He said, “I don’t dream anymore. Somewhere in Madras or Rishi Valley, I forget which, I dreamt Rajagopal was chasing me and then I woke up. I said this is silly to keep thinking of that man. That is enough. And so I went into it, and I haven’t dreamt since.


( Ojai 1978) In the evening, suddenly, while watching a Hitchcock movie on television, Krishnaji said, “I must’ve been born this way, able to see directly. I have never been through all that... What makes me see all this?
I suggested that he never thinks about all these matters except when he’s talking seriously. He nodded.’


In the evening something came up that made me ask Krishnaji if mankind’s impulse toward religion is a plea to make things better, or something deeply inherent. He replied, “I think it is inherent.”

Vanda ( Scaravelli) began to tell Mary about the events that began in July ’61 at Tannegg, the period at the start of Krishnamurti’s Notebook, when Krishnaji was staying with her. Krishnaji, in his room, suddenly fainted, and then as Vanda described it, his eyes became enormous and another being spoke to her through Krishnaji’s body. An extraordinary change came over the face. It happened on July 18, 1961. The voice said, “Don’t leave me until he comes back.” And then, “He must love you if he lets you touch me, as he is very particular in this.” And “Don’t let anyone come near me until he comes back.” On the following day, it happened again. Krishnaji fainted. After trembling, the eyes became larger and deeper, and the voice said, “I feel very strange. Where am I? Don’t leave me. Will you kindly stay with me until he returns? Are you comfortable? Take a chair. Do you know him well? Will you look after him?” It was this last question that Vanda said “Is why I am here.” She feels she gave her word on this; she said that for a whole month Krishnaji’s face continued to change. There was not a return of the other being but a “different look” would come over his face.

A year later, the twenty-first of May, 1962, in Rome when Krishnaji was ill with fever, and became delirious. “It has been told to you to look after him. He should not have gone out. You should’ve told him.” And, “Do you know him? You cannot know him. How can you know the running water?”…“We repeat and never question. Tell him, take a pencil, tell him ‘Death is always there very close to you, to protect you.’…‘When you take shelter, you will die.’ (
Mary Lutyens and I guessed there were four entities in all this. The one who 'goes away' (presumably Krishnaji); the one who tells what should be done; the one with the great eyes; and probably the childlike one who also spoke to me in Gstaad when Krishnaji was delirious.

 I don’t know why we got the fourth one with the “great eyes” it says. I didn’t see 'great eyes' when I had the same experience. Well, I don’t know what she interprets, because when—I’m now judging from my own experience with him, which is that he was looking around the room and didn’t recognize or even know who I was. I’ve written about that elsewhere. And he spoke to me as though…and he said, “Did you ask him any questions?” he said to me. He was looking around the room, as though he didn’t know where he was; he certainly didn’t know who I was. And he spoke to me as though I were a stranger, “Did you ask him any questions?” and I said, “No.” And he said, “He doesn’t like to be asked questions.”
But his eyes could’ve been described more as…they were unseeing. They were eyes of…

 Well, without repeating it all, the one who is left says, ‘“Don’t leave me until he comes back.” And then, “He must love you if he lets you touch me as he is very particular in this.”…“Don’t let anyone come near me until he comes back.”’ And then on the following day, it happened again. Krishnaji fainted after trembling. ‘The eyes became larger and deeper and the voice said, “I feel very strange. Where am I? Don’t leave me. Will you kindly stay with me until he returns.”’ That’s still the one who’s left, but, you see, that has the big eyes.vI think it’s the same one who’s looking around bewildered ‘“Will you stay with me until he returns? Are you comfortable? Take a chair. Do you know him well? Will you look after him?”’ It was to this last question that Vanda said ‘“Is why I am here.”’ She took it as her job, just as I took it as my job when he said these things. ‘She feels she gave her word on this. She said that for a whole month Krishnaji’s face continued to change. There was not a return of the other being, but a “different look” would come over his face.
 Well, there’s always a person who goes away, and there’s always the person who’s there, who is, as he said to me, something like…“Even after all this time, all these years, I don’t feel at ease with him.” That’s said by the person who is left, when Krishnaji has gone away.The one who doesn’t know who you are, or where he is, really, and he looks around with vacant eyes, which could be described as 'big eyes'. She said, ‘“there was not a return of the other
being, but a  ‘different look’ would come over his face.”’

I only made one mistake in not sensing it. It was in Malibu and we were having supper on trays and looking at the evening news. And I was sitting on that long sofa that’s in the other room; and I was sitting on that long sofa, and he was at the other end; it’s twelve feet long, so it was quite a ways away, and the television was over there, and we were both watching it. And we’d been talking. And he was eating; I was eating. And I suddenly made some remark, and he reacted with a convulsive shock as though…a physical shock. And I didn’t realize that he’d suddenly gone off. I mean, it wasn’t unlikely. He would go off in many unusual moments, but I hadn’t picked it up. And it gave him this physical shock. And the next day he told me that he’d been shaking all night from it. So you had to be very sensitive. And that’s the only time I didn’t pick up the signal.


November fifth (1978) , ‘There was another small group discussion ( in India) at 9:30 a.m. Krishnaji used the analogy, “You have been given a baby. What have you done with it? Have you cared for it? Is it the most important thing in your life?” Pupul spoke of “clouding over”; one has clarity, then it clouds over. Krishnaji in effect said, “You let this cloud over because you are not serious. You have not accepted the baby’s responsibility. You have not given it your being, your total energy. This is not the whole of your life.” It hit hard at most of them. He spoke with great force. At lunch, he lingered at the table until 3 o’clock discussing whether Nagarjuna and Shankara’—these are great teachers in Buddhist and Hindu traditions—whether they ‘had the insight of the Buddha, or whether intellect brought saints to see the limitations and the futility of intellect, until out of that and an ensuing search, there came an insight. Krishnaji felt that a Buddha and possibly Nagarjuna, “They were not intellectuals though they had great intellect.” He felt that they had insight born of compassion. Then, from that, came intelligence.


January thirteenth (1979) . There was a discussion at breakfast with Krishnaji, Achyut, Sunanda, Radha, and I on what Krishnaji means by 'no recording'. I asked if he meant 'no recall'. He said, “In insight, there is no recording.” I asked him about The Notebook that he wrote, in which he describes what happened earlier. He said, it was not written using memory. The words 'happened' (came ?) at the moment of writing.


 The sixteenth. ‘At breakfast, Krishnaji, Radha, Sunanda, Pama, and I had a discussion on reincarnation of which this is a rough summary: There is a "stream", which is ( sustained by our self-centred ?) thought, attachments, etcetera. Thought is a material process. If when the body dies, ( our) attachment, etc, has not been understood and ended, that attachment, that ( self-identified ?) thought continues as part of the ( collective ?) Stream. It can manifest in another but it is not reincarnation of a total person. Ego is an illusion.’ ‘The desire for reincarnation—the wanting another chance is part of attachment, thought, the stream. Karma—cause and effect, is meaningless if one sees this.


Krishnaji seemed to feel that what “the boy” was like and whatever went on in his mind—as he kept asking—eluded him.’ But for me, the picture was a true line throughout; the dreamy child who when punished by the school master would stand on the veranda until told to leave, who often had to be fetched home by his little brother, was a gentle, compliant boy who replied to his TS elders, “Whatever you say” when asked about doing something. He was polite and accepting, but not really touched by their world; it went in one ear and out the other. He learned outward things: manners, speech, witnessed the TS goings-on, but it left little mark; he was 'elsewhere'. He remembers vaguely standing by the Adyar River for hours, staring at it, vacant. This vacancy was some "otherness" that protected him, let whatever he is grow, mature very slowly. It protected him from most of the pulls of life later on, from the brutalities of Rajagopal and Rosalind. It is there today when he is “off,” when he sits in Hamish Thompson’s dental chair for four hours without a thought; his "reality"", his native place is elsewhere, as it were. I said all this to him later and at supper when we all talked a bit about it.
In the "Rajagopal & Rosalind" times, he said he was sometimes physically beaten, but he didn’t resist their violence as he hadn’t fought against the wretched schoolmaster as a child. It all left no scars, just as the Theosophical beliefs did not condition his mind


When Krishnaji stopped speaking, he sat silently for a few moments, and Nandini and I went straight to the car, only yards away. But as Krishnaji rose, so did a wave of people pressing forward to touch him for "darshan"— people think they get a blessing if they can touch a holy man. ‘He was caught against the wall by people kissing his hands, his feet, touching him, and in a hysteria of reverence. Asit fought to keep the door of the car open and let him get in. It took minutes. And when he managed it, hands came through the window to touch him. Krishnaji was a figure of compassion, touching as many hands as he could, saying, “Be careful. Be careful.” Nandini called out, “You will be hurt.” And the answer came back in Marathi, “It doesn’t matter.” The chauffeur edged the car forward, but the crowd ahead obliterated the road. It took about ten minutes to drive the 100 or so feet to the street. In the morning, Krishnaji had said, “What will I talk about? Well, I suppose it will come. The day it doesn’t, I’ll shut up shop.”


Krishnaji went back to the health question and said he has always felt protected. Something, a “they” is looking after him for the purpose of the teachings. He feels that “they” will decide the time and manner of his death and he will know it. He asked Dr. Parchure how the Buddha died; apparently of eating bad food, but who knows, really.


We joined Mary for lunch at Fortnum’s. Talked of the second volume of the biography. The question was of how he got the way he is. He (K) said the choices were, “a biologic freak, a medium, or three, a late maturing mind.” He said if he were writing, he would consider all these very carefully, or is it something else? He would be with the person, K, and he would study him, question him. He, Krishnaji, discards the freak, and the medium. He said he did mature very late, really when he was sixty-five.’
 ‘Today he would never put up with what Rajagopal and Rosalind did. He would throw them out. Mary said that Rajagopal doesn’t realize how Krishnaji has changed, and so attributes it all to “wicked influences”’—that’s me.


Septeber eleventh (1979) : ‘Krishnaji said earlier in the morning that he had been sitting very straight in bed, mind empty, and there came a feeling as if something “were pouring into my head. It lasted ten to fifteen seconds to a minute. It was not imagination.

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 28 Jul 2016.

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Sat, 30 Jul 2016 #59
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Fifteenth March (1983)

After the walk, ‘Krishnaji saw a video cassette of a film of himself in 1928 in New York and 1930 in Ojai. He said, “I felt no relationship between that chap and this chap.


Pupul came at 6 p.m. for an early supper in the hotel rooms. In conversation about how Krishnaji came to be what he is, a strange "something" was felt in the room. Krishnaji said it always comes when this subject is discussed seriously. And it always comes from the left.


(April )Then he jumped to Mary Lutyens' book, the second volume of the biography, The Years of Fulfillment, which has just come out, and which the Indian Foundation members have criticized severely. He said, Mary does not deeply enough know about “all this,” as she had not been around with him in years. He has been thinking about it, and he wants me to write every day so that at some point, and it may be years from now, I will write a biography, which will be right. He said it must start with something about myself, that I am not some devotee. Then he jumped to the subject of memory; of how it had come up in discussions in New York this past week, and how he asked me the question, “Is there something in the brain that is not touched by memory?” He examined it Thursday night, and Friday morning and on the plane to LA; and last night, he "saw it"—there is such a thing. Then he examined it rigorously, until he was sure. “From doubt to 'certainty', there is such a thing, and from that there is energy. When I got up this morning and did my exercises, I could have walked for miles. Now do you understand ?’


At lunch, he wore his new Navy fatigue shirt from L.L.Bean. He looks very smart and very young. We lunched at Arya Vihara. “David Bohm is picking my brains,” he said.


The twenty-second. ‘Krishnaji did a Sony dictation. A letter came from Mary Lutyens saying that her sister Betty had died suddenly of a heart attack. Krishnaji said, “Thank god. Poor Betty. She had an unhappy life.


And later, as we left the kitchen, he had me stop in the hall and look into the living room northeast corner. “You asked what you can do when you are alone here. You must look quietly at that, not hastily. (It is where the jewels are buried ) . ‘It has been neglected. It is a shrine and one must pay attention to it or it will fade.


Krishnaji is being interviewed by a Donald Lattin, religious editor of San Francisco’s The Examiner.The reporter had files and Examiner interviews from fifty-five years ago with Krishnaji and Dr. Besant. He quoted Krishnaji as saying that he was Christ. “Did you mean that then?” he asked Krishnaji. “God knows,” said Krishnaji with amusement.’


In the morning, at the Huntington, he had come to my room, I thought to wake me up as we were leaving early. But he had stayed with me a little, and later he said he had awakened  “with something different” in his head, pointing to his forehead, “which frightened the body, so I came to you.” The feeling has continued, to a lesser degree, all day, but the fright is gone.’ The body, in Krishnaji’s terminology, is almost as though it’s another entity sometimes. ( but it was his responsibility) .


He (K) used to say to me, “You must outlive me.” And I would say,  “Why should I outlive you?” He would reply, “To look after me.”


May twenty-eighth. ‘We had our preferred two forward seats on either side of the aisle. I slept fitfully, contorted in my seat. Krishnaji sat upright like a statue. His sleeping face in the dim light was austere, majestic; an extraordinary carving. Then he awakened and his face became eager, alive as a child. He said he’d had a good meditation.


July third. Krishnaji said at lunch that he would live to be 100, “To see what it is like.” He later told me, “Rajagopal is getting it. I have sent two angels to tell him.”’ They were not persuasive. They, being angels, aren’t the best thing to be to deal with Rajagopal. He should’ve sent something from 'downstairs' with a pitchfork.

‘I asked what is happening along these lines in Russia, and Asit said they are concentrating on biochemistry, research into parapsychology, especially mind reading and control. Asit asked Krishnaji if this is possible. Krishnaji said, “Of course, mind reading is obviously possible.” Asit asked if Krishnaji could do it, and Krishnaji replied that he could, but that he refuses to. Then Krishnaji went on to say a person can block someone else reading one’s mind, reaching it. Rajagopal’s aggression is directed at him, but Krishnaji forms a 'wall' it cannot penetrate. On Krishnaji’s side, there is emptiness, which forms the wall, and within this, Krishnaji can function.’  ‘Krishnaji went on to say that because Rajagopal’s sendings cannot penetrate, “It is like coming up against a rock,” and it returns to Rajagopal. “I do not want to hurt him. I am not doing anything to him,” but something may change, that stillness may reach him, or perhaps he is too full o
f hatred, it may not. “It will be interesting to see.

Krishnaji spoke in that way that may be serious or may not of those very high in Masonry to whom two angels are given. They watch over the welfare of a person or persons, though he may not ask for himself and may rarely ask an action from them. Krishnaji has never asked his until now. But he has “sent two angels to talk to Rajagopal” to make him turn from this ugliness. Asit translated this into a force of goodness and Krishnaji smiled. He spoke of sensing an atmosphere when serious things are being discussed, which is different from the atmosphere when discussing computers.’ Asit asked if Krishnaji could convey to a friendly person instead of Rajagopal in ways that would change them. Krishnaji said that is what is happening in the tent, but the other person must be willing to listen. Krishnaji said he thinks the ancient Hindus knew about this. This is part of meditation.’

This post was last updated by John Raica Sat, 30 Jul 2016.

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Thu, 04 Aug 2016 #60
Thumb_photo_reduite John Raica Canada 709 posts in this forum Offline

Below is ( a lost & found page from Krishna’s account of his Initiation ( from a letter) addressed to Mrs Besant (From Mary Lutyens fierst volume of K's biography ' The Years of Awakening'

January 12th, 1910. When I left my body the first night, I went at once to the Master’s house and found Him there with the Master Morya and the Master Djwal Kul. The Master talked to me very kindly for a long time, and told me all about the Initiation, and what I should have to do. Then we all went together to the house of the Lord Maitreya, where I had been once before, and there we found many of the Masters—the Venetian Master, the Master Jesus, the Master the Count, the Master Serapis, the Master Hilarion and the two Masters Morya and K.H. [Kuthumi]. The Lord Maitreya sat in the middle, and the others stood round Him in a semicircle like this [diagram].

Then the Master [Kuthumi] took my right hand, and the Master Djwal Kul my left, and they led me in front of the Lord Maitreya, you and Uncle [Leadbeater] standing close behind me.

The Lord smiled at me, but He said to the Master:— ‘Who is this that you thus bring before me?’ And the Master answered: ‘This is a candidate who seeks admission to the Great Brotherhood’. Then the Lord asked:— ‘Do you vouch for him as worthy of admission?’ The Master replied:— ‘I do’. The Lord continued: ‘Will you undertake to guide his steps along the Path which he desires to enter?’ And the Master answered:— ‘I will’. Then the Lord asked:— ‘Our rule requires that two of the higher Brethern shall vouch for every candidate; is any higher Brother prepared to support this application?’ The Master Djwal Kul said:— ‘I am prepared to do so’. Then the Lord said:— ‘The body of the candidate is very young, if he should be admitted, are any members of the Brotherhood who still live in the outer world ready to take charge of him and to help him on his upward way?’ Then you and uncle came forward and bowed and said:— ‘We are ready to take charge of him’. The Lord continued:— ‘Are your hearts full of love for him, so that such guidance will be easy?’ And you both replied:— ‘They are full of love, brought over from many lives in the past’. Then the Lord spoke to me for the first time:— ‘Do you on your part love these two Brethren, so that you will gladly submit yourself to their guidance?’ And of course, I answered:— ‘Indeed I do love them with all my heart’. He asked:— ‘You desire then to join the Brotherhood which exists from eternity unto eternity?’ And I said:— ‘I wish to join when I am fit to do so’. He asked:— ‘Do you know the object of this Brotherhood?’ I replied:— ‘To do the work of the Logos by helping the world’. Then he replied:— ‘Will you pledge yourself to devote all your life and all your strength henceforth to this work, forgetting yourself absolutely for the good of the world, making your life all love, even as He is all love?’ And I answered:— ‘I will, with the Master’s help.’ He continued:— Do you promise to keep secret those things which you are told to keep secret?’ And I said: ‘I do promise’. Then He showed me many astral objects and I had to tell Him what they were. I had to distinguish between the astral bodies of a living man and a dead man, between a real person and a thought-image of a person, and between an imitation Master and a real one. Then He showed me many cases, and asked how I would help in each, and I answered as well as I could. Then He showed me an image of my worst enemy a cruel man whom I had hated, because he had often tortured my younger brother and me; and He said:— ‘Will you help even this creature, if he needs your help?’ But there can be no hatred in the Master’s presence, so I replied:— ‘Surely I will’. At the end He smiled and said that the answers were very satisfactory, and then He asked all the other Masters:— ‘Do all present agree to the reception of this candidate into our company?’ And all said that They did.

Then the Lord turned away from me and called towards Shamballa:— ‘Do I this, O Lord of Life and Light, in Thy Name and for Thee?’ And at once the great Silver Star flashed out over His head, and on each side of it in the air there stood a figure—one of Lord Gautama Buddha and the other the Mahachohan. And the Lord Maitreya turned and called me by the true name of the Ego and laid His hand upon my head and said: ‘In the name of the One Initiator, whose Star shines above us, I receive you into the Brotherhood of Eternal Life; see to it that you are a worthy and useful member of it. You are now safe forever, for you have entered upon the stream; may you soon attain the further shore!’ Then He gave me the Key of Knowledge and showed me how I might always and anywhere recognize any member of the Great White Brotherhood when I met Him; but these things, He said, I must not repeat. Then He spoke to my two sponsors and asked them to take charge of the necessary buddhic experiences. Then all the Masters, one by one, touched my head and spoke kindly to me and congratulated me, and the Lord Maitreya gave me His blessing.

Then the Star disappeared and we all came away, and I awoke feeling wonderfully happy and safe. I very soon went to sleep again, and all that day I was away from my body, being taught about the buddhic plane, and how to form a buddhic body and a mayavirupa [a materialised astral body]. But I do not remember that very clearly in this brain; because it has come down through several planes. The next night I was taken to see the King, and that was the most wonderful experience of all for He is a boy not much older than I am, but the handsomest I have ever seen, all shining and glorious, and when He smiles it is like sunlight. He is strong like the sea, so that nothing could stand against Him for a moment, and yet He is nothing but love, so that I could not be in the least afraid of Him. And the Silver Star that we have seen is just part of Him—not sent there, for He is there and everywhere all the time, but just somehow made so that we can see it. But when we do not see it, He is there just the same. He told me that I had done well in the past, and in the future I should do still better; and if my work should be difficult I must never forget His presence, for His strength would be always behind me, and His Star would shine over me. Then He raised His hand in blessing and we came away. There were three other Shining Ones who stood behind Him, but I did not look at Them, for I could not take my eyes from Him. On the way there and back I saw enormous ruins and a great bridge, different from any other that I have ever seen; but I was thinking so much of Him, that I did not notice them very much.

This post was last updated by John Raica Thu, 04 Aug 2016.

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