Page 23 :: Something smarter than us is going to emerge


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created:	14.03.2006 - 12:06:17

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He also will not talk about surrender because surrender is not a method really. You surrender only when every method has become futile, when you cannot reach by any method. You have tried your best. You have knocked on every door and no door opens, and you have passed through all the routes and no route reaches. You have done whatsoever you can do, and now you feel helpless. In that total helplessness surrender happens. So on the path of surrender there is no method. But what is surrender and how does it work? And if surrender works, then what is the need of one hundred and twelve methods? Then why go into them unnecessarily? – the mind will ask. Then okay! If surrender works, it is better to surrender. Why go on hankering after methods? And who knows whether a particular method will suit you or not? And it may take lives to find out. So it is
good to surrender, but it is difficult. It is the most difficult thing in the world. Methods are not difficult. They are easy; you can train yourself. But for surrender you cannot train yourself... no training! You cannot ask how to surrender; the very question is absurd. How can you ask how to surrender? Can you ask how to love? Either there is love or there is not, but you cannot ask how to love.

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I was so weary of the world.
I was so sick of it.
everything was tainted with myself,
skies, trees, flowers, birds, water,
people, houses, streets, vehicles, machines,
nations armies, war, peace-talking,
work, recreation, governing, anarchy,
it was all tainted with myself, I knew it all to start with
because it was all myself.

When I gathered flowers, I knew it was myself plucking my own flowering,
When I went on a train, I knew it was myself travelling by my own invention.
When I heard the cannon of the war, I listened with my own ears to my own destruction.
When I saw the torn dead, I knew it was my own torn dead body.
It was all me, I had done it all in my own flesh.

I shall never forget the maniacal horror of it all in the ind when everything was me, I knew it all already, I anticipated it all in my soul.
because I was the author and the result
I was the God and the creation at once;
creator, I looked at my creation;
created, I looked at myself, the creator;
it was a maniacal horror in the end.

At last came death, sufficiency of death,
and that at last relieved me, I died.

and I am dead, and trodden to nought in the smoke sodden tomb;
dead and trodden to nought in the sour black earth of the tomb; dead and trodden to nought, trodded to nought.

God, but it is good to have died and been trodden out, trodden to nought in sour, dead earth,
quite to nought,
absolutely to nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing.

For when it is quite, quite nothing, then it is everything.
When I am trodden quite out, quite, quite out,
every vestige gone, then I am here
risen, accomplishing a resurrection
risen, not born again, but risen, body the same as before,
new beyond knowledge of newness, alive beyond life,
proud beyond knowledge of newness, alive beyond life,
proud beyond inkling or furthest conception of pride,
living where life was never yet dreamed of, nor hinted at,
here, in the other world, still terrestrial
myself, the same as before, yet unaccountably new.

I, in the sour black tomb, trodden to absolute death
I put out my hand in the night, one night, and my hand touched that which was verily not mine,
verily it was not mine.
Where I had been was a sudden blaze,
a sudden flaring blaze!
So I put my hand out further, a little further
and I felt that which was not I,
it verily was not I,
it was the unknown.

Ha, I was a blaze leaping up!
I was a tiger bursting into sunlight.
I was greedy, I was mad for the unknown.
I, new risen, resurrected, starwed from the tomb,
starved from a life of devouring always myself,
now here was I, new awakened, with my hand stretching out
and touching the unknown, the real unknown, the unknown unknown.

My God, but I can only say
I touch, I feel the unknown!
I am the first comer!
Cortes, Pizarro, Columbus, Cabot, they are nothing, nothing!
I am the first comer!
I am the discoverer!
I have found the other world!

It was the flank of my wife
I touched with my hand, I clutched with my hand,
rising, new awakened from the tomb!
It was the flank of my wife
whom I married years ago
at whose side I have lain for over a thousand nights
and all that previous while, she was I, she was I;
I touched her, it was I who touched and I who was touched.

Yet rising from the tomb, from the black oblivion stretching out my hand, my hand flung like a drowned man's hand on a rock,
I touched her flank and knew I was carried by the current in death
over to the new world, and I was climbing out on the shore,
risend, not to the old world, the old, changeless I, the old life, wakened not to the old knowledge
but to a new earth, a new I, a new knowledge, a new world of time.

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