“But you are the son of my master. Although he has only taught me very little, that little has grown into a huge mastery within me. The old man is not alive; I touch your feet instead because you come from his own blood. And when you go back, take these roses from my garden on my behalf and put them on the grave of your father. Although he will not be able to hear, tell him, ‘Your teaching has not gone in vain. The man has really become a master and he has no longer any desire to be declared the champion of the empire.’ All longing has disappeared, all desire has disappeared. I am feeling so fulfilled and so complete that I cannot conceive that anything more can be added in my being…and I owe everything to your old father.”
Milarepa, when music becomes perfect it does not drop. You become music itself: your every gesture, your eyes, your hands, your feet, your whole being starts throbbing into a music which is in tune with the universal music. Don’t be worried about it.
London fog was swirling over the River Thames as a young tramp settled himself for a night on the embankment. Suddenly he was awakened by the sound of a beautiful woman alighting from her Rolls Royce. “You poor man,” she said, “you must be terribly cold and wet. Let me drive you to my home and put you up for the night.”
Of course the tramp climbed into the car beside her. After a short drive they came to her mansion. The door was opened by the butler. She instructed him to give the tramp a meal, a hot bath and a comfortable bed in the servant’s quarters.
Some while later the woman slipped on her negligee and hurried along to the servants’ wing. Knocking on the door she entered the room and seeing that the light was on, asked the young man why he was not sleeping.
“Surely you are not hungry?” she asked innocently.
“No, your butler fed me royally,” he answered.
“Then perhaps your bed is not comfortable?” she continued.
“But it is,” he said, “it is soft and warm.”
“Then you must need company,” she said. “move over a little.”
The young man was overjoyed. He moved over and fell in the River Thames.
So don’t be worried, Milarepa. All that is dream will drop, all that is real will remain.
The other day I visited Sitama. I looked into her eyes and felt almost as if time had stopped and exploded. Completely overwhelmed, and with much reluctance, I came away laughing and crying. Can you talk about the moment when time stops: when I feel as if everything is rushing at me and at the same time away from me; all in a split second which also seems like a lifetime and leaves me feeling like a small child?
The question about time and its stopping is immensely complex. For centuries philosophy has been trying to figure out what time is. And there have been many different standpoints, but none of them seems to be supported by logic and rationality.