Now this is strange. If you are memory, then who is preventing you and how is it not coming? And who is this who says, “I know, but still it is not coming”? And then you try hard, and the harder you try the more difficult it becomes. Then, fed up with the whole thing, you go into the garden for a walk and suddenly, looking at the rosebush, it is there, it has surfaced.
Your memory is not you. You are consciousness, memory is content. But memory is the whole life-energy of the ego. Memory is of course old, and it is afraid of the new. The new may be disturbing, the new may be such that it may not be digestible. The new may bring some trouble. You will have to shift and reshift yourself. You will have to readjust yourself. That seems arduous.
To be new one needs to become disidentified with the ego. Once you are disidentified with the ego you don’t care whether it dies or lives. In fact you know that whether it lives or dies it is already dead. It is a mechanism. Use it, but don’t be used by it. The ego is continuously afraid of death because it is arbitrary. Hence the fear. It does not arise out of being, it cannot arise out of being, because being is life. How can life be afraid of death? Life knows nothing of death.
It arises out of the arbitrary, the artificial, the somehow put together, the false, the pseudo. And yet…and yet…it is just such letting-go, just that death that makes a man alive. To die in the ego is to be born into being, into the divine.
The new is a messenger from existence, the new is a message from existence. It is a gospel. Listen to the new, go with the new. I know you are afraid. In spite of your fear go with the new, and your life will become richer and richer and you will be able one day to release the imprisoned splendor.
The second question:
What do you mean by saying that life is perfect?
I mean exactly that. Life is perfect. But I understand why the question has arisen. The question has arisen because you have some ideas about perfection and life does not fit with your ideas, hence you call it imperfect.
When I call life perfect, I don’t mean that it fits with my idea of perfection – I have none. When I call life perfect, I simply mean there is nothing else to compare it with, there is no ideal. This is all there is; it has to be perfect.
Your perfection is always comparison; my perfection is just a simple statement of fact, it is not a comparison. You compare, you say, “Yes, this is perfect, that is not perfect,” and you have a criterion of what is perfect.
I have heard about a Sufi master who was talking to a few people in the coffee house and he said an old Sufi saying: “Life is perfect, everything is perfect, everybody is perfect.”