The same is true about everything that we have made static. You are growing, even this very moment. When you came this morning to see me you were younger; now you are a little older. By the time you are going, you will be very much older.
Existence consists not of nouns and pronouns; existence consists only of processes. Hence we cannot use the word experience; we can only use the word experiencing. We cannot use the word love; we can only use the word loving. We cannot use the word friendship; we can only use the word friendliness.
But then talking with people will become impossible: “I am coming from rivering. On the way I saw many people becoming old….” People will think you have gone cuckoo. In fact you are stating the actual facticity, the very existential nature of things, beings. Everything is always in constant movement. Howsoever slow, the movement is there.
Learn something very basic: in the inward world, please don’t use the wrong language. …Because the wrong language is not only a mistaken language, it becomes your mind also – and your mind is full of all wrong identifications of the past.
And you are entering into a totally new territory of your being. This territory belongs to no language; it belongs only to silence. So when it happens remain utterly silent and relish it, rejoice in it, feel it, taste it – but don’t try to see it, don’t try to figure out what is happening, don’t bring your logic in and don’t bring your old intellectual acumen to understand something which is beyond intellect.
And soon the gaps will become bigger, and a day finally comes when you are settled and nothing can distract you from your being. You will see your mind and you will see your body – but on the periphery. And even when they are taken away, killed and destroyed, you will not be affected because you are no longer identified.
It is the identification that has to be understood.
A man had very beautiful house that even the king wanted to purchase. He had made it with such love. He himself was an architect and the king was jealous because even his palace was not so beautiful. All the rich people had made an offer – whatever money he wanted he could have – but the man always refused. The palace that he had made was a small palace hidden in a thick garden with bushes and roses.
One day he went out. When he came home there was a vast crowd: his house was on fire. It may have been either the conspiracy of the king or the conspiracy of other people who were very jealous of his house. He was an old man but tears started flowing from his eyes. It was not just a house for him; it was his very creativity. He was so identified with it – as if the house was not burning but he was. Such a deep attachment….