The same witness can step in thousands of rivers. The changing rivers don’t change the witness. A mirror can reflect thousands of things; those reflections don’t change the mirror. Reflections come and go without leaving a trace behind, no footprints, just the mirror. And this mirror has been the search of the East. When I say “witness,” I mean a mirror-like quality of your consciousness, which simply reflects.
A violent storm beats against it
but it never moves at all.
Wild and solitary,
sharp and full of power,
it soars like a bird’s feather.
I give my assent only to one
who has climbed to the summit.
Walking, sitting, lying down,
he does everything as though
he were out for a stroll.
Maneesha has asked:
The poems or haikus that you talk about each evening sound so contemporary – as though they were written about you and your disciples. Yet they have come to us from centuries earlier.
Is that an attribute of the truth, that it resonates with all people everywhere, in any age, who are seeking it?
Maneesha, every art can be described either as objective art or as subjective art. Subjective art you will find everywhere; it comes from your feelings, from your heart, from your mind in paintings, in poetry, in music.
But objective art comes from the emptiness of your heart; you just become a flute, a hollow bamboo and the universe sings through you. Your only credit is that you don’t create any hindrances, you simply allow the universe to flow through you. With you being in a let-go and allowing the universe to flow through you, objective art is created.
There is not much objective art in the world, because before objective art can be created you have to become a hollow bamboo; and you are so solid, your ego is so stubborn. Before creating objective art, you have to be so humble, almost nobody. In your absence there comes a great universal flood. That flood can become poetry, a painting, music, a dance, a sculpture. Thousands of dimensions are available, you just allow it. These haikus are objective art; they are not composed, they have flown through a silent, empty heart.
I have told you about the great English poet Coleridge. When he died he left forty thousand poems incomplete. His whole life his friends insisted to him, “Why don’t you complete them? Just one line is missing, otherwise this will be a great poem.”
He said “You don’t understand me. I don’t write, I don’t compose, I am in the hands of the universe. When it comes, it comes. When it stops, it stops. I have no way of adding anything or editing out anything.”