---
section: Library
booktitle: "Zen: The Quantum Leap From Mind to No-Mind"
booktype: "Discourses"
bookcode: "QUANT"
dategiven: "20 June 1988 pm"
place: " in Gautam the Buddha Auditorium"
chapternum: "Chapter #10"
chaptertitle: "Start living in a poem"
acode: "8806205"
shorttitle: "QUANT10"
audio: "Yes"
video: "Yes"
esttime: "68mins"
displaytitle: "Zen: The Quantum Leap From Mind to No-Mind: Chapter #10"
---

```style
.sutra {
  font-style: italic;
  white-space: pre-wrap !important;
}
```
<!--This file is automatically generated. Do not edit!-->
<p class="sutra">BELOVED OSHO,
ONE DAY, WHILE NAN-SEN WAS LIVING IN A LITTLE HUT IN THE MOUNTAINS, A STRANGE MONK VISITED HIM JUST AS HE WAS PREPARING TO GO TO HIS WORK IN THE FIELDS.
NAN-SEN WELCOMED HIM, SAYING, "PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME. COOK ANYTHING YOU LIKE FOR YOUR LUNCH, THEN BRING SOME OF THE LEFTOVER FOOD TO ME ALONG THE ROAD LEADING TO MY WORK PLACE."
NAN-SEN WORKED HARD UNTIL EVENING, AND CAME HOME VERY HUNGRY. THE STRANGER HAD COOKED AND ENJOYED A GOOD MEAL BY HIMSELF, THEN THROWN AWAY ALL PROVISIONS AND BROKEN ALL THE UTENSILS. NAN-SEN FOUND THE MONK SLEEPING PEACEFULLY IN THE EMPTY HUT, BUT WHEN HE STRETCHED HIS OWN TIRED BODY BESIDE THE STRANGER'S, THE LATTER GOT UP AND WENT AWAY.
YEARS LATER, NAN-SEN TOLD THE ANECDOTE TO HIS DISCIPLES, WITH THE COMMENT, "HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW."</p>


Maneesha, Zen is anything but unkindness, but ungracefulness. It is pure compassion. And compassion is tested only when you think it is almost impossible to be compassionate.


This small anecdote about a great Zen master, Nan-Sen, has tremendous implications for you all to understand -- not only intellectually , but with your whole being. Feel the meaning in every cell of your body, mind and soul. It would be very difficult to find such a story in the history of any other religion.
<p class="sutra">ONE DAY, WHILE NAN-SEN WAS LIVING IN A LITTLE HUT IN THE MOUNTAINS, A STRANGE MONK VISITED HIM JUST AS HE WAS PREPARING TO GO TO HIS WORK IN THE FIELDS.</p>


Each and every word has to be understood clearly. A stranger is not accepted by people. Just his being strange creates fear in you, because he is unpredictable. Leaving his hut to work in the field, telling this strange man to rest, needs immense trust, a trust that even if betrayed, cannot be destroyed.


He did not even ask the name of the monk nor from where he came, nor what was his purpose, what he wanted from him. No question at all... Such is the approach of Zen -- no question at all, but a deep acceptance of the strangeness of everything.


All this is symbolic. Do you know the bamboos outside Buddha Hall? Do you know these people and the clouds that pass over and the rain? Everything is strange and that is the beauty of it. Just as the bamboos and the flowers and the roses and the clouds and the stars are accepted without their names, their caste, their country, their race, the same should be the approach to human beings. Why do you discriminate? Why do you ask a human being his name, his purpose? You do it so you can drop your fear of the stranger.


In fact, everybody is a stranger, even your wife or your husband or your children. Do you know your children? They are as much strangers as the bamboos or perhaps even more, because they come from you but they are not from you -- they come from the beyond. Yet you did not ask the child, "Why have you come?"


That is the approach of Zen. Nan-Sen did not ask the strange monk. On the contrary, he WELCOMED HIM, SAYING, "PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME."


In a small anecdote, in a few words the very essence can be expressed. "Make yourself at home."


A man like Nan-Sen does not possess anything: the whole existence is his home; this small hut cannot confine him, cannot become his possession.


He said to the stranger, "PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME. COOK ANYTHING YOU LIKE FOR YOUR LUNCH, THEN BRING SOME OF THE LEFTOVER FOOD TO ME ALONG THE ROAD LEADING TO MY WORK PLACE."


Do you see? He is not saying, "Prepare my lunch." He is saying, "Prepare your lunch and if something is left over, bring it to me in the field where I will be working."
<p class="sutra">NAN-SEN WORKED HARD UNTIL EVENING, AND CAME HOME VERY HUNGRY. THE STRANGER HAD COOKED AND ENJOYED A GOOD MEAL BY HIMSELF, THEN THROWN AWAY ALL PROVISIONS AND BROKEN ALL THE UTENSILS. NAN-SEN FOUND THE MONK SLEEPING PEACEFULLY IN THE EMPTY HUT, BUT WHEN HE STRETCHED HIS OWN TIRED BODY BESIDE THE STRANGER'S, THE LATTER GOT UP AND WENT AWAY.</p>


Even then, Nan-Sen did not ask what had happened to the leftover food. He did not ask, "Where are all the utensils? And where are you going?" A non-questioning attitude towards existence, a pure innocent acceptance that the stranger must be doing whatever he feels right to do.
<p class="sutra">YEARS LATER, NAN-SEN TOLD THE ANECDOTE TO HIS
DISCIPLES, WITH THE COMMENT, "HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW."</p>


This is the very essence of compassion, of love, of trust. You cannot betray it: by betraying it, you are betraying yourself. That strange monk had done everything to destroy Nan-Sen's trust in humanity. But on the contrary, Nan-Sen's trust has passed through a fire test.
<p class="sutra">YEARS LATER HE SAID, "HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW."</p>


If you can understand the approach of no conditions, no judgement... There was every possibility that Nan-Sen would have judged that, "The fellow proved absolutely unworthy of my trust." Then the trust is very small; Nan-Sen's trust is as big as the whole sky. What harm did he do? Of course he missed a meal, his utensils are broken, but these are small things. Only mediocre minds care about these things. People who have an inner richness, who know their kingdom of God, will not be bothered by such things. "That fellow must have his own reasons; who am I to judge? At least he did not kill me. He did not burn down the hut. He was such a good fellow," Nan-Sen says. "I MISS HIM EVEN NOW -- his generosity, his peace, his silently moving away without bothering me."


Compassion can be only unlimited. If you put a limit on your compassion, you are deceiving yourself because beyond the limit, doubt is waiting. Beyond the limit begins the distrust. What harm has he done that you should lose a precious experience of trust? In fact, he has given an opportunity to Nan-Sen to see for himself that he is not angry, that he is not suspicious, that his compassion is not limited. He is thankful to the stranger and later on he says, "HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW."


If you can experience the point, your whole life will be transformed. Then this whole existence is no longer strange, it becomes very familiar. You are at home everywhere. Nobody, not even animals, birds, this cuckoo, these silently standing bamboos... they all become friends. You start living in poetry, you start living in a dance which knows no doubt.


Religion has been giving a false coin to people called belief. If you look in the dictionaries, belief and trust and faith seem to be synonymous. They are not: belief is always belief in some hypothesis; faith is always out of fear; trust has a totally different quality -- it is out of understanding, out of love. Once you start living out of love, only then do you know what religion is. Zen is the purest form of religion.
<p class="question">Maneesha has asked:
BELOVED OSHO,
IS THIS A STORY ABOUT A MASTER'S COMPASSION AND EQUANIMITY IN THE FACE OF HIS TRUST BEING ABUSED? OR IS IT A BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATION OF BENEFITTING FROM BEING WITH A MASTER WITHOUT BEING NEEDY AND DEPENDENT? CERTAINLY, IT IS YOUR VOICE I HEAR WHEN I READ NAN-SEN'S SAYING: "HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW."</p>


Maneesha, Nan-Sen has missed only one good monk. I have missed thousands whom I have loved, whom I have trusted and who have not only broken my utensils and spoilt one of my meals. They have broken everything they could, they have burnt my heart. Still, I miss them.


Just today I heard that one of my sannyasins has written a book, condemning the whole experiment here. The book was published two and a half years ago, and it came to my notice today because the sannyasin, a woman, a beautiful woman with a very nice heart, has informed me that she is coming in September.


In the book, she wrote, "I was naive, childish. That's why I became a disciple. Now I am mature and absolutely free from sannyas." I wonder why she is coming back. But if she comes back, nobody should ask her a single question about the book, about the lies that she has spoken in it. It is all past. In two and a half years, so much water has gone down the Ganges. Who bothers? Even if you only come back home in the evening, having gone astray here and there, you are welcome.


Thousands of sannyasins have betrayed -- not me, themselves -- for trivia. The American government has bribed a few people to say things which are absolutely untrue because for three and a half years I was silent. Those people have confessed to the government that I arranged their marriage. I have not been able to arrange my own marriage and I don't think now there is any possibility. Why should I bother about arranging anybody else's marriage? And I had not seen those people, I don't remember their faces. I never even talked with them, because for three and a half years I was silent. And even when I am speaking, I am speaking publicly: I don't see people individually.


Marriage is their personal affair. If anything, I can arrange for the divorce, not for the marriage. That is my whole philosophy -- divorce! But those two sannyasins got a big enough bribe and were ready to tell the court that I had arranged their marriage. I have not said anything. Even if they come back, they will be welcomed, although I have been dragged because of them from jail to jail, poisoned because of them and fined half a million dollars.


And I don't have a single dollar; I have not even seen the face of a single dollar. I have not touched money for almost thirty years. I don't know who paid the fine. Of course, sannyasins were so much hurt that within ten minutes half a million dollars were paid. Even the judge could not believe his eyes. They were thinking that that much money I will not be able.... I had nothing.


And those who betray are not few, but many. Those to whom I gave respect and love -- and still I love them -- have done everything to harm my approach to life. They are afraid even to mention that they have been with me.


Just the other day, I received a brochure from Swami Anand Teertha whom twelve sannyasins have joined to make a therapist team. Anand Teertha, who lived with me here for thirteen years, writes in his introduction that he has been with an Indian mystic for thirteen years. He has not the courage even to say who this Indian mystic is -- do you hear? Even the cuckoo is more understanding -- Teertha's wife certainly has more courage than Teertha; at least she mentions my name, that she was learning under me as my disciple for thirteen years.


Teertha could not prevent her because she is no longer with him. He is living with another woman, a girlfriend. That girlfriend was also here. She also does not mention... again comes the Indian mystic. But if they come back, they will receive the same love. I don't take note of such stupid fears. What is their fear? Their fear is that my name makes them harassed by governments. They cannot work in Germany or in Italy if the governments knows that they have been my people.


But selling your soul so cheap... I have only tears for them. And now, they themselves are closing the door. From my side it is open, but the things they are saying to other sannyasins: "Drop sannyas. It is dangerous. Twenty-one countries have passed laws that Osho cannot enter. Your job is at risk."


And it is true. A few teachers have lost their jobs. A professor has lost his job because he accepted me as his master. But he was a courageous man. He went to the court and asked, "Is there any law that prevents me from being a disciple of Osho? Is it in any way a hindrance to my teaching in the college? I have not been teaching his philosophy; I am not even capable of teaching it. But my association with him has taken away my job."


There are almost two million sannyasins in the world. I have told them not to wear orange clothes, not to wear the mala, because I don't want anyone to suffer because of me. But anybody trying to persuade sannyasins to drop sannyas... Now what is left as far as sannyas is concerned? I have told them to forget about the orange clothes, throw away their malas in the ocean. Only meditation is the essence. Just keep to it, nobody can even suspect that you are a meditator. It is your inner, innermost center.


Maneesha, it is both. The story is "a master's compassion and equanimity in the face of his trust being abused." And it is also "a beautiful illustration of benefitting from being with a master without being needy and dependent."


Yes, Maneesha, certainly it is my voice that you have heard in Nan-Sen's saying,"HE WAS SUCH A GOOD MONK -- I MISS HIM EVEN NOW." You don't know, perhaps nobody else in the world has missed as many people as I have missed. I am carrying wounds from the hands of my own people; but my love is as alive as ever, because it was never dependent on what they do. It was never conditional; it is simply that I love, I am love. So whoever comes close to me can drink the nectar of love and silence and peace. I don't make any demand that you have to fulfill. I am just like an open sky.
<p class="question">Maneesha has asked another question, too:
BELOVED OSHO,
DOES A DISCIPLE NEED TO NEED HER MASTER AND TO BE CONSCIOUS OF NEEDING HIM?</p>


No, Maneesha. Need is not the language of Zen: love is the language. You need things but -- it is a strange and insane world -- people love things. Somebody loves a car, somebody loves a horse, somebody loves a rented bicycle. In this insane world people need each other and reduce each other into things. The moment you need someone, you have taken away the dignity of that person. You have reduced him into a commodity.


In India, the woman is called stridhan, feminine wealth. And when a girl gets married, the word that is used is dana, donation. These are ugly words; you cannot donate a person, you cannot purchase a person. It is only in theory that we think slavery has disappeared from the world. It exists in thousands of ways, with different faces.


At least don't ask a master to be needed, and anybody worth his salt, if he is a master, does not need a disciple. He loves to share and he is grateful to all those who are receptive. Neither is the disciple a need nor is the master a need. Need is a word applicable to things. Here in this temple, all are loved; nobody is needed. And the difference has to be understood: need becomes a prison and love is freedom; need puts chains on you and love gives you wings.
The bamboos are whispering amongst themselves. They want a little laughter.


Little Ernie's parents have invited the local Protestant priest and his wife to tea. Ernie has been told to be on his best behavior, and to say "Please" and "Thank you" at all times. But Ernie is having trouble, and by the end of the afternoon is almost ready to burst.
"Would you like some more tea, Ernest?" asks his mother.
"No!" says Ernie.


"No what, dear?" asks his mother, with a threatening look. She prompts him again, "No what?"
To which Ernie replies, "No more fucking tea!"


Stanley Sharkskin, the traveling salesman, is too tired to continue his journey in the dark country night. He sees a little farmhouse by the side of the road and decides to seek some comfort and rest there.
"Can you put me up for the night?" Stanley asks the farmer.
"Sure, but you will have to sleep with my son," says the farmer.
"My God!" exclaims Stanley, "I am in the wrong joke!"


It is evening in a bar in New York. A young, long-haired boy, with a guitar and a high-pitched nasal voice, is singing "My Old California Home." An old man in the corner bows down his head and quietly weeps.


A lady sitting near him leans over and says, "Excuse me, old timer, but are you a Californian?"
"No, lady," sobs the man. "I'm a musician."


"Have faith and you shall be healed," cries the preacher at the revival meeting. A woman on crutches and a man come forward. The preacher asks, "What is your name, my good woman?"


"I'm Mrs. Smith," she replies, "and I have had to walk with crutches all my life."
"Well, Mrs. Smith," says the preacher, "go behind that screen and pray."
Turning to the man, he asks, "What is your name?"


"My name ith Thamuelth," he replies, "and I have alwayth thpoken with a lithp."


"Alright, Mr. Samuels," says the preacher, "go behind that screen with Mrs. Smith, and pray!"


Then the preacher raises his arms and says, "Witness the miracles! Mrs. Smith, throw one crutch over the screen." The audience gasps as it sails over. "Mrs. Smith," cries the preacher. "Now the other one!" The crowd cheers as the second crutch appears. Encouraged, the preacher commands, "Mr. Samuels, say something in a loud, clear voice."
Samuels answers, "Mithuth Thmith jutht fell on her arth!"

Rupesh, give the first drum and everybody goes crazy. Nothing less will do.

(Drumbeat)

Rupesh...

(Drumbeat)

Everybody becomes silent.
Close your eyes
and gather your energy inwards.
No movement. Just be.
A single-pointed consciousness
and you have taken the quantum leap
from mind to no-mind.
Deeper, deeper. There is no fear, go deeper.
It is lonely, it is silent
but it is immensely blissful.
This is the lotus
the buddhas have been talking about.
This is the secret that can be indicated
but cannot be explained.
At this moment
you are at the very heartbeat of existence.
Let it become your very life-style.
With it comes a tremendous spring
of life, of joy, of blessings, of love.
It is a dance which is multi-dimensional.
Every creativity comes out of this space:
poetry, music, sculpture...
all that is great is born through this womb,
the womb of inner silence.
Make it deeper.

Rupesh, give another beat for everyone to die.

(Drumbeat)

Just let the body breathe,
but you go on and on inwards.
This is the sacred temple of your being.
Out of it arises every virtue and if you forget it,
your life is meaningless.
A thousand and one roses
blossom in this silence.
If you forget it, your life is just a drag
from the cradle to the grave.
It is all up to you
whether you want to live in a desert
or in a garden,
whether you want to be just bones
and a skeleton
or a divine consciousness.

Rupesh, give the beat so that all those who have died can come back to life.

(Drumbeat)

Resurrect,
but don't forget the moment you have been in
and don't forget
the space that you have traveled.
Don't forget that nothing is more precious
than your own being.
This remembrance
makes each one of you a buddha.

Okay, Maneesha?
Yes, Osho.
Can we celebrate with so many buddhas?
YES!
			

> [!info]
> Copyright 1964-1990 Osho (Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh)
>