Послания любви. 365 писем Ошо

I arrived here yesterday

and have been thinking of writing ever since

but it didn’t happen until now.

Forgive the delay

though even a single day’s delay is no small delay!

What shall I say about the return journey?

It was very blissful.

I kept sleeping, and you were with me.

It appeared I had left you behind

but actually you were still with me.

This is the being-together that is so real

that it cannot be divided.

Physical nearness is not nearness,

there can be no union on that level,

only an unbridgeable gulf,

but there is another nearness which is not of the body,

and its name is love.

Once gained it is never lost.

Then no separation exists

despite vast distances in the visible world.

If you can arrive at this distancelessness

with even one other it can be found with everybody.

One is the door, the all, the goal.

The beginning of love is through one, the end is all.

The love that unites you with everything,

with nothing excluded, I call religion,

and the love that stops anywhere I call sin.

32. Love.

I received your letter;

I have been waiting for it ever since I returned.

But how sweet it is to wait!

Life itself is a waiting!

Seeds wait to sprout,

rivers to reach the ocean.

What does man wait for?

He too is the seed for some tree,

a river for some ocean.

Whoever looks deep inside

finds that a longing for the endless and boundless

is his very being.

And whoever recognizes this

begins his journey towards God

because who can be thirsty and not look for water?

This has never happened and never will!

Where there is longing,

there is thirst for attainment.

I want to make everyone aware of this thirst.

I want to convert everyone’s life into a waiting.

The life that has turned into a waiting for God

is the true life.

All other ways of life are just a waste, a disaster.

33. Love.

I received your letter.

Its poetry filled my heart.

It is said that poetry is born out of love.

In your letter I saw this happen.

Where there is love

the whole existence becomes a poem;

the flowers of life bloom under the light of love.

It is strange that you ask

why my heart holds so much love for you.

Can love ever be caused?

If it is,

can it be called love?

Oh, my mad friend! love is always uncaused!

This is its mystery,

and its purity.