Gradually I began to understand
that it does not matter very much what problem,
whether big or small, is tormenting us; the only thing that
matters is that we be tormented, that we find a ground for being
tormented. In other words, that we exercise our minds in
order to keep certainty from turning us into idiots,
that we fight to open every closed door
we find in front of us.
While some blame
another for causing him harm,
the wise one first takes
himself to task.
The worldly struggle is outward struggle. The struggle on the spiritual path is inward struggle. No sooner does one take the spiritual direction than the first enemy one meets is one’s own self. What does the self do? It is most mischievous. When one says one wants to fight it, it says, ‘I am yourself. Do you want to fight me?’ And when it brings failure, it is clever enough to put the blame on someone else.
Do all those who have failed in life accuse themselves? No, they always accuse another person. When they have gained something they say, ‘I have done it.’ When they have lost something they say, ‘This person got in my way’. With little and big things, it is all the same. The self does not admit faults; it always puts the blame on others. Its vanity, its pride, its smallness, and its egotistical tendency which is continually active, keep one blind.
By a study of life the Sufi learns and practices the nature of its harmony. He establishes harmony with the self, with others, with the universe and with the infinite. He identifies himself with another, he sees himself, so to speak, in every other being. He cares for neither blame nor praise, considering both as coming from himself.
If a person were to drop a heavy weight and in so doing hurt his own foot, he would not blame his hand for having dropped it, realizing himself in both the hand and the foot. In like manner the Sufi is tolerant when harmed by another, thinking that the harm has come from himself alone.
He overlooks the faults of others, considering that they know no better. He hides the faults of others, and suppresses any facts that would cause disharmony. His constant fight is with the Nafs (the self-centered ego), the root of all disharmony and the only enemy of man.
The mystic develops a wider outlook on life, and this wider outlook changes his actions. He develops a point of view that may be called a divine point of view. Then he rises to the state in which he feels that all that is done to him comes from God, and when he himself does right or wrong, he feels that he does right or wrong to God. To arrive at such a stage is true religion. There can be no better religion than this, the true religion of God on earth. This is the point of view that makes a person God-like and divine. He is resigned when badly treated, but for his own shortcomings, he will take himself to task, for all his actions are directed towards God.
Milarepa,
the twelfth-century Tibetan
yogi who sang wonderful songs about
the proper way to meditate, said that the mind
has more projections than there are dust motes in a
sunbeam and that even hundreds of spears couldn’t put
an end to that. As meditators we might as well stop struggling
against our thoughts and realize that honesty and humor
are far more inspiring and helpful than any
kind of solemn religious striving
for or against
anything.
Humans born into
this floating world quickly become
like the roadside dust: at dawn small children,
by sunset already grown white-haired, without inner
understanding, they struggle without cease.
I ask the children of the universe:
for what reason do you
pass this way?
Our task
as humans is to find
the few principles that will calm the
infinite anguish of free souls. We must mend
what has been torn apart, make justice imaginable
again in a world so obviously unjust, give happiness
a meaning once more to peoples poisoned by
the misery of the century. Naturally, it is
a superhuman task. But superhuman
is the term for tasks we take
a long time to accomplish,
that’s all.
Let us
know our aims then,
holding fast to the mind, even if
force puts on a thoughtful or a comfortable
face in order to seduce us. The first thing is not to
despair. Let us not listen too much to those who proclaim
that the world is at an end. Civilizations do not die so easily,
and even if our world were to collapse, it would not have
been the first. It is indeed true that we live in tragic
times. But too many people confuse tragedy with
despair. “Tragedy,” D.H. Lawrence said,
“ought to be a great kick at misery.”
This is a healthy and immediately
applicable thought. There are
many things today
deserving such
a kick.
If we are
to save the mind we must
ignore its gloomy virtues and celebrate
its strength and wonder. Our world is poisoned
by its misery, and seems to wallow in it. It has utterly
surrendered to that evil which Nietzsche called
the spirit of heaviness. Let us not add to this.
It is futile to weep over the mind,
it is enough to labor
for it.
But where
are the conquering virtues
of the mind? The same Nietzsche listed
them as mortal enemies to heaviness of the spirit.
For him, they are strength of character, taste, the “world,”
classical happiness, severe pride, the cold frugality of
the wise. More than ever, these virtues are
necessary today, and each of us can
choose the one that suits
him best.
Before the
vastness of the undertaking,
let no one forget strength of character.
I don’t mean the theatrical kind on political
platforms, complete with frowns and threatening
gestures. But the kind that through the virtue of its purity
and its sap, stands up to all the winds that blow in
from the sea. Such is the strength of character
that in the winter of the world
will prepare the
fruit.