Chapter 9 Nature of Witnessing

I keep telling you to "be aware" and "be mindful." But can mindful awareness truly savor life? Is mindful awareness merely that of a bystander in life, rather than a participant?

Sooner or later, the mind will raise this question because it fears you becoming a observer. Why? — Because once you become an observer, the mind dies. The mind is a doer; it wants to do something, while observation is a state of non-action. What the mind fears is: "If you become an observer, you'll no longer need me." In a sense, the mind is not wrong. Once inner observation is achieved, the mind will inevitably disappear, just as bringing light into a room makes the darkness disappear; it is unavoidable.

In fact, only with mindful awareness can one truly sing, dance, and truly savor life. This may seem contradictory on the surface—and indeed it is!—but all truths appear contradictory. Contradiction is the essence of truth. The mind produces suffering; there can be no song in suffering. How can you dance when you're stuck in your own mind? You can strike some empty poses and call it dance, but that's not true dance. True dance only happens when you become mindful awareness. Joy flows through your entire body; that is dance. Song will flow naturally. And only when you become mindful awareness can you savor life.

You worry that becoming an observer will make you merely a bystander in life. No, being a bystander is one thing, being an observer is entirely different—there's a fundamental difference. A bystander is apathetic; they are dull and insensitive. They are not participating in existence itself. They stand on the sidelines, simply watching others. Like what you do in your life: others act in a movie, and you watch. You are a bystander!

Contemplation is not being a bystander. So what is contemplation? Contemplation involves both participation and constant awareness. Contemplation is a state of acting without acting. That's Lao Tzu's saying, meaning to achieve something through non-action. Contemplation is not about escaping. It's about living life fully, passionately, yet deep down remaining an observer, always remembering: "I am a consciousness."

As you walk down the street, remember that you are a form of consciousness. Keep walking, and something new will infuse you—a new wealth, a new beauty. Something inner will permeate your outward actions. You become a flame of consciousness, and walking brings a completely different kind of joy: you stand on the ground, yet your feet don't touch the earth at all. That's what the Buddha meant when he said: when crossing a river, don't let the water wet your feet.

To live in this world, but not to be tainted by its dust: that is the meaning of "observant consciousness." That is what I repeatedly admonish you to be aware! I am not against all actions, but your actions should be observed.

Monks living in temples—Catholics, Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—are escaping life; they are not true Sanyashi (disciples). They merely suppress their desires; they flee the world, the world of action. If you flee that world of action, where else can you be a contemplator? The world of action is the best place for your awareness. It challenges you. Either you indulge in dreams, identifying as the "doer"—then you are a worldly person, a dreamer, a deceiver; or you can be a contemplator, but still live in this earthly world. Then your actions have a different nature; these are true actions.

Those who lack awareness act not as real actions, but as reactions. They are merely reacting. If someone insults you, you will react. But if someone insults the Buddha—he will not react, he will act. Reactions are based on others: he presses a button, and you are just a victim, a slave; you run like a machine. Those who have truly attained awareness never react: their actions arise from their own awareness. Their actions are not caused by the actions of others; no one can press their button. If they spontaneously feel they should do something, they will do it; if they feel it is unnecessary, they remain silent. They do not suppress anything; they are always open. Their expression is multifaceted: flowing in music, in poetry, in dance, in love, in prayer, in compassion.

This is the symbolic meaning of the lotus in the East. You must have seen statues and pictures of the Buddha seated on a lotus; it's a symbol. The lotus is a water flower, yet the water cannot wet it. The lotus hasn't escaped into the caves of the Himalayas; it still grows in the water, yet it remains far, far away. Live in the world, but don't let the world enter your life.

If you are unaware of it, then there are only two possibilities: either repression or indulgence. You will be enslaved on both paths.

Sometimes, when the dark side of your mind appears, don't be afraid. The most fundamental thing to understand is: you are not the mind—neither the light side nor the dark side. If you identify with the beautiful part, then you cannot separate yourself from the ugly part; they are two sides of the same coin. You can have them both, and you can throw them away both at the same time, but you cannot separate them.

All of humanity's anxieties stem from its tendency to choose things that appear beautiful and bright.

Choice is worry. Choice creates trouble. No choice means: the mind exists, it has both a dark side and a light side—so what? What does it have to do with you? Why worry about it?

Once you stop choosing, all worries will disappear. You will be able to accept. The mind does what it should do; it's the mind's nature. This isn't your problem, because you are not the mind. If you were the mind, then all problems would cease to exist.

You are isolated, utterly isolated. You are merely an observer, nothing more than a bystander who identifies only with whatever pleases him—forgetting that unpleasant things will follow like a shadow. Pleasantness doesn't cause you trouble—trouble arises when the opposite pole appears; and you are torn to shreds. Your whole trouble begins. You are reduced from an observer to someone who can be identified with. The reduction in biblical stories is fictional. But this is real reduction: from an observer to someone who identifies with something, thus losing your observation.

Try this: let your mind do as it pleases. Remember, you are not identical to it. You will then make a discovery. The less you identify with it, the weaker and more powerless your mind becomes, because its power comes from your identification; it sucks you dry. When you stand alone and far away, the mind begins to wither. Once you completely cease to identify with the mind, even for a brief moment, a revelation will occur: the mind is dead, it is no longer there; it was once so full; it was there when you walked, when you slept—suddenly it is gone. You look around, and all that remains is emptiness, nothingness. With the disappearance of the mind, the self disappears as well.

So all that remains is a quality of awareness that does not contain "I". At most, you can think of it as something similar to "I am", or more precisely, "it is", because even in "I am" there is still some shadow of "I". Once you realize "it is", it becomes everything in the universe. Many things that were once so important and so troubling to you disappear. You tried so hard to solve them, but they only became more and more complicated; everything was a problem.

The master asked his disciples to meditate on a koan. A gosling was placed in a bottle to be fed, and the gosling grew larger and larger until it occupied the entire bottle. Now it was too big to get out of the bottle; the opening was too small. The koan is that you must get the gosling out of the bottle without damaging the bottle or killing the gosling. Now it has become a mental puzzle. What can you do? The gosling is too big; you can't get it out unless you break the bottle, but that's not allowed. Or, you could kill it and then take it out, then you'd get it out regardless of whether it lives or dies, but that's also not allowed.

Day after day, the disciple meditated, but couldn't find a method; in fact, there was no method. After utter exhaustion, a sudden revelation struck him—the disciple suddenly realized that the master couldn't possibly be interested in the bottle and the goose; they must symbolize something. The bottle was the mind, and you were the goose… But with observation, that became possible. And don't exist in the mind, otherwise you'll become so identified with it that you begin to feel you are inside it!

He ran to tell the master that the goose had come out. The master said, "You understand. Now leave it outside. It never stayed inside the bottle."

If you keep racking your brains over the goose and the bottle, you'll never find a solution. "It must represent something else, otherwise the master wouldn't have given it to me. What is it?" That's enlightenment—because the whole function, the whole story, between master and disciple is about the mind and awareness. Awareness is the goose; it was never in the bottle of the mind. But you keep thinking it's in there and keep asking people how to get it out. I call them fools. Because they haven't grasped the point at all. The goose is outside; it was never inside, so there's no question of getting it out.