WHOEVER ATTEMPTS IT WILL AFTERWARDS REPENT.

THERE IS NO PAPER, NO PEN, NO WRITER,

THAT CAN PENETRATE SUCH A STATE.

Who is competent to express this state? For as contemplation goes deeper and deeper, the doer is lost, and the mind begins to end; contemplation is its death.

The mind can speak, the mind can tell. Its expertise lies in explaining what it knows, even telling of things you do not know; and frequent repetition leads you to the illusion that you know. If you keep explaining a thing again and again, you gradually forget whether you have known it or not and begin to feel and believe that you know. Just consider: do you say only things you know or do you also say things you do not know? Do you know whether God is? If not, do not tell anyone that God is. Have you known truth? If not, do not tell others about truth, for the danger is not that others will be deceived, but by constant repetition you yourself will be deluded into the certainty that you know.

This is a very subtle illusion. Once the thought takes hold of you that you know -- when you have not known -- your boat will never reach the other shore. A man who sleeps can be awakened, but he who pretends to be asleep is hard to awaken. The ignorant can be enlightened, but not a learned man who says he already knows all. Armed with this understanding, avoid the saints and scholars, only go to them when your knowledge gains sufficient strength to protect you. The pundit searches out the ignorant and avoids the sage. If Nanak comes to town the pundits will run away for they are frightened that such a man may lay bare their actual state. He might lift the veil and uncover their ignorance; and this veil is so weak and thin that it tears at the slightest touch.

Where there is no paper nor pen nor even writer, then the state of mind does not exist, and who is to ponder over contemplation?

THE NAME OF THE FLAWLESS ONE IS SUCH

THAT ONLY CONTEMPLATING CAN KNOW IT.

That is how it is, but only you will know. Just as a mute cannot explain the taste of sugar, your lips will remain sealed. Every time you think of it there will be a lump in your throat, your heart will become full, so full; tears will flow, or laughter, but you will not be able to say a word. People will think your mind has lost its balance. Your inside will be so overfull that it will pour out of every pore in your body. You will dance, you will sing, but you will not be able to speak. So it was that Nanak sang and Mardana played. Whenever anyone asked Nanak about his state he would look at Mardana and nod. Mardana would pick up his instrument and begin to play, and Nanak would begin to sing. Nanak said nothing, he only sang.

When you hear a sage -- if you hear him properly -- you will find he is singing, not talking. You will find poetry in his words. Even as he sits he dances. You will find a kind of intoxication in the atmosphere around him, an intoxication that does not lull you to sleep or into senselessness, but rather awakens you. It takes you not into forgetfulness but into wakefulness. And if you are ready to flow along with it, it can carry you to unknown and wonderful shores. If you are really ready to dive down deep into the ocean it can take you on a long astonishing journey -- to the ultimate.

The sage's tune is more melody than words. He speaks less, sings more, for what he has attained cannot be expressed in words. It will perhaps be transmitted by a tune, a low murmur; a slight glimpse and you may get carried away by it.

Gurdjieff defined two kinds of art. In ordinary art the artist, the singer, the sculptor expresses his feelings. Even a great painter like Picasso does no more than capture his state of mind in his work. Gurdjieff calls this subjective art. Objective art includes the Taj Mahal or the Ajanta-Ellora caves. In this the artist does not portray his feelings but creates a condition that elicits certain feelings in the viewer.

There is the statue of Buddha. If it is truly a piece of objective art -- which it can be only if the sculptor has known what buddhahood means -- then you will find yourself getting connected with it in a mysterious way as you keep looking at it. You will find that you have descended deep within yourself and the idol will become contemplation.

The idols in the temples were not put there without a reason. They are all part of this objective art. Music also was not created accidentally; those who went into samadhi first gave voice to music. Having heard the melody of Om within, in various ways they tried to capture the melody of this resonance in the realm of sound, so that those who know not the music within may get some taste of it. Little children invariably come to the temple in order to partake of the offerings made to the deity. Whatever your reason, there is value in going to the temple. The external sounds of the bells and devotional songs can become a divine gift if they touch off remembrance of the music within.

The deep pleasure in music is a glimpse of samadhi. Dance also is an objective art, thus the tradition of dancing before the deity. Witnessing the dance, your boat may suddenly leave the shore and sail off to distant lands!

One thing you must keep in mind about Nanak is that whatever he has said, he has sung; whatever he wanted to convey, he has conveyed along with music. For the real thing is the music -- the nada, the sound. What he says is a mere excuse when his aim is to trigger the resonance within you. If it begins to resound in the right way your thought processes will break and you will find yourself on a different plane of words altogether. If you have gathered enough courage to flow along, if you are not holding on like mad to the shore, then the third happening -- contemplation -- will also occur.