AWAKENING
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.
When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected oayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He pondered about this sensation, which filled him pletely, as he was slowly walking along. He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking, and by this aloions turn into realizations and are not lost, but bee entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside of them.Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered. He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man. He realized that ohing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that ohing no longer existed in him, which had apanied him throughout his youth an<dfn></dfn>d used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teags. He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept his teags.
Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: "But what is this, what you have sought to learn from teags and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still uo teach you?" And he found: "It was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self, I wao free myself from, which I sought to overe. But I was not able to overe it, could only deceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it. Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own self, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and being separated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha! And there is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, about Siddhartha!"
Having been p while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right away ahought sprang forth from these, a hought, which was: "That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remaihus alien and unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause: I was afraid of myself, I was fleeing from myself! I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing to to dissect my<mark>99lｉb?</mark> self and peel off all of its layers, to find the core of all peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process."
Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, 藏书网a smile filled his fad a feeling of awakening from long dreams flowed through him from his head down to his toes. And it was not long before he walked again, walked quickly like a man who knows what he has got to do.
"Oh," he thought, taking a deep breath, "now I would not let Siddhartha escape from me again! No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering of the world. I do not want to kill and dissect myself any loo find a secret behind the ruins. her Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetior any kind of teags. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha."
He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, oh to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no lohe veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and tal diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who ss diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinitys urpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, ihing.
"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not s the symbols aers and call them deceptions, ce, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wao read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, sed the symbols aers, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue tal and worthless forms without substano, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day."
In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him oh.
Because suddenly, he had also bee aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very m from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already oh towards himself, he he had every iiarded as natural and took frahat he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, wheopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no lohe one I was, I am no ascetiy more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my fathers place? Study? Make s? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path."
Motionless, Siddhartha remaianding there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his fathers son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleriow, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlor in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he beloo, he also beloo a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had bee a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, wheood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly trated. He felt: This had been the last t<s></s>remor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no loo his father, no longer back.
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.