We began with the topic of hope. One of the participants had seen a recently released interview with Jane Goodall for a Netflix series entitled ‘Famous last words.’ The interview had been made to be shown only after her death. At one point the interviewer had walked out of the room, leaving her alone with the camera and in that space she chose to talk about her hope for humanity. This contrasted with Krishnamurti’s general dismissal of hope as an escapist projection into the future, therefore irrelevant to the essential task of staying with what is. This was the starting point for our inquiry into the various implications of hope and the reasons why K might have dismissed it.

One aspect was that the Jane Goodall interview could be seen as representing her expression of her honest views in the face of death, implying that the encounter with death is a moment of truth. But if so, how did hope fit between truth and death? While hope might not seem like such a big thing, in the Christian religious outlook it figures among the three cardinal virtues: Hope, Faith and Charity: the hope of salvation, the faith in Christ on which that hope rests, and the love we owe to our fellow human beings universally as the way of virtue that makes us worthy of divine dispensation. Is such hope misguided and irrelevant? Is it an escape?

It was commented that K dismissed hope because he was all about living in the now, without past or future. And yet, he was deeply concerned with the future of humanity. Another participant added that, when one finds oneself in a crisis and hits the point of hopelessness, something like grace takes place. Another reported on a recent bicycle accident in which he broke both wrists – his forearms were still in a plaster cast –, leaving him unable to look after himself or to play music, which he had done for many years. But even though he was normally a restless person, this new state brought an unexpected calmness to him, for he could not do anything about it and therefore it was not a problem. And hope, as the wish for something to be different than what it is in the future, did not enter into it. Hope was not needed to face facts. That state, he said, was neither one of hope nor of hopelessness.

Can we live without hope, which is without a future? Human beings find the meaning of their existence in the fulfilment of their purposes in time. When that future and those purposes collapse, we feel that our lives have lost their meaning. So we live for hope, for the future. But, it was asked, what is the meaning of life? If we knew the meaning of life there might be no question of invoking hope, for life would unfold according to its own meaning and there would be no need to wish for anything else. So what do we understand by the meaning of life? Does life have a meaning that necessitates delving deeper than the surface expressions of existence? Or is life its own meaning, the meaning of life being in the living? Human beings have the need to understand and understanding means delving beyond the concrete manifestations and appearances to the deeper substance and essence of the given thing. This is what is done in science, which necessitates insight to discover new levels of physical law, new orders of necessity. When we talk about finding the meaning of life, are we talking about discovering the very source and essence of it beyond the superficial level of appearance and its everlasting conflicts and contradictions? K would seem to be talking about a surface activity of thought under which lies a subtler and deeper structure which we must traverse to the very end if we are to discover not only a wholesome quality of being in ourselves and our relationships but to awaken to the cosmic dimension of the sacred in which ultimate meaning resides.

The question of meaning was raised. Bohm’s notion of meaning as significance, value and purpose was put forward. We are creatures of meaning. As significance, it points to something, just like a sign would do. So significance depends on whether the pointer indicates something actual. Value is attached to meaning because we value whatever means a lot to us. And value is the guide of our purposes, which is what we mean to do pursuant to the previously surmised value and significance. Meaning is central to Bohm’s dialogue proposal. Dialogue is about the sharing of meaning, which is the purpose of communication, which means to establish meaning in common. Meanings are generally contradictory between one person and another, making for division and conflict. They are also generally incoherent. This fragmentation makes working together very difficult and it breaks down the very fabric of society, when not that of the individual psyche. Holding all the contradictory opinions or thoughts together without judgement goes a long way to creating a common consciousness among the participants which does not suppress the individual.

In that sense, this approach to dialogue is an invitation to become aware of the process of fragmentation created by the various subcultures and assumptions that tend to break up our communication and to break down our relationships. This quality of attention is part of the movement to wholeness with which we are all supposedly concerned. So it is not just a verbal disquisition or entertainment but a serious experiment in the perception, understanding and transformation of consciousness. It is the fragmentation of consciousness that makes life meaningless. The meaning of life is its wholeness, not only in oneself and in society, but in relation to the cosmic ground of being. A fragmented existence is a meaningless life. That’s why it is important to understand the fragmentation, so there can be freedom from it and the flowering of goodness in the world.

The meeting proceeded in a very friendly and open way. While it seemed clear that we all had our angle on things and even a set of convictions, there was a prevalent sense of listening and mutual consideration which opened up new perspectives on the topic and made for a very harmonious exchange. It also helped that it was a mild and sunny Autumn afternoon, with bunches of dahlias blooming in the garden just outside the windows, adding their beauty to the dialogue. Is there hope in beauty, in goodness and truth? Or hope is when they are not?

 

Javier Gómez Rodríguez

With cooler weather and only intermittent sunshine, we met for the first time in several years in the exquisite living room of the main house. This was a delight for everyone and a first for most of us. We began the meeting with a few minutes of silence. Afterward, several participants mentioned that the beauty of the main house living room, along with its distinctive architectural design conveyed a sense of tranquility. There were 10 people present.

Because this was a new and beautiful meeting space for us, it prompted an exploration of the way a room, a building or an outdoor space affects us, whether we’re aware of it or not. Several participants wondered if there is a relationship between the physical space we inhabit and our inner sense of ourselves. One participant drew a parallel between the spaciousness of inner silence and the quietude of the main house living room or similar places that seem to support self-inquiry and silent gatherings.

There was mutual agreement that we are usually unaware of the variety of spaces we enter and exit everyday of our lives; that we give virtually no attention to how a space affects us inwardly, from entering a noisy restaurant, a public building or various rooms in our own home. It’s as if we’re sleep-walking through life. This brought up Krishnamurti’s emphasis on the “flame of attention,” and that we lose our attention constantly, until we notice our inattention.

We then read from The Book of Life about the possibility of listening with total attention, which points to a mind that sees and listens without the filter of thought. One participant mentioned that when we first sat together in silence in this new space, it seemed as though the room itself was listening. The group resonated with this observation. A question was asked about whether or not meeting regularly in the living room of the main house would alter our perception of its quiet grandeur. Does familiarity foster inattention? We left this question for further exploration and ended the meeting with silence and listening.

By Cynthia Overweg

It was a sunny, but windy afternoon. After some discussion about whether or not to gather indoors or outside on the lawn, we agreed to try outside. The meeting began with a few minutes of silence and a suggestion that as part of our inner silence, we give attention to the diversity of sounds that nature provides. As if on cue, a seagull’s repeated cawing filled the air, followed by the croaking of a raven. Then came a sudden gust of wind which caused significant rustling in the trees, sending leaves falling to the ground. Along with the leaves, a participant’s hat blew away in the wind, but was quickly recovered, and we all had a good laugh. Ten people were present.

It was noted that it’s nearly impossible not to name what we hear. Although listening with attention is different from our ordinary way of listening (or of not listening), the naming of what we hear is automatic. Is it possible, for instance, to listen to a raven or a seagull without thought and language interfering, if only for a second? Can we listen to a familiar sound without a name attached to it?

One participant felt that indeed it is possible to listen without naming, and that Krishnamurti pointed to it. But it can come about only with a totally silent mind in which the movement of thought has temporarily ceased and an image of what is heard does not arise from memory. It may be a rare occurrence, but possible nonetheless. It may also be possible that in silent listening the naming of what is heard may appear and then dissolves in the silence.

We then moved to a reading from The Book of Life, titled “Live the Four Seasons in a Day.” The main theme of the reading is the beauty of the present moment and the importance of observing the contents of one’s own mind.  Quoted here is the last paragraph, which sums it up:

“We consider the present as a means to an end, so the present loses its immense significance. The present is the eternal. But how can a mind that is made up, put together, understand that which is not put together, which is beyond all value, the eternal? As each experience arises, live it out as fully and deeply as possible; think it out, feel it out extensively and profoundly; be aware of its pain and pleasure, of your judgments and identifications. Only when experience is completed is there a renewal. We must be capable of living the four seasons in a day; to be keenly aware, to experience, to understand and be free of the gatherings of each day.”

The group probed Krishnamurti’s metaphor of living the four seasons in one day and his suggestion that with inner awareness of the totality of an experience, whatever it may be, there can be self-understanding, and in that understanding, there is “renewal,” represented by spring.  It suggests a flowering that makes living in the present moment possible, at least temporarily.

We then pivoted to what prevents us from living fully in the present moment. Yes, the conditioned mind, which is always thinking, planning, judging or strategizing is in the way, along with the many tiers of authority that run our lives. One participant noted the importance once again of self-observation, but wondered if there might be something hidden in our conditioning that we don’t see or don’t want to see?

There was some discussion about how so much of our day is filled with activity with very little room left for inner silence. A participant wondered if our daily busyness helps the mind to avoid or escape from “what is,” especially when “what is” happens to be discomfort, conflict or upheaval in one form or another. Few of us are willing to look into the depths of ourselves, another participant stated. Why? What holds us back?

As a way of exploring this, an insight of Krishnamurti’s was offered. He said: “Fear is what makes us accept our conditioning.” This prompted a lively exploration of the psychological fears that we all struggle with, such as our individual and collective desire to belong; to avoid loneliness; to be loved; to be part of a “tribe,” and the “othering” that is derived from that. The “us” against “them” contagion that constantly roils human affairs. We agreed that the shadow of fear, or what Krishnamurti called, “the worm of fear” is pervasive and not well understood.

Perhaps the biggest fear, it was offered, is the dissolution of the mind-made “me.” This ties-in with Krishnamurti’s profound insights about psychological death. It gave the group fertile ground for further exploration.  The meeting ended with several minutes of silence.

By Cynthia Overweg

On what at times was a cool, windy day we decided to go ahead and hold the dialogue outside at the Swanwick property with the beautiful ocean view and the wind talking as it flowed through the large trees surrounding us. As before, being outside to dialogue in a beautiful spot added a sense of connection to nature and so between the participants which is indicative of the fact that nature has no problems, no conflict and therefore its relationships and its beauty are in the forefront. We began in silence. 

We spoke for a while on various topics, usually around freedom as that had been picked up from the previous dialogue and one member of the group kept expressing astonishment at the simplicity of what we were discussing compared to the complexity that it is met with in society or as a species. Another person wanted us to be sure about what we were saying, relating how easy it is to say what we know and assume then we are in that space. Another questioned that  if we do know and we are not in that space then we haven’t learned what we have already learned. Most folks seem to be still assimilating what they have learned and which is stored as knowledge, awaiting a direct experience where it becomes real self-knowledge, direct experience, something actual.

After some time we read an entry from The Book of Life, excerpts from Krishnamurti talks. It was the entry dated December 27: A mind in the state of creation. He spoke of demanding freedom at the very beginning and not waiting for it at the end…..this choice of words challenged the group. ‘Demand’? Words are often flexible and don’t mean exactly what the dictionary definition states. In this case it was understood that the only place freedom can exist as freedom is now, otherwise it is a destination, an image, a dictionary definition. So to demand it in that sense is not so strange after all. 

So we understood we are using words to describe something happening at this moment, and the words may put us behind the moment but that it is not necessary that this be true. Listening, the key, listening without interference, without a sound as K said, can digest the word and open up its meaning as energy rather than open up what we think it means. Then freedom, creation is every moment “living, dying, loving and being” which is a state not only beyond but through the word into a listening that is listening in silence to silence, a whole new language.

• John Duncan

The group sat outside overlooking the ocean on a breezy but sunny day. There were nine of us and we began with a period of silence after which we read a passage from The Book of Life that was titled ‘Time is a Poison’. The title suggests that if we were to see that time creates disorder then, just as we can see poison in a bottle and have nothing to do with it, this understanding would liberate us from the tyranny of time immediately. 

It was suggested that both physical and psychological time are limited and, while we have to live in physical time, it too creates its own reality, and with both we are caught in time. Krishnamurti’s writing invited us to enter into a new time with him, a time that is not related to either physical or psychological time; a time that is not disorder but instead a time that has order as its foundation.

The group was intrigued by the invitation to enter that new time with him, and what that meant in terms of a new kind of time. Was he referring to the timeless? While familiar with the fact that psychological time is a ‘poison’, it was new to hear that physical time, which has some necessity in our day to day lives, such as catching a bus or train, was also not a part of this new time.

We observed the wind moving through the trees, the sunlight on our faces, and the ocean in the distance and the quietness of that beauty seemed to say as much or more about that new dimension of time as any words could muster.

 

• John Duncan