J. Krishnamurti - on meditation

Meditation without a set formula, without a cause and reason, without end
and purpose is an incredible phenomenon. It is not only a great explosion which
purifies but also it is death, that has no tomorrow. Its purity devastates,
leaving no hidden corner where thought can lurk in its own dark shadows. Its
purity is vulnerable; it is not a virtue brought into being through resistance.
It is pure because it has no resistance, like love. There is no tomorrow in
meditation, no argument with death. The death of yesterday and of tomorrow does
not leave the petty present of time, and time is always petty, but a destruction
that is the new. Meditation is this, not the silly calculations of the brain in
search of security. Meditation is destruction to security and there is great
beauty in meditation, not the beauty of the things that have been put together
by man or by nature but of silence. This silence is emptiness in which and from
which all things flow and have their being. It is unknowable, neither intellect
nor feeling can make their way to it; there is no way to it and a method to it
is the invention of a greedy brain. All the ways and means of the calculating
self must be destroyed wholly; all going forward or backward, the way of time,
must come to an end, without tomorrow. Meditation is destruction; it's a danger
to those who wish to lead a superficial life and a life of fancy and myth.

     The stars were very bright, brilliant so early in the morning. Dawn was far
away; it was surprisingly quiet, even the boisterous stream was quiet and the
hills were silent. A whole hour passed in that state when the brain was not
asleep but awake, sensitive and only watching; during that state the totality of
the mind can go beyond itself, without directions for there is no director.
Meditation is a storm, destroying and cleansing. Then, far away, came dawn. In
the east there was spreading light, so young and pale, so quiet and timid; it
came past those distant hills and it touched the towering mountains and the
peaks. In groups and singly, the trees stood still, the aspen began to wake up
and the stream shouted with joy. That white wall of a farm-house, facing west,
became very white. Slowly, peacefully, almost begging it came and filled the
land. Then the snow peaks began to glow, bright rose and the noises of the early
morning began. Three crows flew across the sky, silently, all in the same
direction; from far came the sound of a bell on a cow and still there was quiet.
Then a car was coming up the hill and day began.

     On that path in the wood, a yellow leaf fell; for some of the trees autumn
was here. It was a single leaf, with not a blemish on it, unspotted, clean. It
was the yellow of autumn, it was still lovely in its death, no disease had
touched it. It was still the fullness of spring and summer and still all the
leaves of that tree were green. It was death in glory. Death was there, not in
the yellow leaf, but actually there, not an inevitable traditionalized death but
that death which is always there. It was not a fancy but a reality that could
not be covered up. It is always there round every bend of a road, in every
house, with every god. It was there with all its strength and beauty.

     You can't avoid death; you may forget it, you may rationalize it or believe
that you will be reborn or resurrected. Do what you will, go to any temple or
book it is always there, in festival and in health. You must live with it to
know it; you can't know it if you are frightened of it; fear only darkens it. To
know it you must love it. To live with it you must love it. The knowledge of it
isn't the ending of it. It's the end of knowledge but not of death. To love it
is not to be familiar with it; you can't be familiar with destruction. You can't
love something you don't know but you don't know anything, not even your wife or
your boss, let alone a total stranger. But yet you must love it, the stranger,
the unknown. You only love that of which you are certain, that which gives
comfort, security. You do not love the uncertain, the unknown; you may love
danger, give your life for another or kill another for your country, but this is
not love; these have their own reward and profit; gain and success you love
though there's pain in them. There's no profit in knowing death but strangely
death and love always go together; they never separate. You can't love without
death; you can't embrace without death being there. Where love is there is also
death, they are inseparable. But do we know what love is? You know sensation,
emotion, desire, feeling and the mechanism of thought but none of these is love.
You love your husband, your children; you hate war but you practice war. Your
love knows hate, envy, ambition, fear; the smoke of these is not love. Power and
prestige you love but power and prestige are evil, corrupting. Do we know what
love is? Never knowing it is the wonder of it, the beauty of it. Never knowing,
which does not mean remaining in doubt nor does it mean despair; it's the death
of yesterday and so the complete uncertainty of tomorrow. Love has no
continuity, nor has death. Only memory and the picture in the frame have
continuity but these are mechanical and even machines wear out, yielding place
to new pictures, new memories. What has continuity is ever decaying and what
decays isn't death. Love and death are inseparable and where they are there's
always destruction."

Krishnamurti's Notebook; August 31, 1961; Gstaad Switzerland

Note:
"In June 1961 Krishnamurti began to keep a daily record of his perceptions and
states of consciousness. Apart from about fourteen days he kept up this record
for seven months. He wrote clearly, in pencil, and with virtually no erasures.
The first seventy-seven pages of the manuscript are written in a small notebook;
from then until the end (p. 323 of the manuscript) a larger, loose-leaf book was
used. The record starts abruptly and ends abruptly. Krishnamurti himself cannot
say what prompted him to begin it. He had never kept such a record before, nor
has he kept one since."

Krishnamurti's Notebook; Foreward to the Original Edition written by Mary
Lutyens