That which is sacred has no attributes. A stone in a temple, an image in a church, a symbol is not sacred. Man calls them sacred, something holy to be worshipped out of complicated urges, fears and longings. This ''sacredness'' is still within the field of thought; it is build up by thought and in thought there's nothing new or holy. Thought can put together the intricacies of systems, dogmas, beliefs and the images, symbols, it projects are no more holy than the blue-prints of a house or the design of a new aeroplane. All this is within the frontiers of thought and there is nothing sacred or mystical about this. Thought is matter and it can made into anything, ugly - beautiful.
But there's a sacredness which is not of thought, nor of a feeling resuscitated by thought. It is not recognizable by thought nor can it be utilized by thought. Thought cannot formulate it. But there's a sacredness, untouched by any symbol or word. It is not communicable. It is a fact.
A fact is to be seen and the seeing is not through the word. When a fact is interpreted, it ceases to be a fact; it becomes something entirely different. The seeing is of the highest importance. This seeing is out of time-space; it's immediate, instantaneous. And what's seen is never the same again. There's no again or in the meantime. This sacredness has no worshipper, the observer who meditates upon it. It's not in the market to be bought or sold. Like beauty, it cannot be seen through it's opposite for it has no opposite.
That presence is here, filling the room, spilling over the hills, beyond the waters, covering the earth.
Last night, as it has happened once or twice before, the body was just the organism and nothing else, functioning, empty and still.
That presence which was at il L was there, waiting patiently, benignly, with great tenderness. It was like the lightning on a dark night but it was there, penetrating, blissful. Something strange is happening to the physical organism. One cant exactly put ones finger on it but there's an ''odd'' insistency, drive; it's in no way self-created, bred out of imagination. It is palpable when one's quiet, alone, under a tree or in a room; it is there most urgently as ones about to go off to sleep. It's there as big as it's written, the pressure and the strain, with it's familiar ache.
Formulation and words about all this seem so futile; words however accurate, however clear the description, do not convey the real thing.
There's a great and unutterable beauty in all this.
There is only one movement in life, the outer and the inner; this movement is indivisible, though it is divided. Being divided, most follow the outer movement of knowledge, ideas, beliefs, authority, security, prosperity and so on. In reaction to this, one follows the so-called inner life, with it's visions, hopes, aspirations, secrecies, conflicts and despairs.
As this movement is a reaction, it is in conflict with the outer. So there is contradiction, with it's aches, anxieties, and escapes.
There is only one movement, which is the outer and the inner. With the understanding of the outer, then the inner movement begins, not in opposition or in contradiction. As conflict is eliminated, the brain, though highly sensitive and alert, becomes quiet. Then only the inner movement has validity and significance. Out of this movement there is a generosity and compassion which is not the outcome of reason and purposeful self-denial. The flower is strong in it's beauty as it can be forgotten, set aside or destroyed. The ambitious do not know beauty. The feeling of essence is beauty.
Creation is never at the hands of the individual. It ceases entirely when individuality , with its capacities, gifts, techniques, and so on, becomes dominant. Creation is the movement of the unknowable essence of the whole; it is never the expression of part. Just as one was getting to bed, there was that fullness of il L* (a house above Florence where he had stayed in April) It was not only in the room, but it seemed to cover the earth from horizon to horizon. It was a benediction.
Woke up in the middle of the night and there was the experiencing of an incalculatble expanding state of mind; the mind itself was that state. The 'feeling' of this state was stripped of all sentiment, of all emotion, but was very factual, very real. This state continued for some considerable time. - All this morning, the pressure and the pain has been acute. Destruction is essential. Not of buildings and things but of all the psychological devices and defenses, gods, beliefs, dependence on priests, experiences, knowledge and so on. Without destroying all these there cannot be creation. It's only in freedom that creation comes into being. Another not destroy these defenses for you; you have to negate through your own self knowing awareness.
Revolution, social, economic, can only change outer states and things in increasing or narrowing circles, but it will always be within the limited field of thought. For total revolution the brain must forsake all it's inward, mechanism of authority, envy, fear and so on. The strength and the beauty of a tender leaf is it's vulnerability to destruction. Like a blade of grass that comes up through the pavement, it has the power that can withstand casual death.