krishnamurti's notebook

27th;
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.