Awakening

When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed 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 completely, 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 alone sensations turn into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside of them.

When Siddhartha left the grove, the Buddha, the perfected one, and Govinda stayed behind. Siddhartha felt that his past life had also stayed behind in the grove, leaving him. As he walked slowly along, he thought about this feeling, which filled him completely. He thought deeply, sinking into the feeling as if diving to the bottom of deep water. He went down to the place where its causes lay. For it seemed to him that finding causes was the very essence of thinking. Only through thinking could feelings become realizations instead of being lost. They could become things in their own right and begin to radiate their inner meaning like rays of light.

Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered. He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man. He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings. 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 teachings.

Siddhartha walked slowly, lost in thought. He realized that he was no longer a youth, but had become a man. Something had left him, as a snake sheds its old skin. He no longer felt the desire for teachers and their teachings. That desire had been with him throughout his youth and had been a part of him. He had left the last teacher he had encountered on his path. Even Buddha, the highest, wisest, and holiest teacher, he had left. He had to part with Buddha because he could not accept his teachings.

Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: “But what is this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teach you?” And he found: “It was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, which I sought to overcome. But I was not able to overcome 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!”

He walked more slowly, lost in thought, and asked himself: “What have I been trying to learn from teachings and teachers? What could they not teach me, even though they taught me so much?” And he found the answer: “It was the self. I wanted to learn its purpose and essence. I wanted to free myself from the self, to overcome it. But I could not overcome it. I could only deceive it, flee from it, or hide from it. Nothing in this world has occupied my thoughts as much as my own self. It is the mystery of being alive, of being one person, separate and isolated from everyone else. It is the mystery of being Siddhartha! And there is nothing in this world I know less about than myself, than Siddhartha!”

Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprang forth from these, a new thought, which was: “That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus 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 dissect my 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.”

He had been thinking as he walked slowly along. Now he stopped, caught up in his thoughts. At once, a new thought arose from them: “There is one reason, and only one, why I know nothing about myself. It is why Siddhartha has remained a stranger to me, someone I do not know. I was afraid of myself. I was running away from myself! I searched for Atman, I searched for Brahman. I was willing to dissect myself and peel away every layer. I wanted to find the core beneath all those layers, hidden inside me: Atman, life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process.”

Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around, a smile filled his face and 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.

Siddhartha opened his eyes and looked around. A smile spread across his face. He felt as though he were waking from long dreams, a feeling that flowed from his head to his toes. Soon he was walking again, quickly, like a man who knows what he has 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 longer, to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha.”

“Oh,” he thought, taking a deep breath, “I will not let Siddhartha slip away from me again! I no longer want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and the suffering of the world. I no longer want to kill and dissect myself to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga-Veda, Atharva-Veda, the ascetics, nor any other teachings will teach me anymore. I want to learn from myself, to be my own student. I want 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, on the path 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 longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns 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 divinity’s way and purpose, 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, in everything.

He looked around as if he were seeing the world for the first time. The world was beautiful, colorful, strange, and mysterious! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green. The sky and river flowed, while the forest and mountains stood still. Everything was beautiful, mysterious, and magical. And there in the middle was Siddhartha, awakening and on the path to himself. For the first time, he took all of it in through his eyes: the yellow and blue, the river and forest. They were no longer a spell of Mara or the veil of Maya. They were no longer a pointless, accidental variety of mere appearances, beneath the contempt of the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns variety and seeks unity. Blue was blue, and the river was the river. And even if the one divine being lived hidden in the blue, the river, and Siddhartha, its way and purpose were still to be yellow here, blue there, sky and forest there, and Siddhartha here. Purpose and essential qualities were not somewhere behind things. They were in things, in everything.

“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 scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to 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, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day.”

“How deaf and foolish I’ve been!” he thought as he walked quickly along. “When someone wants to understand a text, they don’t dismiss its symbols and letters as illusions, accidents, and worthless husks. They read them, study them, and love them, letter by letter. But I wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being. And because I expected to find a certain meaning before I began, I dismissed the symbols and letters. I called the visible world an illusion. I called my eyes and my tongue accidental and worthless forms without substance. No, that is over. I have awakened. I truly have awakened, and I was not born until this very day.”

In thinking these thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path.

As he thought about this, Siddhartha suddenly stopped again, as if a snake lay on the path ahead of him.

Because suddenly, he had also become 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 morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: “But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father’s place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path.”

Because he had suddenly realized something else: he was like someone who had just woken up, or like a newborn baby. He had to begin his life again, starting at the very beginning. That morning he had left the grove Jetavana, the grove of the exalted one. He was already awakening, already on the path toward himself. After years as an ascetic, he had fully intended to return home to his father. He had taken it for granted, as if it were only natural. But now he stopped, as if a snake lay in his path. Only then did he wake up to another realization: “But I am no longer who I was. I am no longer an ascetic, or a priest, or a Brahman. What could I possibly do at home, at my father’s house? Study? Make offerings? Practice meditation? But all of that is over. None of it is part of my path anymore.”

Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing 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 father’s son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, 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 forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become 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?

Siddhartha stood motionless. For the space of a breath, his heart grew cold. He felt a chill in his chest, like a bird or rabbit realizing how alone it was. For many years, he had been without a home and had felt nothing. Now he felt it. Even in his deepest meditation, he had still been his father’s son, a Brahman, a priest of a high caste. Now he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awakened one. Nothing else remained. He took a deep breath, and for a moment he felt cold and shivered. No one was as alone as he was. Every nobleman belonged among other noblemen. Every worker belonged among other workers, found refuge with them, shared their lives, and spoke their language. Every Brahman was regarded as a Brahman and lived among other Brahmans. Every ascetic could find refuge in the caste of the Samanas. Even the most abandoned hermit in the forest was not entirely alone. He too had a place where he belonged, a caste where he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers. They wore the same robe he wore, shared his faith, and spoke his language. But where did Siddhartha belong? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?

Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood 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 concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor 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 longer to his father, no longer back.

For a moment, the world melted away around Siddhartha, and he stood alone like a star in the sky. He emerged from that cold, despairing moment more himself than before, more focused. He felt that it had been the last tremor of awakening, the final struggle of this birth. Soon he was walking again with long strides, moving quickly and impatiently. He was no longer heading home to his father. He was no longer going back.