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    Glimpses of a Golden Childhood



    Glimpses of a Golden Childhood


    CHAPTER 1

    1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, USA

    It is a beautiful morning. Again and again the sun rises and it is always new. It never grows old.
    Scientists say it is millions of years old; nonsense! Every day I see it. It is always new. Nothing
    is old. But scientists are grave-diggers, that’s why I say they look so grave, serious. This morning,
    again the miracle of existence. Each moment it is happening, but only very few, very, very few ever
    encounter it.

    The word encounter is really beautiful. To encounter the moment as it is; to see it as it is, without
    adding, without deleting, without any editorial work, just to see it as it is, like a mirror.... The mirror
    does not edit, thank God, otherwise no face in the world would be able to fit its requirements, not
    even the face of Cleopatra. No face at all would be able to fit the mirror, for the simple reason that if it

    starts cutting you, editing you, adding to you, it will start destroying you. But no mirror is destructive.
    Even the ugliest mirror is so beautiful in its undestructiveness. It simply reflects.
    Before coming into your Noah’s Ark, I was standing looking at the sunrise... so beautiful, at least
    today – and who cares for tomorrow? Tomorrow never comes. Jesus says, ”Think not of the
    morrow....”

    Today it is so beautiful that for a moment I was reminded of the tremendous beauty of the sunrise
    in the Himalayas. There, when the snow is surrounding you, and the trees are looking like brides,
    as if they have flowered white flowers of snow, one does not care a bit about the so-called bigwigs,
    the prime ministers and the presidents of the world, the kings and queens. In fact kings and queens
    are going to exist only in playing cards, that’s where they belong. And the presidents and the prime
    ministers will take the place of the jokers. They don’t deserve anything more.

    Those mountain trees with their white flowers of snow... and whenever I saw the snow falling from
    their leaves I was reminded of a tree from my childhood. That kind of tree is possible only here in India; it is called madhu malti – madhu means sweet, malti means the queen. I have never come
    across any fragrance that is more beautiful and more penetrating – and you know that I am allergic
    to perfume, so I immediately know. I am very sensitive to perfume.

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