The Mother

Agenda

Volume 6

July 14, 1965

Mother holds a series of slips of paper in her hand:

This morning I was in a sort of zone – a zone or a vein.... You know, the veins of gold inside the earth? It was like that. In the mental banality of the world, there was a sort of luminous vein going past and in which I found myself plunged – it felt pleasant, it felt very comfortable. And I started noting things down, when those people came with all the usual ineptitudes, each one asking something, each one shut in like this (gesture with blinkers), so it went away.

I called it, “A few definitions.”

The first one was about someone going away who wanted to take something [blessed by Mother] for his family. I told him, “Oh, they aren't receptive.” So he asked, “What does being receptive mean?” (He didn't ask me, but when he left the room he was scratching his head and he asked his friend, “What does Mother mean? What does being receptive mean?”) I answered in English and it took many, many forms, and today, it's one of the things that came in that “vein.” And what's peculiar in this sort of experience is that when it comes, the words take on a very precise meaning; I am not at all sure if it's their usual meaning, but they have the vibration of their meaning, a sort of crystalline little vibration. And it comes without alteration. I put:

“To be receptive is to feel the urge to give and the joy of giving to the Divine's Work

all one has

all one is

all one does.”¹

It's the one that came first. After it, there came the old story of “being pure” – what does being pure mean? It doesn't mean all kinds of old moral ideas, no.

“To be pure is to refuse...”

In other words, there was the sensation of something very active – very active: being passive wasn't enough, it was necessary to be very active.

“...to refuse any influence other than that of the supreme Truth-Love.”

“Truth-Love” as one word.

Then a third definition came:

“To be sincere is to unify one's entire being around the supreme inner Will.”

To unify one's entire being around the supreme inner Will. And this supreme Will was visible, like a flame that had the shape of a sword; and only what is governed by That is allowed to act.

Then the last one (the last because they brought me my breakfast and I had to stop):

“To be integral is to make a harmonious synthesis of all one's possibilities.”

It came along with the vibration it contained. And it could have gone on, it was there, but then I was interrupted. It's more amusing than to listen to their stories, at any rate.

The inspiration of it all was that vein of gold?

Yes. It was light, not gold. It was a light like a strip (gesture). Then one is bathed in that and one is very happy.

And it brought me (what I have just said is nothing, it was the end) a clear vision of what's necessary for the world, the necessary transformations in the mental atmosphere of the earth to put an end to wars, for instance. The “end to wars” was one of the consequences. And each thing was in its place in relation to the other (Mother draws a sort of chessboard), and there was such a clear, clear vision of all the relationships, of all the positions, of all that.

It's great fun.

I mean it's a pleasant distraction. It gives you the feeling of seeing very clearly all that must take place in the realm of... not exactly of ideas, but of psychological reactions.

And it doesn't depend on me, I don't make an effort: it just comes. It's something that comes, then I seem to be plunged in a bath and I only have to look. It comes ready-made, effortlessly. It's a STATE in which I find myself, with, for example, the vision of the terrestrial mental progress, of the way in which the human mentality is organized (same gesture as if indicating a chessboard); and it's very interesting because living conditions are conditioned by thought-states, and so I see how the thought-state must be changed in order for life to be changed (Mother draws currents of force on the chessboard). And I sit there, as if in a theater, and I watch, and it works.

If I had some peace I would write it down (because it comes all formulated) and it could be interesting. It must belong to the realm of revelation. It's like a luminous strip passing by, but it is all organized. But one needs peace (I scribbled the last note here while they were preparing my breakfast, and after that...). But anyway, it's not of transcendent interest; it's only because it's very clear, very precise, and it obviously doesn't have the character of ordinary human thought: it's ready-made, it comes ready-made.

In that state, for instance, all the cells, the whole body keeps still – you no longer have a body, you no longer have cells, you no longer have all those disorders, all that friction: all that goes away. It disappears and another consciousness dominates. You understand why someone who could remain in it would be able to live indefinitely. But it's probably conditioned, in the sense that the others must have their field of activity too, otherwise the progress wouldn't be general. But anyway, it's nothing really transcendent, it's just interesting.

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(Soon afterwards, Satprem proposes to Mother the publication of a few brief extracts from the previous and very interesting conversation on illnesses in “Notes on the Way,” a new series started in the Ashram's Bulletin on Satprem's insistence. In fact, Satprem wanted the Ashram to benefit a little from the treasure of Mother's experience – at least a few drops of it. It was those “Notes on the Way” that were, after Mother's departure, cooly and fraudulently renamed “Mother's Agenda” by the heads of the Ashram in the hope of stealing the title, throwing people into confusion, and preventing at any cost the integral publication of the real Agenda, which they dared to declare “not genuine,” so afraid were they of Mother's clear perception of the people around her and of the Ashram in general. Satprem remembers how much he had to insist with Mother to be allowed to publish those “Notes on the Way.” Her reluctance is now easier to understand.)

I wondered if we couldn't use the last conversation for the next “Notes on the Way”?

It's unpublishable. It goes in the Agenda.

Why? Would it create a revolution among doctors?

Yes. Oh, it would make a row!

It's really too bad we can't publish it.

It's too belligerent. And also far too personal. Oh, it would be the origin of endless stories, of the spread of numberless legends; and in America, in Africa, in England and elsewhere, all sorts of stories will be told about all sorts of illnesses I have – it will make endless tales. It's impossible.

I can't tell anything about myself, except perhaps one sentence – even when one sentence appears in the Bulletin, what a to-do it makes! It always makes an interminable to-do for me.

I understand, but it's a pity!

Later, later. Not now.

Because those questions of illness are so much part of this yoga.

Oh, I know that very well, I know, but not now: later.

People make too many personal stories out of what I say; you know, “the anecdote about the guru,” as you read them in books.

  They're silly!

Yes, but (laughing) what can you do? They're silly, that's not so easy to cure!

I agree, it's perfectly stupid, but... Ah, let's take up Savitri.

¹ Mother's translation.

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