Mother’s Agenda 1964

September 18, 1964

I am on the border of a new perception of life.

People's ordinary reaction to the activity of others, to everything around them, their general and ordinary way of seeing things, all of that represents a certain attitude of consciousness: it is seen from a certain level. And when I commented on those aphorisms the other day, I suddenly noticed that the level was different and the angle so different that the other attitude, the ordinary way of seeing things, appeared incomprehensible—you wonder how you can have it, so different is it. And while I was speaking, I had a sort of sensation or perception that this new "attitude" was being established as a natural, spontaneous thing—it isn't the result of an effort for transformation: it's an already established transformation.

It isn't total, because both functionings are perceptible, but I am confident that it is on the way. Then it will be interesting.

As if certain parts of the consciousness were in a metamorphosis from the caterpillar state into the butterfly state, something like that.

It's just on the way. But far enough on the way to make the difference very perceptible. Once it is done, something will be established.

(silence)

From the necessity of certain circumstances, it so happens that I am read things I said ten years ago (statements or remarks I made): I really feel it's somebody else! I find it odd.

Yet, at that time, it was the most sincere expression of the consciousness.... Now I feel, "Ah, I hadn't gone beyond that...." A strange feeling.

And for Sri Aurobindo's writings (not all), it's the same; there are certain things I had truly understood, in the sense that they were already understood far more deeply and truly than even an enlightened mentality understands them—they were already felt and lived—and now, they take on a completely different meaning.

I read some of those sentences or ideas that are expressed in few words, three or four words, m which he doesn't say things fully: he simply seems to let them fall like drops of water; when I read them at the time (sometimes not long ago; sometimes only two or three years ago), I had an experience which was already far deeper

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or vaster than that of intelligence, but now... a spark of Light suddenly appears in them, and I say, "Oh, but I hadn't seen that!" And it's a whole understanding or CONTACT with things that I had never had before.

It happened to me again just yesterday evening.

And I said to myself, "But then... then there are in that certain things... we still have a long, long, long way to go to truly understand them." Because that spark of Light is something very, very pure—very intense and very pure—and it contains an absolute. And since it contains that (I haven't always felt it; I have felt other things, I have felt a great light, I have felt a great power, I have felt something that already explained everything, but this is something else, it's something which is beyond), so I concluded (laughing), "Well, we still have a long way to go before we can understand Sri Aurobindo!"

It was rather comforting.

The sense of a sort of certainty that he has opened the doors, and that when we are able, we will go through those doors.

Just yesterday. It's interesting.

But then, it leaves you... speechless.

(A little later, regarding the last aphorism, about which Mother spoke of the haste in which people live.)

I have noticed this, too (I don't know if you've noticed it): the more quiet and still you are within yourself and the more you have eliminated that haste I was talking about, the faster time goes by. And the more you are in that precipitousness, the longer time is, the more it drags on and on.... It's strange.

Years and months are going by with dizzying speed—and without leaving any trace (that's what is interesting). So, if you look at it, you begin to understand how you can live almost indefinitely—because there no longer is that friction of time.

As Satprem is about to leave, regarding his next novel, "The Sannyasin":

Do you have something to say?

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There's a question I have been asking myself for some time, and I would like you to solve it for me.... I am supposed to write a sequel to "The Gold-Washer"—or rather, they're expecting it, and also I thought I should do so. But I really wouldn't like to do it from an arbitrary decision. I would like... You understand, I wouldn't like it to be "me" who decides.

You told me that some time ago! [in the "dream" state]

(Banteringly) I took a look and saw what you wanted to write, but I won't tell you!

I saw two things, which were, so to speak, concomitant, or superimposed (they occupied the same space). One seemed to me to be what you wanted to write, the other seemed to me to be what you will write. It was the same book, but it was very different—very, very different. Yet it was the same book. I even saw images, I saw scenes, I saw sentences and I saw almost the entire story (if it can be called a story). It was very interesting, because one was matt and concrete (there was a kind of hardness in it, it was precise), while the other was vibrant and still uncertain, and there were sparks of light in it that were calling down something, that were trying to make something "descend." And one was endeavoring to take the place of the other.¹

So I followed that very closely, and then, when the work was finished (gesture as of a screen being pulled up), it went away, as always.

But I didn't mention it to you because I didn't want to say anything; I wanted to see what would happen.

I have the feeling that you will write the book only when that... that old garment has fallen off—when the other has taken its place.

I don't know, it was a few days ago, not very long ago, maybe a week or two, I don't remember (I never keep track of time), but anyway I had the feeling it was something being prepared in your subtle atmosphere, and that when the time has come, it will simply go like this (gesture of a vertical fall), it will drop down on your head (!), and then you will feel the urge to write.

And I was waiting for that.

I don't feel it's really very immediate, but it's clearly on the way to realization. That's all I can tell you on the subject.

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I even saw rather interesting things, because there were events that were like reminiscences of your past lives, and they found a place in your book. Those things are still quite in your subliminal. (They call it "subliminal," don't they? It's something that's neither the subconscient nor the clear supraconscient; it's a sort of subliminal consciousness.) They're there, they have remained as a memory and it is clear. And those reminiscences are like... you know, what they put inside a clay statue to hold it up?

An armature.

They are the armature of the book.

But an armature that, probably, will not reveal itself; it's only something that will give a cohesion—but not a visible one, an unexpressed cohesion.

That's all I saw.

But it's interesting, because when I had finished seeing all those things, I said to myself, "Well, well, would he be thinking of writing his book, by any chance?"

I was thinking about it, but I didn't want it to be an arbitrary decision.

That's it. It isn't ready yet; when it's ready, it will drop down on your head.

(Mother looks above Satprem's head)

It's well established, up there—it's very, very... it's becoming increasingly precise and clear. It is well established. It's above your head, firmly established.

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