What I told you last time is not to be published—it’s all right for the Agenda. I mean what I said about the people around me.
Yes, Mother, of course, all that is strictly for “the Agenda”.
Everything personal is for the Agenda.
Yes, yes, of course.
(Mother unties a garland of flowers from her wrist)
Do you like patience?
I don’t know if I like it, but it’s useful!
(Mother laughs and gives Satprem a garland)
I have plenty! (two or three garlands around her wrist!) What do you have to tell me?
Nothing. I feel the… churning one is put through.
Oh!…
Sometimes it feels as if something were… raging ferociously.
Yes, exactly. As if to demonstrate that you have to go through death in order to conquer death. Exactly. And just as you are about to cross the threshold, suddenly it’s all righted.
I thought I was the only one experiencing that, and I was happy to do it for everybody, but evidently some people feel it also—you feel it.
Oh, do I! Dash it all, it’s… I feel something ferociously raging.
Yes, that’s right, quite. And it shows there’s a sort of… difference—a mere difference of attitude; a difference of attitude: the body can either fall apart or be transformed. And it’s… almost the same procedure; only the attitude is different. If you have absolute trust in the Divine and feel to what point the Divine is everywhere and in everything, if you want to depend only on the Divine, belong only to the Divine, then it’s perfect. But the least conflict… and it’s like the gates of death suddenly yawning.
Yes.
Strange.
Yes. But unfortunately in my case, when this happens, when that fury rages, I am still at the stage where I am literally in a fog, I am completely engulfed in a cloud. Somewhere in the background there is still a sort of memory of the Truth, but at the time I am completely engulfed.
Oh!…
Entrapped in an opaque cloud… it’s terrible.
But all you have to do is… feel that divine Presence within you, you know, stronger than everything. One feels It could revive all the dead if It wanted—just like that, you know. To that Presence… it doesn’t make any difference.1
My body is learning to repeat unceasingly: what You will, what You will… (Mother opens her hands).
I have no preference: it’s REALLY what You will. For a time, I had hoped to be conscious of “what You will”—but now there’s only: what You will (hands open).
To be conscious of You.
To be conscious of You.
(Mother closes her eyes, palms upwards, and plunges in. Then her eyes open, immense, immobile.)
Perhaps because the difference between life and death is not what we imagine! ↩
***
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