tell me very gently

7/28/2019 Tell Me Very Gently

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A stream, from its source in far-off mountains,

Passing through every kind and

Description of countryside,

At last reached the sands of the desert.

Just as it had crossed every other barrier,

The stream tried to cross this one,

But it found that as it ran into the sand,

Its waters disappeared.

It was convinced, however,That its destiny was to cross this desert,

And yet there was no way.

Now a hidden voice,

Coming from the desert itself,

Whispered: The wind crosses the desert,

And so can the stream.

The stream objected

That it was dashing itself against the sand,

And only getting absorbed:

That the wind could fly,

And this was why it could cross a desert.

By hurtling in your own accustomed way

You cannot get across.

You will either disappear or become a marsh.


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You must allow the wind to carry you over,

To your destination.

But how could this happen?

By allowing yourseld to be absorbed by the wind.

This idea was not acceptable to the stream.

After all, it had never been absorbed before.

It did not want to lose its individuality.

And, having lost it,How was one to know

That it could be ever regained?

The wind, said the sand,

performs this function.

It takes up water,

Carries it over the desert,

And then lets it fall again.

Falling as rain, the water again becomes a river.

How can I know that this is true?

t is so, and if you do not believe it,

You cannot become more than a quagmire,

And even that could take many, many years;

And it is certainly not the same as a stream.


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But can I not remain the same stream

That I am today?

You cannot in either case remain so.

The whisper said.

Your essential part is carried away

And forms a stream again.

You are called what you are even today

Because you do not knowWhich part of you is the essential one.

When he heard this,

Certain echoes began to arise

In the thoughts of the stream.

Dimly, he remembered a state in which he

-or some part of him, was it?-

Had been held in the arms of a wind,

He also remembered or did he?-

That this was the real thing,

Not necessarilyy the obvious thing, to do.

And the stream raised his vapour

Into the welcoming arms of the wind,

Which gently and easily

Bore it upwards and along,


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Letting it fall softly

As soon as they reached the roodf of a mountain,

Many, many miles away.

And because he had had his doubts,

The stream was able to remember

And record more strongly in his mind

The details of the experience.

He reflected, Yes, now I have

Learned my true identity.

The stream was learning.

But the sands whispered: We know,

Because we see it happen day after day:

And because we, the sands,

Extend from the riverside

All the way to the mountain.

And that is why it is said

That the way in which the Stream of Life

Is to continue on its journey

Is written in the Sands.

When they tell us that we have to deny ourselves, to die to ourselves, to give up allthat we have and all that we are, to sacrifice the Self as the ultimate and definitivesacrifice, it is good that they speak to us gently and lovingly, because we are notprepared for such talk, and it huts us. It hurts us to deny ourselves, to leaveourselves, to diminish, to surrender. It hurts us as it hurts the river. What willhappen to me if I let go of my very self? What will a river be without riverbed,without water, without bands? Who asssures me I will be born again? What awaits


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me beyond the desert? Reasons and arguments are not going to convince me. Orthey may convince my head, but not my heart and my feelings and my wavering.But if a friendly voice in a gentle tone recites to me a poem., preposes a fable, tellsa parable, that may help me with the reassuring touch of a farseeing prophecy.

The tale of the sands touches me with the pointed charm of its profoundsimplicity. I know it is true. I know that the sands are right. They are standingwitnesses of the transformation of the waters, they have seen them rise and bedissolved int he heights, and they have seen them come down again in joyful rainthat builds a living current rushing to become sea. But the river does not know allthat. The river sees only its waters losing their level and being sucked by the sands.And the river fears. All that it knows about itself is that its end is near, and its innatepreservation instinct makes it resist the apparent destruction. The sandsunderstand its fear, and so they do not argue, they are not in a hurry, they do notget angry. They speak slowly, closly, lovingly to instill trust and soften the test. Andthe river finally understands, gets ready, surrenders. Happpy the hour when the

river becomes cloud and begins to fly!

I know that in order to cross the desert I have to cease being a river. Say it tome very very gently, for I am afraid to fly.

tell me very gently

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